Lily took another bite.
“I think adults just make things complicated because they like talking.”
Camille laughed.
Andre stared at his daughter.
“You’re seven.”
“I know.”
That morning, Camille rode with them to school.
Lily spent the entire drive explaining water vapor.
When they arrived, she grabbed her backpack.
“Are you coming back tonight?”
She asked Camille.
Camille hesitated.
“Maybe.”
“Okay.”
Lily ran toward school.
Andre did not drive away.
Camille stared through the windshield.
“She’s getting attached.”
“Yes.”
“I’m scared of that.”
“So am I.”
Camille looked at him.
“She’s already had adults leave.”
Andre nodded.
“Her mom hasn’t left her.”
“I know.”
“But the divorce still changed her world.”
Camille rubbed her hands together.
“What happens when I go back to New York?”
Andre became quiet.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you disappear.”
Camille’s expression tightened.
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“Then don’t.”
“It’s not that simple.”
Andre looked at her.
“Maybe it is.”
She shook her head.
“You don’t understand.”
“My daughter doesn’t need promises that nothing changes.”
Andre kept his voice calm.
“She needs people who communicate when it does.”
Camille looked toward the school.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Neither do I.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“Welcome to my entire parenting philosophy.”
She laughed.
Then Andre took her hand.
“You don’t have to know the ending.”
“But you do have to show up honestly while you’re here.”
Camille squeezed his fingers.
“I can do that.”
They kissed for the first time three nights later.
It happened in Camille’s kitchen after her furnace stopped working.
Andre had walked across the street with a toolbox, discovered a failed ignition sensor, and temporarily reset it until the heating company could arrive. Camille poured wine.
Andre accepted.
Then she asked why he kept helping her.
“You know why.”
Andre said.
“No.”
“I don’t.”
He put down the glass.
“Camille.”
“You’re here.”
“I know.”
“You’ve been here for weeks.”
“I know.”
“I spent ten years telling myself what I felt for you was some college fantasy.”
His voice grew quieter.
“Then you moved across the street.”
Camille stopped breathing.
“And suddenly it wasn’t ten years ago.”
Andre looked at her.
“It was yesterday.”
Camille crossed the kitchen.
She kissed him before he finished.
Andre had imagined kissing her at twenty-two.
The reality at thirty-four was nothing like that imaginary version.
There was no hesitation.
No innocence.
It was messy, desperate, and filled with years neither of them could recover.
When they separated, Camille rested her forehead against his.
“That was a terrible idea.”
Andre nodded.
“Probably.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“I’m leaving eventually.”
“I know.”
“My life is complicated.”
“So is mine.”
“I’m terrible at relationships.”
Andre smiled.
“I have a divorce certificate.”
“We can compare qualifications.”
Camille almost laughed.
Then her expression became serious.
“I’m scared.”
“Of me?”
“Of wanting this.”
Andre kissed her again.
Slower.
“Then we go slowly.”
She closed her eyes.
“I don’t know how.”
“We learn.”
For the next month, they did.
Badly sometimes.
Beautifully other times.
Camille worked from Andre’s kitchen while Lily colored beside her.
Andre fixed things around Camille’s house because she kept breaking expensive appliances through what he described as “executive incompetence.”
Camille helped Lily build a model bridge for school.
Andre accused her of turning a third-grade assignment into a graduate engineering project.
“It needs structural integrity.”
Camille insisted.
“It needs glue.”
Andre replied.
“It can have both.”
Lily agreed with Camille.
Andre lost every vote in his own house.
Then New York called.
Camille received an offer from her board to return for a major redevelopment project.
Three weeks in Brooklyn.
Potentially longer.
She told Andre while they sat on his porch beneath blankets watching snow fall.
“When?”
“March.”
“You want to go.”
Camille hesitated.
“Part of me does.”
Andre felt something tighten.
“Then go.”
She turned.
“That easy?”
“No.”
He looked at the snow.
“But I’m not going to ask you to shrink your life to prove you love me.”
Camille became quiet.
“You said love.”
Andre realized it.
“Yes.”
Neither spoke.
Camille’s eyes filled.
“You love me?”
Andre looked at her.
“I think I’ve made that embarrassingly obvious.”
She laughed softly.
Then leaned against him.
“I love you too.”
The words should have solved everything.
They did not.
Love rarely solved logistical problems.
Instead, it made those problems matter more.
Camille traveled to New York.
Andre stayed in Aspen with Lily.
They called.
Texted.
Fought about schedules.
Missed calls.
Apologized.
Tried again.
