I chuckle. “That’s my whole brand.”
Beneath the banter lies a truth I don’t need to say aloud: with Cami, I’m not rewritten, not revised, not redrafted.
I’m simply…me.
CHAPTER 27
Cami
Paxton: What do you mean you’re at a hospital in VERMONT?
Blinking at my phone screen, I re-read the all caps and remind myself this is how my best friend texts when he’s panicked and fully dramatic.
Paxton: I don’t text for a few days, and suddenly you’re a repeat customer?? In another state??
I shake my head, smiling despite the antiseptic air and the hum of waiting-room fluorescent lights overhead.
Paxton: Honey, please tell me you’re simply running around collecting patient bracelets like souvenirs.
A quiet laugh escapes me, catching in my throat as I take in his string of messages. Leave it to Paxton to turn concern into a full-on comedic skit.
Staring down at my phone, I thumb my reply.
Me: Knox’s grandpa fell. We drove up this morning. He’s with his mom, grandma, and grandpa right now.
After hitting send, I breathe in the familiar, cedar-laced trace of Knox’s cologne woven into the jacket draped over my shoulders—a scent that feels a little too much like home.
Three dots bounce. Stop. Bounce again.
Paxton: Wait. Back the eff up. You DROVE to Vermont with Mr. Situationship?
Paxton: As in road snacks, Starbies stops, and gas station pee breaks?
Paxton: Hope his grandpa is okay.
Paxton: GIRL. You’re wandering dangerously close to “meeting-the-family” territory.
Paxton: When. Is. The. Wedding?
I roll my eyes at his last message. Only Paxton would spiral from zero to vows in under a minute. But dangerously close might be underselling it.
Knox had his hand in mine for most of the drive, which would’ve been fine if my heart hadn’t acted like we’d just eloped. And don’t even get me started on how he opened up.
Me: Stop. It’s not like that. He needed support. I came. That’s all.
I hit send, my nose growing faster than Pinocchio’s, because maybe itislike that.Maybe even more.
Paxton: Since you’re already at the hospital, might as well tell them to admit you for chronic, delulu-level denial.
Me: Ha-ha-ha.
My gaze lifts toward the hallway, where Knox’s conversation with hospital staff drifts from the nurses’ station, threaded with concern. And even though the bouncing bubbles tell me my unruly bestie’s typing again, I fire off another text.
Me: Gotta run. Knox is headed back over to me. I’ll check in later.
I lock my phone screen just as Knox rounds the corner. His shoulders look heavier than they did an hour ago, posture pulled tight like he’s holding himself together through muscle memory alone.
He spots me and tries for a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
