Page 112 of Things We Fake
I looked at her, curious and a little suspicious. “What way?”
“How about we all go home tomorrow, and you spend Easter with us at home?”
Home? To Warwick? I’d spent the last years of my life avoiding every opportunity to go back there, because it held so many painful memories—Neil’s cheating, my failed engagement, my adolescence under a domineering mother I sometimes thought was a tyrant… Now that Mom and I had started to clear the air, would it be easier to go back home? Would I be actually able to enjoy my childhood home, remember the good times, and push away the shadows of the bad times?
As though reading my inner turmoil, Mom patted my arm. “Think about it. I’ll call you on Sunday morning before we leave and see if you want to join us.”
I gave her a grateful smile. “Thanks, Mom.”
“No problem, honey.” She stood, glancing down at her slim wrist watch. “I’d better get going, or your father will start worrying.”
I stood too, feeling almost sad at the thought of her leaving. I suddenly wanted to make up for all the yearswe’d had an invisible barrier between us. I knew it would take time, but tonight was a good start.
“Do you want me to call you a cab?” I asked, walking her to the door.
She shook her head. “It’s okay, I have an app.”
“Message me when you get to the hotel, please.”
She turned to me and smiled indulgently. “Look at you, worrying about your old lady.”
“You’re not an old lady, you’re a very attractive woman, and New York is full of degenerates.”
She almost rolled her eyes. “You sound just like your father. You seem to handle the degenerates reasonably well. I’ll message you, I promise.” Her face grew serious, and she took my hands in hers. “Thank you for seeing me. I’m sorry for everything, Susanne. And I meant what I said. I am so incredibly proud of you, and thankful to be your mother. It’s a privilege I will never take lightly.”
I hugged her tightly, burying my nose in her shoulder, inhaling her unmistakable scent of Italian perfume, grapes, and elegance.
“I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too, sweetheart.”
I watched her descend the stairs gracefully, a smile lingering on my face. Today had been so cathartic. I wished I could share this moment with the one person who’d made this possible—Cam. But there was no sign of him. I glanced under Sebastian’s apartment door. Everything was dark and quiet.
I closed my door, then finished the cannoli, took a hot shower, and got ready for bed. Now and again I threw glances out the window, hoping to see Cam climbthe stairs to our building. There was no sign of him, and no message.
Eventually, close to midnight, I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. I finished my nightly routine by checking the front door to make sure it was locked. Light footsteps echoed outside in the hallway, and my heartbeat picked up. It could have been anyone, but somehow I knew it was him. I pressed my hand against the door and my eye to the peephole. My pulse hammered in my ears when I saw him climb the last step to our floor. I only saw his profile, but he looked tired, his shoulders slumped.
I bit my lip, swallowing the need to open the door and throw myself in his arms, or at his feet, to thank him for all that he’d done for me, to beg him to forgive me for the terrible scene at dinner… To tell him how stupidly, wildly crazy in love I was with him. To ask him if there was any chance that he at least liked me back, that he wanted me in his life.
My heart and my breath stopped as he paused in front of my apartment. My palms pressed against the door, fingers digging into the wood, wishing Cam would turn to me.
But he didn’t.
He walked past my door toward Sebastian’s apartment, and disappeared inside.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sue
The highway stretched ahead in an endless ribbon of asphalt, the pale gold of early spring casting soft light over rolling hills and bare-limbed trees. The further we drove from the city, the more the landscape transformed—glass and steel giving way to winding country roads, pastures stretching wide, dotted with the occasional red barn or white colonial farmhouse.
I inhaled deeply. The air smelled different here. Clean, crisp, tinged with damp earth and the faintest hint of fermenting grapes. It was the scent of my childhood.
It had been years since I’d come home for more than a quick visit. And even now, nestled between my brother and Michelle in the backseat of his SUV, I felt like a passenger in my own past.
My father hummed an old Italian tune under his breath as he drove, his hands steady on the wheel, his gaze relaxed in a way it never was anywhere but here. My mother sat in the front passenger seat, her head turned toward the window as she watched the countryside blur past, occasionally glancing back at me with soft, uncertain eyes. Paul, as usual, was sprawledout in his seat, one hand slung casually over Michelle’s thigh.
I tried not to fidget, reminding myself I was here by choice.
