Page 42 of Second Quarter Comeback
I knock, and the door swings open almost immediately. Not to Camille, but to Ben—the orange fluff ball who apparently owns this place and just lets her live here. Benedict strides past me with his tail held high in what can only be described as smug disdain. He pauses mid-strut to glare at me, then continues, his tiny feet clicking against the hardwood like he’s personally offended by my presence.
“I swear he loved me the day I rescued him,” I say as I step inside. “Now? I think he plots my downfall while I’m at the balcony relaxing.”
Camille closes the door, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “He doesn’t like just anyone new. Don’t take it personally. Benedict is . . . selective.”
“Selective?” I glance over my shoulder at the cat, who has perched himself on the arm of the couch, glaring at me like I’ve interrupted his evening plans. “That’s a polite way of saying he’s a tyrant.”
Her laugh is soft, guarded, but she doesn’t say anything.
I take in her penthouse as I enter. It’s nothing likemine—mine’s all sleek whites and cool grays, like a showroom that doesn’t know what a soul is. Hers has warmth—soft greens, deep blues, and accents of yellow and coral that make the space feel alive. A throw blanket is draped across the couch, and a bookshelf, crammed with paperbacks and framed photos. She’s only been here a short while, but it already feels lived in. Like her.
“Nice place,” I say, trying not to sound like I’ve just compared it to my soulless museum of an apartment.
“Thanks.” She moves to stand near the couch, arms crossed, her posture guarded. Her expression is unreadable, but I can feel the distance she’s trying to create.
I follow, stopping a few steps away. Before I can speak, she breaks the silence. “Why did you have to tell me about the ring?” she asks. There’s no preamble, no more small talk.
“It felt like the only way to show you how much you meant to me. That you were my everything,” I say, forcing myself to hold her gaze. “It’s a symbol. And maybe I got it wrong. Maybe I’ve been holding onto something that’s ancient history for you. But I had to try. I owed it to us—to the kids we were when I made the dumbest decision of my life.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, her head tilting in that way she does when she’s about to dissect every word you’ve said. “You keep talking about those kids, Killion. But I’m not eighteen anymore. The twenty-one-year-old goofy guy I met is now . . . a celebrity thatI bet almost no one knows. So, who are you now? Because I’m not interested in being someone’s nostalgia project.”
Her words hit harder than I expected, and for a moment, I’m scrambling for how to respond. “I’m not looking for nostalgia, Cam,” I say, stepping closer, my voice quieter. “I’m here for the woman standing in front of me. The one who built a life, who lives with tyrannical cats, who still rolls her eyes the same way she did fourteen years ago when I try to impress her.”
“I’m not staying,” she says, her voice firm, but there’s something in her tone—something that doesn’t sound as certain as her words.
“No one’s asking you to uproot your life,” I say gently. “I just want a chance. To get to know you. To show you who I’ve become. I’m not the same guy who walked away, Camille. But my soul . . . well, my soul never forgot you. That part of me that still loves your essence? That hasn’t changed. You’ll always be a part of me, even if we . . . even if I have to live the rest of my life without you.”
Her arms stay crossed, but there’s a flicker of something in her expression—a hesitation, a softness that wasn’t there a moment ago. For a second, I think I might’ve broken through.
“That’s a lot of words,” she finally says, her voice dry, “for someone who doesn’t even know if he’s staying past five minutes.”
“Give me ten at least,” I plead, letting a small smiletug at my lips. “I’ll leave if you want me to. But if you let me stay, I’ll do everything I can to prove I deserve it.”
Her gaze softens, just enough to make me feel like I’m standing on the edge of something that could change everything. “You’re not making this easy, you know,” she says, her tone quieter now, almost resigned.
“I’m not trying to,” I reply, taking a careful step closer. “Easy never got me anything worth having.”
Her lips press into a line, but there’s no real resistance in her expression anymore. It’s like she’s weighing the possibility of letting me stay, even for a little while. Then, the faint buzz of her phone on the table breaks the moment. She glances at it, frowning when she sees the screen light up.
“It’s my mom,” she says, grabbing the phone and stepping back instinctively, like she’s bracing herself for the call.
“I’ll give you a minute,” I say, backing toward the door. “Take your time.”
She hesitates, her eyes flicking to me briefly before answering. “Hi, Mom,” she says, her voice shifting to something softer, a little more guarded.
I don’t catch much after that. I step out into the hallway, closing the door gently behind me, but my mind is already racing. Her mom’s timing might’ve cut our conversation short, but now I have a plan. I saw it in her eyes, felt it in the way her words softened. She’s starting to let me in.
Now, I just have to prove to her that she’s worth every battle, every relentless drive to remind her that we still matter. And I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge. This is my second-quarter comeback—a chance to turn the game around and fight for the win that matters most: us.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Camille
How to Rewrite the Rules
I watch Killion leave, the door closing behind him, the sound of the door being too loud or . . . maybe it’s my imagination. It’s as if the universe itself is throwing a dramatic pause for good measure. Ben, lounging on the couch, lets out a loud,judgmental meow. He’s obviously displeased because nothing is about him at the moment. No one has given him attention in the last thirty seconds.
“Who’s there?” Mom asks.
