Page 64 of The Best Bad Decision

“There was something in Singapore, something brought us together and—well, now we have Maisy. And I think—” I stop, unsure of how to say how I feel. I don’t even know what I feel.

Idoknow what I feel, and it’s big. It’s too big for me to manage, it’s too big to comprehend. It’s bigger even than Maisy. Loving Maisy was never in question. It was never a choice. It was bigger than me, greater than the sun and wilder than the ocean. It was natural. It was obvious. But what I feel for Cam has no beginning, no end, no bounds. Like Maisy, loving Cam is an inevitability; bound by the universe and meant to be. It both hurts and heals, knocks me down and picks me up. It shines like the stars and it burns like flames. It’s so big I can’t even see beyond it. It engulfs me. It just—is.

“There’s always been something between us. There’s something here and I don’t want to run from it anymore, Cam. I’m tired of being scared. I’m tired of pretending I don’t want this. I’m tired of running.”

He sighs, a big release of tension from his chest and shoulders.

“I think it’s always been you, Amie.”

He kisses me deeply and it’s the sweetest, most gentle and reverent kiss I’ve ever experienced. It’s like being kissed for the first time. It’s the moment in a movie where a choir of angels would start to sing. His tongue is probing and explorative; he gives without taking a thing in return. When we break for air, he drops soft kisses to each cheekbone and my hairline, then pulls me close to rest my head against his chest. He wraps me in his arms like I’m the most precious thing in the world and he can’t bear to be even an inch away from me.

I could get used to being held by Camden Whitehouse.

Round four—or is it five?—happens when we wake in the morning, still wrapped up together. All we’ve done before, our nights spent together, every time he’s been inside me up to now, has been fucking, but this… this is slow, lazy, tender; something more akin to lovemaking than the feral fucking we’ve done before. After we come, he cleans me with a warm washcloth and kisses me gently, brushing the curls out of my face.

“I’m crazy about you, Amie,” he whispers. His eyes lock with mine and I see the world reflected in them. The dazzling green holds that first night in Singapore, the morning in Santiago, and every day since, and they shine with a thousand promises for the future. I sigh, unbidden tears leaking from my eyes. He catches one with a fingertip.

“I never stopped thinking about you. I think maybe it’s always been you for me, too,” I whisper. He smiles then, the most magnificent, beaming smile through watery eyes, and he leans down to kiss me hard, soft and tender but firm, full of the promise of a lifetime.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” I warn when he finally breaks the kiss. “We’re in New York, it’s almost Christmas and there’s a little girl at home who needs to be thoroughly spoiled.”

He throws off the sheets and swings his legs out of bed, patting me on the thigh to encourage me to do the same. We shower—separately, otherwise we’d never leave the room—and dress, then head out to make the most of the day and run up our credit card bills on Maisy’s Christmas gifts.

We return to the hotel room thoroughly shopped out, exhausted, laden with bags but happy—maybe happier than I’ve ever been. As I dress for the flight home, I catch sight of myself in the mirror, a freshkiss-bruise on my collarbone, an uncontrollable smile, and a lightness to my expression that I haven’t seen for a long time.

The flight home is blessedly short, thanks to eastbound jet streams and a strong tail wind. We land in the early hours and exit the terminal building to the first whispers of a stunning winter sunrise, painting the horizon a brilliant tangerine.

“Let’s go home,” he says, pulling me into his side and kissing the top of my head. Since our conversation in New York—since we all but said the three words on the tip of my tongue—he’s done that a lot, and every time, it sends a zing between my legs and a warm, fuzzy feeling to my chest at the same time. We ride the staff shuttle back to my car, and I drive us home.

Unlike the last time, the silence that surrounds us on this car ride is a comfortable one. It doesn’t shock me that I’m so comfortable just existing with Cam. Something about him drew me in on that muggy night four years ago, and with or without Maisy, something about him has kept me hanging onto every word he said, every day since.

When I park in the driveway, he takes my hand and turns to me.

“You know I’m crazy about you, right? I’m fucking crazy for you, Amie.” He shakes his head with a rueful laugh. “I’m so damn gone for you, it—it terrifies me.”

He leans in to kiss my lips softly and then swings his legs out of the car.

As I unlock the door, I hear small feet thundering towards it on the other side, and as I push into the house with Cam close behind me, my little girl shrieks with delight.

“DADDY!”

Roger is dropped to the floor, forgotten, as Maisy rushes past me, colliding with Cam’s legs before he sweeps her into his arms and holds her close.

“Surprise, Maisy Girl,” he says into her hair. “I missed you so much.”

Maisy pats his cheeks, laughing delightedly as he presses loud kisses to her face. I drag our bags into the hallway and pull the door closed with a click, whilst Cam carries Maisy into the living room and sits with her in his lap. She chatters excitedly, telling him about her morning and the Cheerios she ate for breakfast while I search for my best friend.

I find Ruth in my kitchen, waving at me with her fingers whilst holding her phone to her ear. Her laptop is set up on the kitchen table beside a little craft station where it looks like she and Maisy have been scrapbooking.

After a moment, she rolls her eyes, says goodbye into the phone and drops it unceremoniously on the table, before rounding the furniture and hugging me tight.

“Ugh, I’ve missed you, sweet thing,” she says. “Maisy has been great. Work sucks. That man of yours is fucking divine, by the way—how was New York?”

She pre-empts all of my questions and I laugh, reaching around her to switch on the kettle. We work in tandem, preparing two cups with coffee, and then she begins to pack up her laptop.

“New York was…” I trail off. Ruth is my best friend, but New York feels like a dream and I’m not sure if I’m ready to return to reality. “It was good.”

Her brown eyes search mine.

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