41. Sloane

CHAPTER 41

SLOANE

C am texts me once a day for the next few days, but I don’t respond.

I’m too afraid I’ll crack under pressure, toppling like a Jenga game after a bad pull.

No, it’s safer to avoid.

Soon, he’ll move to Fort Lauderdale and that will be that.

Everything will go back to the way it was before he showed up on my doorstep, asking for my dad.

I suck in a deep breath, an empty hollowness yawning wide in my chest.

A few more days, and I’ll be Cam-free. Marked safe from gorgeous pro football players with outstanding internet dick notoriety.

With shaky hands, I stamp the due date on the index card in the back of a Princess Diaries book and hand it to Abigail, the shoo-in for Summer Reading Champ.

“Thanks, Ms. Sloane. Is your boyfriend coming to the End of Summer Book Bash?” She gazes up at me with bright blue eyes, clearly hopeful.

“No. He’s moving to Florida.”

“Oh. So you’re not getting married.”

I half-laugh, half-sob. “No.”

“Bummer. He’s really cute.”

“I know. But he has a job in Florida and I’m working here. So that’s tough.”

“No biggie. My dad drives trucks all over the southeast and my mom stays home. It’s fine. If you love each other, you can make it work.”

Her words saw at the open wound, ripping at the jagged edges. The spot may never heal.

“Thanks, Abigail. But I don’t think we’re meant to be.”

She stares up at me, confused. “Because he’s moving?”

“No. Because it’s complicated.”

“More complicated than geometry?”

I have to laugh at this. “Probably about that level of complicated, yeah.”

“Wow. That is hard. But my mom always tells me I can do hard things.”

This kid isn’t letting up.

“You sure can, Abigail. She’s absolutely right.”

“I’m nine. If I can do hard things, you definitely can. You’re way older than me.”

Well, shoot. She’s got me there.

“Sometimes you have to let people go.”

Her small, pink lips downturn. “That’s sad.”

“It is. But eventually things get better and you move on.”

“That’s not how all my books end.”

Good gravy. Where’s this kid’s chaperone ?

“The books you read are fiction. You learned about the difference between fiction and non-fiction in school, right?”

“Yes. Fiction is make-believe.”

“Exactly.”

“So happy endings are make-believe?” She squishes her brows together, trying to figure this out.

Same, girl, same .

I bite at my lip, wondering if I should deliver the brutal truth to Abigail right now or let her learn for herself the hard way.

“Not always,” I hedge. “Sometimes love works out.”

“And you get married?”

Probably not the time to quote current divorce statistics.

“Yeah. And you get married and live happily ever after.”

“That’s what I want.”

“Me too, Abigail. Me too.” Well, at least I used to want that. Before I realized every man is a freaking cheater. Or, at least, every man that dates me.

“You still could, Ms. Sloane. Look.” Abigail points to the arch of the Children’s Department. Cam’s leaning against the wall, all broad shoulders, tapered waist, and muscles for days. He waves at Abigail and she waves back, smiling shyly over at him.

“Abby—we have to get going. I need to stop by the grocery and pick up dinner.” A blonde woman swings over, taking Abigail by the hand.

“Okay, Mom. See you next week, Ms. Sloane. Good luck!” She waves and wanders off with her mother, leaving me alone in the Children’s Department. Well, alone with Cam .

Shit.

There’s only two minutes to close and no one left to rescue me.

Cam wanders over, his marine gaze never leaving mine. Like I may scurry off and he’d have to chase me through the stacks or something.

“Hey. Can we talk? Please?” He clasps his hands, his voice tipping up.

I break eye contact, heat unfurling low in my belly even as hot anger bubbles inside me. The man still has an effect on me and it’s low-key annoying.

“No. Go away.”

“Please, Sloane.”

I war with myself for a few seconds, but figure he’ll stalk me in the parking lot anyway.

“Fine. As soon as I’m done here. Give me five minutes.”

He loiters near the entrance while I shut down the computer and tuck in the chair. The custodian fires up the vacuum cleaner, zooming away without paying us any attention.

We walk in silence out to the parking lot and Cam grabs my elbow, steering me away from the parking lot and behind the building.

“Where are we going, Cam? It’s been a long day, I just want to get home.”

“Come on. Give me ten minutes.”

Because I’m a sucker and a sappy romantic—and Abigail had a few good points, especially for a nine-year-old—I let Cam lead me out to the park in the back of the library. We walk toward the gazebo at the far end of the outdoor space and I suck in a breath.

