My only consolation is Cameron looks just as uncomfortable, and at six three, two hundred pounds of plaid-covered masculinity, he wears it weird. I open the door the rest of the way and beckon him in. Last time I saw him, he was defending my honor at the top of his lungs, and the time before that, I was practicing my whole “numbness campaign,” so seeing him sober and in this context is like a lightning strike. I instantly feel the telltale tickle of emotion in my throat. I attempt to ever-so-subtly slow my heart rate and open my airways.

Inhale, exhale. I am a motherfucking yogi.

“I … was in the area,” he says, hands in his jeans pockets. Like he’s completely unaware that I’m on the precipice of tears, which is doubtful. Cam could always tell when I was about to cry. “Uh, in Michigan. Finally. So, I decided to come visit. I figured doing this off-screen was better for everyone involved.”

“You heard I was here, at this unoccupied house?”

He grimaces, scratching at his heavily whiskered cheek. “Of course not. Daniel told me where to find you.”

“Oh?” The question dangles between us. Because clearly there is more to it than that. Like how he found my dad’s house? Or how he’s been in contact with my dad, and my dad didn’t tell me? Maybe even how I will be having some strong words with my father, after I figure out if I’m mad or happy to see Cameron.

“How about this?” he offers. “Let’s rewind.” He makes this ridiculous sound like a record scratch, rolling his hands backward as though he’s reversing time. “To before L.A. and Lyle. Forget them for a minute.” He steps closer, and I giggle, despite my nerves. With him, comes the smell of outside and spearmint gum. My eyes trace up his scuffed boots, long legs, and green-and-blue flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His beard is dark brown and tidy, his eyes are familiar and edged with laugh lines. His hair is shorter than I’ve ever seen it, but it suits him.

He looks good. Real good. Like a lumberjack spliced with young Paul Newman.

Well done, past me, I think. You hit that.

To which my inner self reminds me I also did not hit that again, so ouch.

“Forgotten,” I agree. “Hey, Cameron Riggs. What brings you to the neighborhood?”

His answering grin is relieved and easy. “Heard an old friend was here and I wanted to see her.”

I allow a small smile to slip out. “It’s good to see your face, Cam. It’s been too long.”

“Five years,” he says softly.

“Something like that.”

“So, you’re rehabbing houses.” He gestures to the room at large and I realize it’s not so much a question as an icebreaker.