The Design (24 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Later that night,
I
stared up at my ceiling, which was cast in shadows from the light streaming through the open blinds. A lone street lamp outside produced more light than I thought possible, but it wasn’t the reason I lay awake. Grayson slept beside me, wrapped around me like a coiled snake, snoring gently and keeping me safe and warm. He seemed perfectly content, but I was still hanging in limbo, worried about what the next day would bring. We’d yet to discuss his voicemail messages, but I knew I’d have to bring them up tomorrow morning.

Knowing I wouldn’t find sleep anytime soon, I extracted myself from Grayson’s arms and pushed off my bed in search of something to distract me from another hour of tossing and turning. My options were limited since I couldn’t leave my bedroom. I hadn’t heard Hannah come home yet, but I didn’t want to take my chances.

The soft light from my laptop charger caught my attention. My computer would have to do. I could put my headphones in and listen to Taylor Swift covers while pinning DIY projects I’d never actually get around to making. It was my favorite guilty pleasure.

I unlocked my computer and tilted the screen so that it wouldn’t wake Grayson. Once my headphones were in place and I’d pulled up a few songs on YouTube, I switched over to my email, wondering if Brooklyn had sent the funny picture of Jason she’d promised me. I needed a good laugh.

After Gmail loaded up, I scanned the first few unopened emails and frowned, confused by the senders:
[email protected]
,
[email protected]
,
[email protected]
.
Oh
. Grayson had logged onto his email a few days prior and I had yet to notice that he was still logged in.

I scrolled up to logout of his account, but before I got the chance, a folder on the sidebar caught my attention. It was the first folder listed and its name was only one word:
Cammie
.

Why did he have a folder with my name on it?

I glanced over my shoulder to check if Grayson was still asleep. He’d turned toward the wall, but when I pulled out my headphones, I could hear his soft snoring.

I turned back to the computer screen and contemplated my next move. I could sign out of his email and proceed to browse Pinterest until my eyes fell out, or I could scroll over and click the folder, just to see what he’d saved. It was probably something sweet.

In the end, my hand made the decision for me. It moved the curser to hover over the folder and my finger clicked once.

I’d expected a few email exchanges between us, maybe ones I’d overlooked during my short time at Cole Designs. Instead, I found myself staring at a list of emails I didn’t recognize. As I scrolled down, pages and pages of emails continued to load. Some of them were dated back to when I was still in college. And then as I continued to scroll, I saw emails dated all the way back to when I was still in high school.

What the hell? Why are these emails categorized under my name?
There wasn’t a single email sent to me or from me.

A cold chill ran down my spine as I scrolled back to the very top of the page. I read the first few email addresses and their subjects. The most recent one had been sent just a few hours earlier.

[email protected]
- “Job for associate architect”

[email protected]
- “Rent for Unit #450”

[email protected]
- “Security System for Unit #450”

[email protected]
- “Summer Internship”

[email protected]
- “Recommendation for Cameron Heart”

I clicked a random email in the center of the page and waited for it load as dread began to take hold of me.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Hey Mike,

I understand that your summer internship program is competitive, but I urge you to reconsider Cameron Heart’s application. She’s more than qualified for the position and she’s a personal family friend.

My firm has a few projects we’re looking to pass on due to our current workload and I think your firm would be a good fit for a lot of these clients.

Let me know if you’re interested in the work, and if you’ll reconsider Cameron Heart for a spot as a summer intern.

Grayson Cole,
FAIA

CEO Cole Designs

Principle Architect

My stomach dropped and my hand shook on top of my mouse as I reread the email again. I thought I’d interpreted it wrong the first time, but there was no doubt about it—Grayson had promised work to a design firm in exchange for my selection as a summer intern. I’d ended up interning with that company for three months before my senior year of college… and apparently I had Grayson to
thank
for that.

Sadly, that email was only the beginning. There were email exchanges between him and my professors, emails between him and my old landlords, emails about an anonymous academic scholarship I’d received throughout my four years in college. He’d even coordinated with the dean of my architecture school, all but promising free design services in exchange for my acceptance into their architecture program. Each email was more incriminating than the last and each one I read made my heart break a little more.

I scoured through them for hours, reading every last one until I couldn’t stomach any more. After reading them, one conclusion was painfully clear: for the last few years, Grayson had effectively played God in my life. I’d been a puppet for him to manipulate however he saw fit. I’d been a doll for him to play with.