Then Camille began staying longer between trips.
The board needed decisions.
Clients wanted her.
Her company still knew how to make her feel necessary.
Andre began wondering whether Aspen was simply a break she would eventually stop needing.
Camille began wondering whether Andre wanted her or a version of her without New York attached.
Neither said it correctly.
That became the problem.
One February night, the argument finally came.
“You always leave one foot outside.”
Andre said.
Camille’s expression hardened.
“What does that mean?”
“You’re here until something happens there.”
“My company employs thousands of people.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you acting like work is some personal insult?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Andre stood.
“I’m asking whether this is actually your life or just where you come when New York becomes too much.”
Camille flinched.
“That’s unfair.”
“Maybe.”
“You want me to give up everything.”
“I never said that.”
“You don’t have to.”
She grabbed her coat.
“Every time my phone rings, you look like my company is stealing me.”
“Maybe because it is.”
Camille stared at him.
Andre immediately regretted the words.
She nodded slowly.
“There it is.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Camille.”
She walked toward the door.
“I spent a decade building something.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not going to apologize for caring about it.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“You’re asking me to prove I care about you more.”
Andre said nothing.
Camille’s eyes filled.
“That is exactly what Grant used to do.”
The comparison hurt.
Andre’s pride answered before his heart could.
“Then maybe you should go back to the life you understand.”
Camille went pale.
Andre knew instantly he had made a mistake.
She opened the door.
“Maybe I should.”
She left.
For three days, Camille did not come over.
She stopped going to Mountain Grind.
Andre sent one message.
I’m sorry.
No answer.
He sent another.
I said something cruel because I was scared.
Nothing.
Lily noticed immediately.
“Where’s Camille?”
“Working.”
“That’s not true.”
Andre looked at her.
“How do you know?”
“You look sad.”
He sighed.
“We had a fight.”
“Why?”
“Adult stuff.”
Lily rolled her eyes.
“Did you say sorry?”
“Yes.”
“In person?”
“No.”
“Then you didn’t say it right.”
Andre stared.
“Your teacher teach relationship counseling now?”
“She says texting apologies is lazy.”
Andre almost smiled.
The following morning he crossed the street.
He knocked.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Camille’s car remained in the driveway.
Andre stood there for several minutes before returning home.
The next morning, the Range Rover was gone.
It did not return.
Two days later, Andre received a call from Camille’s executive assistant.
Camille had flown back to New York.
Indefinitely.
Andre ended the call and sat in his kitchen for a long time.
Lily was at school.
The house was silent.
He realized how much noise Camille had added.
Phone calls.
Coffee arguments.
Her laptop.
Her laugh.
Her presence.
The silence felt worse because he remembered what existed before it.
Three weeks passed.
Andre stopped looking across the street.
Mostly.
Then his phone rang on a Friday night.
Camille.
He stared at the name for four rings.
Answered on the fifth.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
Her voice sounded exhausted.
“How’s New York?”
“Awful.”
Andre almost smiled.
“Successful?”
“Very.”
“That tracks.”
Silence.
Then Camille said, “I’m across the street.”
Andre stood.
“What?”
“I came back an hour ago.”
He crossed the street without a coat.
Camille opened the door before he knocked.
She wore jeans and an old Northwestern sweatshirt.
Her hair was pulled back.
No makeup.
Tired eyes.
For once, none of the armor was there.
Andre stopped three feet away.
“Why did you leave?”
Camille folded her arms.
“Because you were right.”
Andre shook his head.
“No.”
“I was.”
“I kept one foot out.”
“I kept telling myself I could have both lives without deciding how they fit together.”
“And when you pushed me, I panicked.”
Andre stepped closer.
“I shouldn’t have pushed.”
“You were scared.”
“So were you.”
“Yes.”
Camille’s eyes filled.
“I went back because New York was familiar.”
“And?”
“I was miserable.”
She laughed softly.
“My office was exactly the same.”
“My apartment was the same.”
“Everyone treated me like I’d returned to normal.”
She looked at him.
“And all I could think about was your terrible coffee.”
Andre smiled.
“High-quality machine.”
“It is an appliance crime.”
“And Lily?”
Camille’s face broke.
“Every morning.”
“What?”
“I wondered what ridiculous thing she would have complained about.”
Andre swallowed.
“She stopped asking when you were coming back.”
Camille looked wounded.
“She did?”
“She got tired of hearing me say I didn’t know.”
A tear slipped down Camille’s face.
“I’m sorry.”
Andre stepped closer.
“I’m sorry too.”