Page 41 of Second Quarter Comeback
Killion: Would you have come with me?
Camille: No what-ifs, Killion. I’m not going there. I’m pissed and the worst part is that all my friends are busy and no one can take my call.
Killion: What is more important than their friends?
Camille: Their families, jobs, spouses. They have lives and they’re all the way on the West Coast so no way to get their attention.
Killion: I have some wine if you want to talk.
Camille: Have you ever come close to . . .?
Killion: To?
Camille: Nevermind.
Killion: What can I do for you?
Camille: If I were into physical violence I would ask you to let me use you as a punching bag.
Killion: Ouch. Not sure if my insurance covers angry ex-girlfriend.
Camille: I wouldn’t break your arm. How much is that insured for?
Killion: I can’t tell you, and next year when I sign again, they’ll be adding a bigger policy.
Camille: When are you retiring?
Killion: I have at least five more years. I’m still in good form.
Camille: What if you find someone, fall in love and marry? Wouldyou retire for her?
Killion: Do you want me to retire for you? I’ll do it. If that’s what gives me my second chance I’d tell my agent right now. Fuck the season.
Camille: I don’t know how to take that last statement. But I would never make anyone choose between their future and mine.
Killion: So maybe you get it. I didn’t want you to have to choose or mess up your future.
Camille: Okay, you want to go down that road . . . What if I had been given a choice? What if we had decided to break up—mutually? Not saying: you get it, right? Because I didn’t fucking get it.
Killion: I’m sorry.
Camille: I honestly don’t know what to do with this information. Why would you even tell me?
Killion: Can we talk in person?
Camille: Let me finish my dinner and shower. I’ll text you.
Killion: Thank you.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Killion
The Comeback Plan
I walk out the door and head toward Camille’s penthouse, my breath unsteady, like my body’s trying to stage an intervention. Her door is just a few feet away, but it feels like I’m crossing a minefield instead of a hallway. I’ve spent all morningconvincing myself this is a good idea—win her back, Killion, don’t overthink it. But when she texted two minutes ago saying I could come in, I went full-blown panic mode. What if this is a colossal mistake? What if she finally says,Screw you, don’t ever speak to me again?
Now, staring at the sleek number on her door, all my carefully rehearsed words scatter like confetti in the wind.
