Page 97 of Knotted Laces

Ihaveto believe that they can change, can be better.

Because otherwise how can I believe that the strides I’ve made in my own life are long-lasting? How can I believe Cam will see, will understand, will come back to me?

And without that belief, how can I know that I won’t turn out like her?

So, I’ve clung to the ashes of a relationship, desperate to make it make sense, to work, to give me what I need.

For years, I’ve clung to it.

But…I don’t want to any longer.

It can’t be what I need.

I want this time and energy to go elsewhere—to go toward building a life with Cam and making friends like Rory and Chrissy, and helping people who aren’t trying to constantly use and hurt me.

I need to unload this heavy burden.

I need to be done so I can move forward.

So…

I block her number and delete her texts, and I give myself a sliver of peace before I wrap up my work, head home, and spend the late afternoon napping and cuddling with Cookie.

And hoping that Cam comes back to me.

“Meow!” Cookie chirps hours later, making biscuits on my face until I’m awake enough to give him dinner.

“Fine,” I mutter, filling up his bowl and checking his automatic water fountain before heading to the fridge. I should cook something healthy and balanced.

With vegetables.

Instead, I decide on a cinnamon roll, a bag of gummy worms, and two fingers of whisky.

It’s a painful reminder of Cam…and also the thing that sends the last of my patience splintering.

“Why the fuck am I standing here miserable and alone?” I mutter, going for my phone. Enough is enough. I’ll call him,makehim listen.

And if he doesn’t pick up…

Well, then I’ll let myself into his place again andmakehim see reason.

There.Done. Good plan.Break.

Only, I know that neither of those is going to happen the moment my fingers wrap around my phone.

Call it instinct, but I already know who’s calling, even before I flip it over to see the screen.

And…yup. One glimpse of the number there tells me I’m right.

Making Cam see sense tonight is off the table.

Along with that cinnamon roll and the gummy worms and the glass of whisky.

“Phillips,” I say after swiping my finger across the screen to answer the call.

“Rendezvous at the warehouse in forty-five,” Sandra orders, disconnecting before I can reply.

Sighing, I put the cinnamon roll back in the freezer, dump the whisky down the drain, and then gear up, head out, and?—

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