Page 20 of Worth the Wait
“I hope so. We have three wineries to visit today.”
“Three?” I catch his surprised look. “I thought we were just meeting with one vendor.”
“For a 50th anniversary celebration, we’ll want wine selections from multiple producers. Different styles, different price points, options that complement the various courses,” I explain, making mental notes about timing. “Especially with the compressed schedule we inherited from Morrison Events, we need to finalize everything today—no second chances for tastings.”
“Right, the three-month timeline,” Cameron says, his tone carrying new understanding. “That’s why today is so packed.”
“Exactly. It’s going to be a long day, especially if this weather doesn’t cooperate.”
Cameron nods, then returns to our earlier conversation as we pass a truck loaded with produce heading toward Santa Barbara’s agricultural regions. “I realized that playing it safe all the time means missing out on opportunities that could actually matter. I was so focused on maintaining what I had, protecting established returns, that I stopped looking for ways to make a real impact.”
“And renewable energy makes a real impact?”
“It should. If we do it right, if we partner with communities instead of just extracting resources, if we think about long-term sustainability instead of quarterly profits.” He pauses, seeming to choose his words carefully. “I’ve been learning that the most profitable ventures are often the ones that serve purposes beyond just making money.”
It’s a more thoughtful philosophy than the Cameron I knew four years ago, who seemed primarily focused on building wealth and maintaining his family’s approval. This version sounds like someone who’s learned to ask different questions about success and meaning.
“That’s... actually really impressive,” I admit. “Most people in your position don’t bother looking beyond traditional investment strategies.”
“Most people in my position are smarter than I was at twenty-six,” Cameron replies with a self-deprecating smile. “It took me a while to figure out that having money isn’t the same as having purpose.”
The conversation flows more easily as we drive through Ventura County’s rolling hills. Cameron tells me about the renewable energy projects Sterling Industries is funding, and I find myself genuinely interested in his strategic thinking. He asks thoughtful questions about Luminous Events’ growth, about the challenges of building a luxury service business, about the balance between creativity and commerce.
It’s the kind of conversation we used to have during those long venue visits, when we’d spend hours talking about vision and strategy and the intersection of business and meaning. But there’s a depth to Cameron’s thinking now that wasn’t there before, a consideration for impact and sustainability that suggests he’s learned to see beyond immediate returns.
“What about you?” he asks as we pass through Carpinteria. “What’s changed for you over the past four years?”
I consider the question while watching the coastline come into view. What has changed? Everything, really. My business, my confidence, my understanding of what I’m capable of achieving.
“I learned that I don’t need anyone’s permission to belong in spaces where I create value,” I say finally. “Four years ago, I was always trying to prove I deserved to be in the room. Now I know I deserve to be there because I’m good at what I do.”
“You were always good at what you did,” Cameron says quietly. “Even four years ago. I just don’t think I was mature enough to recognize how good.”
The admission catches me off guard, partly because it’s more honest than I expected and partly because it addresses something I didn’t realize I needed to hear.
“You were twenty-six,” I say, offering him the same grace I’d want someone to offer me for my twenty-four-year-old mistakes. “We were both figuring things out.”
“Maybe. But you were figuring out how to build something meaningful. I was figuring out how to avoid disappointing people who probably shouldn’t have had so much influence over my decisions.”
It’s the closest he’s come to acknowledging what really happened between us, why he ended things so abruptly. Part of me wants to push for more details, to finally understand the calculations that led him to choose his family’s approval over what we were building together.
But another part of me—the part that’s enjoying this conversation, this glimpse of who Cameron has become—doesn’t want to ruin the moment by relitigating the past.
“Well,” I say instead, “it sounds like we’ve both learned some things.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, and when he glances at me there’s something warm and hopeful in his expression. “I think we have.”
The playlist shuffles to another song I recognize, something from an artist Cameron introduced me to during our relationship. Without thinking, I start humming along, then catch myself and stop.
“Don’t stop,” Cameron says. “You always had a beautiful voice.”
Heat creeps up my neck at the compliment, especially since he’s right—I do love to sing, and I used to sing along to music constantly when we were together. It’s such a small detail, but the fact that he remembers makes something flutter in my chest.
“You remember that, too?”
“I remember you singing in my kitchen while you cooked,” he says, his voice taking on a softer quality. “I remember you humming in the car during long drives. I remember thinking that hearing you sing was one of my favorite sounds.”
The memory hits me unexpectedly, bringing back images of lazy Sunday mornings and road trips to venues and quiet moments when it felt like we had all the time in the world.
