Page 45 of Fault Lines
I laughed, caught off guard. “When you dropped your ice cream in my lap?”
It had been after classes, at the campus ice cream shop. Cam and his friends, loud and silly, shoving each other. Someone pushed Cam too hard and he’d crashed into our table, his cone smearing all over both of us. Vanilla everywhere. He’d looked down at the mess and just said, “Thank God it wasn’t chocolate.” I’d thought that was hysterical. Cam had helped me clean up, then apologized a dozen times and asked for my number. That was how it started.
Cam squeezed my hand now, rubbing his thumb over my skin. “I knew you were it for me, from the first minute. I’ve never felt anything like the way I feel about you.”
The loudspeaker popped again. Only fifteen minutes to show time.
I pulled my hand away, a little too abruptly. “Maybe we should get moving, if we want seats.”
We were late, though; by the time we made it to the stadium, the best spots were already filled. We climbed all the way to the top row and found a space in the corner.
“At least it’s private,” I offered.
“Not great for recording, though.” He pulled out his phone.
“We don’t need a video. We’ll remember it.”
But his phone pinged, bright as a fire alarm, and I saw the name Brinley flash before he tilted the screen away.
He replied fast, fingers flying. My stomach knotted.
Was that her? Was his Thursday night girl now texting him in the middle of our date? Was he letting her into hours I’d thought were just for us?
The lights went down and the show started, but I couldn’t focus on anything except the leaden pain behind my ribs. Cam was laughing, clapping, but it felt like watching a stranger.
His phone pinged again. This time, he checked it right in front of me, the screen angled just enough for me to see—a photo, nearly naked, that same brunette I’d glimpsed before. Wearing lingerie, sprawled out on her bed, bold and completely unashamed.
Brinley. That was her name.
And now she was sending pictures to my husband while we sat together, and he was responding, his face breaking into a boyish grin as he hit send.
“She’s gorgeous,” I whispered. “I can see why you want her.”
He turned so fast I actually jumped, my first tear slipping free.
“Oh god, Livi. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“I’d like to leave now,” I said, blinking back the rest of my tears.
“The show’s not over. Please, Livi, don’t let this ruin everything.”
“I want to go home, Cam. Please.”
He didn’t argue. He just took my hand and led me out, careful on the stairs, ushering me back to the car. I beat him there, slammed the door, fumbled with my seatbelt.
He drove slow, threading us through the city, but I didn’t say a word. I watched the world outside my window: people walking, laughing, living. For all I knew, they were actually happy.
He finally spoke, voice quiet and wounded. “I’m sorry, Livi. It’s just habit, responding like that. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“So you two talk a lot? It’s not just Thursday nights?”
“We text sometimes. But I only see her on Thursdays, I promise.”
“She’s beautiful,” I said, softer this time.
“You’re beautiful, Livi.”
“Not like her. She could model. Do you love her?”
