Page 15 of Trust Me

“It looks safe. I like it here already for you,” my father comments as we round to the trunk.

“And it seems quiet, a nice place for you to focus this year,” my mother chimes in.

Camille comes around the corner, her long legs carrying her gracefully over to us. I swear Camille is the only person who can wear sweatpants and make them look cute. She paired them with a white crop top and white sneakers. Her almost champagne-blonde hair is tied into a ponytail, her hair swaying with each step.

She has this poise about her, something I can’t quite put my finger on. My thoughts quickly dissipate when she introduces herself to my parents.

“Hello, Park family, it’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Camille.” She smiles widely and brings her hand forward.

That’s exactly how I’d describe Camille if someone asked, always smiling. She is bubbly, adventurous, and so sweet.

“It’s nice to meet you, Camille. Thanks for letting Jasmine stay with you,” my father says, shaking her hand.

“The pleasure is all mine. We’re going to have a blas—” she starts but stops once she sees my eyebrows meet my hairline. “A blast keeping each other motivated to study and focus this year since we’re in the same classes.” She adjusted her words almost too well.

“That’s great to hear. Make sure you girls have some fun too. It’s your last year, so enjoy it when you can,” my father says, shocking me a bit.

I know he’s the more relaxed one among my parents, but still.

My mother approaches her next, her finger dabbing her chin as she thinks. “You look very familiar. Where are you from, dear?”

Camille sobers at that, her bright smile dimming a bit. “I’m from France.”

Sensing her discomfort, I cut the interaction short before my mother pesters her about elaborating exactly where in France. “It’s pretty chilly. Mind if we unload the boxes so we can bring them up?”

There’s two for my clothes, one for my books and toys, one for my school things, one for my skincare and hair products, and the last has my baking utensils and my favorite chessboard.

The boxes are piled onto a moving cart that Camille brought down so that my parents don’t have to come upstairs and discover that I’m not actually rooming with Camille. No, instead I’m rooming with my father’s protégé turned coworker and friend.

My mother hugs me first, squeezing me into her as she inhales deeply into my hair before pulling back to hold me at arm’s length. “My daughter, you are so beautiful, smart, and driven. Keep your head in the books because this is it—the big year. Get good grades and companies will be begging you to work for them, not the other way around. You’re a Park, and Parks don’t fall short.”

“Thanks, Mom,” is all I say because her words don’t pack the sentimental punch I think she was aiming for.

My father is next, gathering me into a hug, then swaying us back and forth. Pulling back, he smiles at me. “You know where to find me if you need something. Don’t be afraid to call me, okay?”

I nod.

“Be safe, girls,” is his final parting before both of my parents tell me they love me and pull out of the lot, leaving me and Camille on the sidewalk.

“Bon.” Camille claps her hands together. “Let’s get this stuff upstairs. Maybe your new roomie can help us with the boxes.”

I groan, rubbing at my temple with one hand while the other pushes the cart to the front of the building. “We’re strong women. We don’t need him.”

“Agreed, but there’s nothing wrong with a little help from a man.” She winks at me as we enter through the doors.

“Good morning, Ms. Blanchette and Ms. Park,” Colin says, tipping his hat as we push through the revolving doors.

“Oh, no, no, what did we say, Colin?” Camille admonishes him playfully. “Please call me Camille. I beg of you.”

“What she said,” I add, pointing my thumb out toward her.

“Forgive me, it’s a habit of the job,” he apologizes.

“Hmmm, I think I could be swayed by the sprinkle doughnuts that your wife loves to make.” Camille beams, patting her stomach for the full effect.

“That can be arranged. Enjoy your day, girls.” He tips his hat once more as we push the cart through the lobby and to the elevator.

“What floor are you on?” I ask Camille.

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