I tried to comprehend his reasoning for interfering in my life. I’d had a rough time in high school and hadn’t really found focus until my senior year. At the time, I’d assumed it would take a miracle to get me into the architecture program of my choice… but now I realized it had nothing to do with my talent and everything to do with Grayson pulling strings behind my back.

Every single defining moment I’d lived through in the last five years had been carefully crafted by Grayson. He’d given me unsolicited recommendations, unsolicited scholarships, unsolicited job interviews and internships. He’d even paid for a percentage of my rent in every apartment I’d lived in without me even realizing it.
How? Where the hell had my money gone?

Seeing how much I’d unknowingly depended on Grayson for the last five years felt like someone had just ripped the rug out from beneath me.
As I sat there in the dark, the glow of the computer screen illuminating my face, I realized that I hadn’t earned a single thing my entire adult life. My designs had never been tested. My talent was nothing compared to the strings Grayson had pulled. Five years of work had been rendered worthless in the matter of hours.

Truth be told, it scared the shit out of me to consider what else Grayson had controlled in my life without my knowledge.
Did he read my emails? Did he listen to my phone calls?

Without another thought, I pulled my tennis shoes out of my closet, grabbed my keys and left my apartment. I ran down the stairs as quickly as I could, pushed through the front door, and promptly leaned over and threw up all over some poor shrubs in front of my building.

An older couple walked past me to enter the building and I waved them on as they asked if I needed any help. The last thing I needed was for one more person to help me out. I was sick and tired of being coddled and manipulated. Grayson and Brooklyn wanted to be my heroes, and instead they’d morphed into my worst nightmare.

I wiped my mouth and walked through downtown LA with my arms crossed, my thin t-shirt doing little to protect me from the night chill. I had nowhere to go. Grayson was at my apartment. I had no other family in LA. I’d given up my key to Cole Designs before I’d left the building. I thought briefly of going to a 24-hour coffee shop, but I’d left my wallet in my purse back home.

Without intending to, I walked toward Brooklyn’s condo. It felt like a bit of a copout, to seek refuge in her condo when I was trying desperately to stand on my own two feet, but I reasoned that it was only for one more night.

The bellman, Hank, recognized me and let me in without question, and I rode the elevator up to her luxury condo. I found her spare key hidden under a potted plant beside the door and let myself in. To say that stepping into her condo didn’t feel like home would be a giant lie.

The smell was familiar, and the shoes lingering by the door were ones I’d borrowed dozens of times. I knew where every item of clothing was and where she hid a secret stash of chocolate. The refrigerator was empty since she and Jason were in Montana, so I got myself a glass of water and walked over to her computer desk. I typed in her password and smiled when I saw the picture of us that she kept as her desktop background. I’d put it up as a joke; it was a heinous photo of when we’d tried to put on each other’s makeup with our eyes closed (we get bored late at night).

Seeing her smiling face made me long to call her and tell her everything I’d found on Grayson’s email. I wanted her to erase the day I’d had, to whisk me away to Montana where I could forget all my troubles.

Instead, I pulled up
Expedia.com
and opened the top drawer of her desk—the one where I’d stuffed a note with my credit card information years earlier in an effort to make online shopping even easier. When the website was done loading, I looked up flights from Los Angeles to Paris. I clicked on the cheapest flight that departed the very next day and reserved my spot.

It was finally time to learn if I could make it on my own.

Chapter Thirty

When I arrived home the next morning,
I
pressed my ear to the door and slid my key into the lock. I had exactly two hours until I planned to be at the airport for my flight. Since I’d be traveling internationally, I wanted to get there extra early so that I’d have plenty of time to make it through security and find the correct gate.

My apartment seemed to be empty; I couldn’t hear a thing from outside, so I took a deep breath and pushed the door open. The living room looked exactly as it had before I’d left. I checked Hannah’s room first. Her door stood ajar, clothes strewn about everywhere. I figured she hadn’t come home at all.
Smart girl.
I still wanted to rip her hair out.

I turned to my room next and that’s when I heard a low groan followed by Grayson’s sharp voice.

“I don’t care what you have to do. I’m telling you she’s missing and we shouldn’t have to wait 12 hours before we start searching—”

Dammit
. I flew through my bedroom door before Grayson requested sending the entire National Guard out looking for me.

“I’m not missing!” I yelled. Grayson turned to me with a face clouded in anger. He was standing in his boxers, bloodshot eyes hidden behind hard features. His dark hair stood in every direction and I wasn’t sure if he was about to kiss me or strangle me. I’d say it was an even 50/50 for either option, so I stayed exactly where I was.

