Chapter 3 - The Man in Her Tomorrow
André’s plane was scheduled to land in Miami at 6:20 that evening.
Camille knew the flight number.
That told Ethan everything.
People did not memorize flight numbers belonging to men they did not care about.
At breakfast she pretended the change meant nothing.
She cleared plates.
Wrapped leftovers.
Argued with an uncle about whether three unopened bottles of champagne counted as “leftover wedding supplies.”
But Ethan saw the difference.
Every few minutes she checked her phone.
At 11:15, he decided to leave.
Camille followed him onto the porch.
“You don’t have to go.”
“I think I do.”
“Because André is coming?”
“Because your entire family is about to realize I’m still here.”
“They realized an hour ago.”
“That’s exactly my concern.”
Camille leaned against the porch post.
“You’re mad.”
“No.”
“You’re disappointed.”
“Yes.”
The honesty caught her off guard.
Ethan continued.
“But disappointment isn’t the same thing as entitlement.”
Her eyes stayed on him.
“I knew there was somebody else before I came here.”
“You knew there was a name.”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“No.”
He placed his hands in his pockets.
“But I don’t want to pretend I’m unaffected.”
Camille looked toward the driveway.
“André and I aren’t together.”
“I know.”
“We haven’t been together for years.”
“I know that too.”
“But?”
Ethan almost said there was no but.
Instead he remembered what Elise had told him.
Don’t compete.
Don’t rescue her.
Don’t convince her.
“But you’re still waiting.”
Camille’s head turned sharply.
“People keep saying that.”
“Maybe because you are.”
“You met me yesterday.”
“I know.”
“So maybe don’t diagnose my life.”
Fair.
Ethan nodded.
Camille immediately looked guilty.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize for telling me I crossed a line.”
She studied him.
“You always do that?”
“What?”
“Accept criticism without turning it into a courtroom defense?”
“Depends on whether I think the criticism is accurate.”
Camille laughed softly.
“You’re annoying.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She looked at him for a long moment.
Then she asked, “What are you doing today?”
Ethan blinked.
“I have no idea.”
“That must be terrifying.”
“It’s unfamiliar.”
Camille pushed away from the porch post.
“I have to drive back to Miami around two.”
Ethan waited.
“My apartment is there. André is meeting me tonight.”
That final sentence felt unnecessary.
She knew it.
He knew it.
Neither commented.
“But before that,” Camille continued, “I promised my aunt I’d return some rental decorations to a place in Key Largo.”
“Sounds glamorous.”
“It involves folding metal stands and possibly getting yelled at by a florist named Gloria.”
“Tempting.”
Camille smiled.
“You want to come?”
He should have said no.
He had changed his flight because he wanted to explore a possibility.
That possibility was now preparing to meet another man.
The logical decision was obvious.
Ethan said, “Sure.”
Camille shook her head.
“You really are bad at making sensible decisions in Florida.”
“Apparently.”
For the next four hours, nothing romantic happened.
Which somehow made them more dangerous.
They loaded centerpieces into Camille’s small SUV.
They drove thirty minutes south.
Gloria did not yell.
She did, however, force both of them to carry twelve metal stands into a storage room whose air-conditioning had died.
By the time they finished, Ethan’s shirt was sticking to his back.
Camille handed him a bottle of water.
“You look betrayed.”
“I was promised Florida beaches.”
“You volunteered for wedding cleanup.”
“I was emotionally compromised.”
She laughed.
Afterward they stopped at a roadside place for fish sandwiches.
They ate outside beneath a faded umbrella while traffic moved along the Overseas Highway.
Without music or wedding lights between them, they talked differently.
Camille asked about Seattle.
Not tourist questions.
Real ones.
Did Ethan like his work?
Sometimes.
Did he want children?
He hesitated before saying yes.
Was he close to his parents?
Closer to his mother since his father died seven years earlier.
Camille stopped eating.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“What was he like?”
Ethan looked toward the road.
“Quiet.”
“Like you?”
“No.”
A faint smile.
“He was actually quiet. I just pretend silence makes me mysterious.”
Camille smiled.
Ethan continued.
“My dad repaired appliances. Refrigerators, washing machines, air conditioners. He could listen to a machine for ten seconds and tell you what was wrong.”
