Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Athena

"No." I scowl and throw up my hands. "Jesus Christ, Cam! How the hell am I supposed to do this?"

He's fighting a smile, which makes me want to launch the controller at him. "I don't know how it's possible, but you're actually better at video games when you're drunk."

"Ugh." I toss the controller to the side. "I hate that you're right." I scowl at him again for good measure. "And I hate even more that you don't have any additional bottles of whisky so that I can kick this boss's ass."

He takes the controllers and sets them aside. "Who knew that a double jump would be your downfall?"

Double ugh.

I just can't get the timing right, which is frustrating. I'm not a professional athlete, but I know how to handle myself. That I can't hit two buttons at the correct moment is infuriating. "I need more junk food."

Grinning, he passes me the bag, which, thankfully, still has plenty of my favorites. I pull out a bag of gummy worms and start taking my frustrations out by biting their tiny heads off.

We've spent the last few hours playing this game—after fucking for the hours in between watching the river rise, crest, and begin to descend, and then hitting the kitchen ravenous.

Thankfully, Cam has a metric ton of cinnamon rolls in his freezer, along with casseroles and pasta sauce that Martha clearly stocked up for him, so there's no chance of starving?—

Or, God forbid, having to eat more of the vegetables in the fridge.

He pushes up from the couch and disappears into the hall. I have to bite back my question, have to resist the urge to stop him from leaving. A dangerous thought, that, being so in tune with him that I want to know where he's going and what he's doing and…

Why he's leaving me.

That has panic ramping, almost sending me from the couch and out into the darkness. I'll channel my inner mountain goat and leap rock-to-rock then hitchhike the four hours back down to the Bay.

This is dumb.

This is stupid.

This is…going to leave me bloody and bruised and?—

I'm sure to fuck it up and then I'll lose everything.

Every one—

Fuck, I need to go.

"Come with me?"

I blink and turn to see that Cam's back, wearing his coat and boots. He has my jacket in his hands and my boots tucked beneath his arm.

There's a wariness in his eyes, as though he knows what I'm thinking, or…maybe that he's feeling nervous too.

Surprisingly, that makes me feel better.

And angry, I guess.

He's not the one who's guaranteed to fuck this up—he's a Jackson, he's a pro at interpersonal relationships. I'm the idiot in this scenario. He's…well he's fucking perfect.

"I'm not," he says.

Stilling, I look from the coat back up to his face. "What?"

"You're thinking I have it together, that I know what I'm doing. And you're thinking about bolting the hell out of here because you're scared."

"You said you love me, Cam," I blurt. "That's scary shit."

A ripple of pain across his face, and I kick myself. Fucking it up already. Saying the wrong thing.

They'll never love you. You're unlovable.

I close my eyes.

Warm fingers brush my cheek, and I jerk them open, see that he's crouching in front of me.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"It's scary," he whispers back. "Some idiot guy blurting out big emotions when you prefer to keep your distance."

"You can't love me," I say, still whispering. "You don't even know me."

He sighs softly. "I love you, Ats, but you're right. I don't know you, not really. Not all the knowledge that comes from being in a relationship with someone. I don't know all of what's going in here"—he taps my temple—"or here"—the spot above my heart—"but I do know the person you are. I knew it from that first time you showed up at my parent's lake house and I know you now. I love that you care about our family, love that you're so passionate about your job and work so hard. I love that you're smart as hell and can protect yourself. I love that you have no qualms about jumping in to battle dragons and orcs and that you don't know a thing about hockey, but you've always cheered me on."

"Hey," I attempt to joke. "I know what icing is now."

"In hockey?" he asks lightly. "Or on my mom's cinnamon rolls?"

Surprised, I laugh.

His fingers trace my lips, my smile, and I feel some pieces shift inside me—realigning, opening up… melting . "Beautiful," he murmurs.

"I don't know what to do with this. I—" I exhale. "I don't know what I'm feeling or thinking, except to know that I'm going to mess it up."

"So…you mess it up," he says, like it's the simplest thing in the world. "And then we figure out a way to fix it." His brows slide together, forming a deep V between them, and I fucking hate that I get to watch the doubt creeping into his eyes in real time. "Of course, that's if you want to fix it, if you want to continue this when we, um, get out of here."

It's probably the most reckless thing I've ever done?—

Leaning in and cupping his face in my hands when I should pull back, should tell him that, yes, this is all a mistake, should do anything but allow another thread to connect us.

But…

I love him too.

Maybe not the same way as he says he does me—but I love his drive and focus, and the way he's so kind and thoughtful. I love that he didn't bat an eye when his family invaded or when I was a snarly beast waking him up with that splash of water. I love that I've known him for a decade, and he's always been himself.

So, I can't turn away right now, even though I'm quaking in my boots.

"I don't know what I'm doing, or how to…do this ."

His expression locks down.

"But…" I'm feeling so much—too much and not enough—addicted and unable to stop, terrified to traipse down this trail and yet even more scared to stop. And all of that fuels my next words. "But…I'm willing to try."

Relief across the handsome lines of his face.

And I know that even though this might all blow up in my face…

I still made the right decision.

Of course, I won't know until later, that this will also be the worst mistake of my life.