“Jim, never mind. She’s here. Thanks,” he said before tossing his phone onto my bed. He used too much force and the phone rolled off and thumped to the ground. He didn’t move to grab it; instead he stared straight at me.

I held my hands up in defense. “Before you even start, just get out of my apartment.”

My words wounded him. He flinched and took a step back, clearly confused.

“Where have you been? You look like you haven’t slept at all,” he said, scanning over me.

I crossed my arms. “I
didn’t
sleep at all. I walked to Brooklyn’s apartment and purchased a one-way ticket to Paris. But, wait,” I said, with sarcasm starting to ooze out of every pore. “You probably already know that!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he asked, taking two steps toward me.

“Stop,” I warned, holding out my hand again.

He raked his hands through his hair and bit down hard on his lip as if trying to keep it together.

“I’m leaving for Paris today. It’s been my plan for a while. I just didn’t tell you about it.”

His eyes widened in disbelief. “Paris? What in the world? You didn’t think that was something you should have told me?”

I laughed and turned to retrieve the travel backpack I’d purchased a few weeks earlier from beneath my bed. If I organized everything perfectly, I could fit everything I needed inside of it.

“Cammie, god dammit. You’re being crazy. You need to slow down and talk to me,” he said, reaching to pull the backpack out of my hands. “Where did you go last night and what’s all this about Paris?"

“No! I don’t owe you a damn thing!” I yelled, tugging the backpack out of his reach. “I saw your email, Grayson!”
There it was
. “You left your account open on my computer and I saw my little folder. All of your ‘Cammie’ emails. I read every single one. You’re a sick son of a bitch.”

He scrunched his face, trying to catch up and decipher my outburst.

“Your folder?”

I was beyond pissed.

“Yes.” I spoke annoyingly slow to drive home my point. “The folder where you saved every single detail of how you’ve meddled in my life. Job interviews, test scores, rent, scholarships—every single thing you manipulated in my life. You are a fucking stalker, Grayson!”

“I’m not a stalker. Calm down,” he protested. His eyes were completely dilated in anger and I knew that there was no going back. This was the fight that would end us. Except it wouldn’t just end us. It would break us down until we were both casualties with nothing left to show but two broken hearts.

“After your parents died,” he began to explain, “Brooklyn asked me to watch out for you. You two had a rocky relationship then, and she felt like you had nobody to count on, so I stepped up and I did what I had to do.”

“Bullshit,” I hissed.  "You did what you
wanted
to do, so you could be some kind of knight in shining armor. Can you even imagine how it feels to find out you've just been a fucking damsel in distress your entire adult life?"

“Tell me,” he asked, stepping closer. “Tell me one thing I did that a devoted friend or big brother or father figure wouldn’t have done! You had nobody, Cammie! Nobody to help you except for your sister.”

“I didn’t ask for your help!” I yelled. “I never asked for a big brother!”

“Because you’re too proud,” he protested, his rage boiling over. “You wouldn’t ask for help unless you were seconds from drowning. And even then, you’d probably resent the life preserver! Fuck.” He gripped his head and bent down, clearly struggling to make sense of the situation.

I gritted my teeth so hard that my jaw ached.

“Please get out of my apartment, Grayson.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” he said, pulling on his jeans as quickly as he could. He turned back to me as he grabbed for his shirt. “I would have shown you the folder soon. I would have explained to you what I’ve done and you’d see my reasons. You’d understand why I stepped in when you had nobody.”

I shrugged, digging my heels into my anger so much so that I couldn’t find any bit of reason in his words.

“Yeah, well,” I shrugged, holding back the flood of tears. “All's forgiven, because now it looks like I still have no one.”

He glared back at me before tugging his shirt over his head. “And whose fault is that? You’re running away to Paris, Cammie. Stay and fight with me. This is nothing. This fight,” he said, pointing between the two of us, “it’s nothing compared to how I feel for you.”

I turned away from him and my gaze found its way to my black computer screen. If I turned it on, his email would pop up. I’d be confronted by the overwhelming proof that he’d overstepped his place in my life time and time again. Maybe he would have told me about the folder, but maybe he would have kept it a secret forever.

“I need to pack,” I whispered, unable to look back to him.

He growled, grabbed for his phone on my floor, and slammed my bedroom door shut on his way out. I squeezed my eyes closed until I heard my apartment door close and then I waited and wondered if he was truly gone—if that fight had been the end of us. In the romanticized version of my life, Grayson would have stormed back in and forced me to talk to him. But ten minutes later, when the apartment was as silent as when I’d first returned that morning, I began to pack up my things.

The plan was still on. I was going to Paris.