“So you got the systems thing from him.”
“Probably.”
“Did he like your job?”
“He didn’t understand most of it.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Ethan looked at her.
“No.”
Camille raised an eyebrow.
“He thought I worked too much.”
“Smart man.”
“You met me yesterday.”
“And I already know you rescheduled your flight through an app at midnight and probably emailed your team before sleeping.”
Ethan said nothing.
Camille smiled triumphantly.
“You did.”
“I delegated.”
“You emailed.”
“Yes.”
“To how many people?”
“Six.”
She laughed so loudly the couple at the next table looked over.
Ethan smiled.
Then he asked about her.
Camille grew quieter.
She was thirty-two.
She worked as a physical therapist at a rehabilitation center in Miami, primarily with patients recovering from serious accidents and neurological injuries.
She loved the work.
She hated hospital administration.
She lived alone.
Her mother lived forty minutes away.
Camille’s younger brother, Max, was married and had a three-year-old daughter Camille adored.
“And André?” Ethan asked eventually.
Camille looked down at her sandwich.
“What about him?”
“What does he do?”
“Architecture.”
“New York?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“He travels.”
She paused.
“A lot.”
“How long since you saw him?”
“Eight months.”
Ethan tried not to react.
Camille noticed anyway.
“We talk.”
“How often?”
“Sometimes every day.”
“Sometimes?”
“Sometimes three weeks go by.”
That did not sound like a relationship.
It sounded like a waiting room.
Ethan kept that thought to himself.
Camille wiped her fingers with a napkin.
“He’s not a bad person.”
“I didn’t say he was.”
“Everybody acts like he is.”
“Why?”
“Because he leaves.”
The answer came too quickly.
Camille looked away.
For the first time, Ethan understood that the story was not really about a man who failed to show up.
It was about a woman who kept believing his next arrival would erase every previous departure.
At two fifteen they returned to the Baptiste house.
Camille loaded her overnight bag into the SUV.
Ethan stood beside the passenger door.
“You staying in Key Largo?”
“Probably.”
“You have three days.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“You could actually enjoy them.”
“That was the plan.”
She smiled faintly.
Then looked at him.
“Come to Miami.”
Ethan’s chest tightened.
“What?”
“I’m driving back. You have nothing planned.”
“You’re meeting André tonight.”
“At eight.”
“And you want me in Miami because…?”
Camille exhaled.
“Because I like talking to you.”
The answer was dangerously simple.
Ethan said nothing.
“And because,” she continued, “I don’t want the entire day before seeing André to become me sitting alone in my apartment thinking about seeing André.”
There it was.
Not romance.
Not exactly.
Something more honest.
Ethan should have refused.
Instead he said, “I’ll follow you in my rental.”
Camille nodded.
At 5:38 they stood beside Biscayne Bay watching the sun lower behind downtown Miami.
They had spent the afternoon walking.
Coffee.
A bookstore.
A Cuban bakery where Camille insisted Ethan try guava pastries.
For several hours, André barely existed.
At 6:03, Camille’s phone rang.
She looked at the screen.
“André.”
Ethan stepped away.
She answered.
“Hi.”
Her voice changed.
Softer.
Older somehow.
Ethan watched boats crossing the water.
He told himself not to listen.
He heard enough anyway.
“You landed?”
Pause.
“No, I’m downtown.”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
Camille looked toward Ethan.
Their eyes met.
Then she turned away.
“Eight is fine.”
She ended the call.
Neither spoke.
Finally Ethan said, “You should go.”
Camille nodded.
But she did not move.
Then, unexpectedly, she stepped closer and hugged him.
It was brief.
Warm.
Confusing.
“Thank you for today.”
Ethan’s hands settled carefully against her back.
“You’re welcome.”
Camille pulled away.
“Promise me something.”
“What?”
“Don’t disappear because tonight happens.”
Ethan searched her face.
He did not know what answer she wanted.
So he gave the only one he trusted.
“I won’t disappear.”
Camille smiled.
Then walked toward her car.
Ethan watched until she drove away.
At 10:46 that night, he was sitting alone in a small Miami hotel bar when his phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
One message.
This is Camille.
A second message arrived immediately.
I think I made a mistake.
Then a third.
May you like
Can you come get me?
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