Twinkly fairy lights drape from the gazebo, a white tablecloth spread over the old wooden picnic table. There’s a fancy charcuterie board, along with a bottle of chilled white wine and two glasses. A huge bouquet of flowers—blue hydrangeas this time—sits in the center of the table and a portable speaker’s playing Frank Sinatra’s greatest hits.

“Cam—”

“C’mon, Trouble. Can we at least talk?” He cuts his gaze to mine and I feel my resolve crumbling like a sandy shoreline at high tide during a hurricane.

“Fine. But make it quick. Otherwise my dad’ll ask questions.” A total lie, but what’s good for the goose, right?

His hand hovers at my low back, but doesn’t dare make contact as he guides me to the picnic bench. I take a seat, perched tentatively on the edge. Ready to bolt at any moment. The sun’s setting in the distance and there’s a light breeze as Cam folds his tall body down onto the wooden bench.

“May I?” He gestures at the wine, sweating in the heat.

“Fine.” May as well enjoy a beverage—it’s still sticky and humid out here.

He pours us each a tall glass of wine, screwing the lid back onto the bottle before sliding my glass over.

I take a long slug and he does the same, cicadas humming in the tall grass behind us.

“Sloane, I’m really sorry. I should have told you about the video.” He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing in his thick neck. “It was one stupid night in Chicago. My buddy’s birthday and they invited these women up to the room. We had too much to drink—I should have left. I can sit here and make excuses for my behavior—peer pressure, too much alcohol, blah, blah, blah. All of that is true, but it’s also bullshit. I made a big mistake. And it cost me a lot. My spot on the team in Chicago. But if it costs me you—” He gazes out into the field, dark brows knit.

“Hold on. Chicago? Don’t sit here and fucking lie straight to my face, Cam. I saw the date on the video. It was a few days ago, when you were in Florida.”

“What? No, it wasn’t. Swear.”

“Bullshit, Cam! It was timestamped!” Fiery anger surges through me. How stupid and na?ve does he think I am? “Jamie pulled it up on her phone and the date was right fucking there.”

“Sloane—I swear to God nothing happened while I was down in Florida. That video was from months ago. That’s the main reason I got cut from the team.”

“So Jamie found an old sex video on the internet and doctored it? C’mon, Cam. That’s ridiculous.”

Cam frowns, his lips pressed together. “I guess. I mean, I don’t know why she would do that. But I promise you, I haven’t been with anyone since we started dating. I’d never hurt you like that, Sloane.”

His deep blue eyes slide to mine and a pang radiates through my chest. I want to believe him—so badly—but don’t all cheaters say these things? Ratface sure did.

It was only this one time.

I’ll never do it again, Sloane.

I never meant to hurt you, baby.

Uh-huh. Right.

“Prove it.” I fold my arms over my chest, fortified by anger and chardonnay.

Cam huffs out a shaky breath and slides his cell out of his pocket. Clicking on the search tab, he types in a few keywords and hands me the phone without meeting my gaze .

I hit play and sure as shit, it’s the same grainy video. The hotel room, the skyline, the beautiful women. All the same. This time with no time and date stamp in the corner.

Pausing the video, I hand the cell back to Cam, emotions swirling through me.

Cool relief, but also anger. At Jamie, for being a conniving bitch.

But also at Cam.

“Maybe this didn’t happen in Fort Lauderdale?—”

“It didn’t, Sloane. I’d never do that to you.”

“But you still lied to me, Cam. You told me you got cut for your attitude, for not making plays. You failed to mention a sex video.”

His face crumples, shoulders slumping, and I feel terrible. But not terrible enough to stop going.

“I thought you trusted me, Cam. I thought we were a team. Why didn’t you tell me?” My voice breaks and I kick at the gravel on the ground, my throat thick.

“I was ashamed.” His voice is a whisper, so quiet I barely catch it over the breeze. “I fucked up.”

“Cam—” I fumble for the right words, unsure what to say. “I love you. But you betrayed me. I gave you my whole heart, my body. My trust and my confidence. And now I’m not sure I even know you. Was everything between us a lie?”

Cam grabs for my hands and I let him take them, enfolding my fingers in his large, calloused palms.

“No. Of course not. Everything I said—everything between us—was real. Is real.”

The correction gives me pause and I pull away, scrunching my eyes shut tight. After a long minute, I finally face him .

“I’m sorry, I really am. I still love you, but I can’t do this. I can’t take the risk.”

I shove away from the picnic table and dash to my car before I give into the sadness wrapping around and engulfing me.

The last thing I want is Cam to see me cry.