Page 162 of End Game

Cami’s fingers tighten gently around my forearm, and because she knows me too well now, I know she recognizes exactly what changed.

“You okay?” she asks.

“I'm fine.”

She waits without saying anything else.

I sigh. “No. But I will be.”

“Better answer.”

“Micah is rubbing off on you.”

“Micah rubs off on lots of—”

“Cameron.”

Her laugh breaks through some of the pressure gathering in my chest, and Micah groans from the back seat.

I can’t help the smile as I say, “I hate both of you.”

It’s almost enough to make the drive feel normal.

Then my parents’ house comes into view, and Cami goes quiet beside me.

The change isn’t dramatic. Her hand simply stops moving on my arm, but I feel it.

The last time she was here, she left alone in my car after my brother backed her against the refrigerator in the garage and put his hands on her.

My grip tightens on the steering wheel before I consciously tell it not to.

Preparation helps. It does not give you advantage on walking back into a place where someone you love was hurt.

My brain immediately offers the scene again—Ben’s hand around her arm, the expression on her face when I found them, all the places where I should have noticed something sooner.

I stop the loop before it gains momentum.

The facts do not change because I replay them. I cannot retroactively make myself walk into that garage one minute earlier, and I cannot construct some alternate version of the afternoon where Ben made different choices.

What I can control is what happens now.

Cami is here.

Ben is not.

And he will not be anywhere near her while she is here.

Micah reaches one arm over the console, palm up. He doesn’t say anything, and after a moment, Cami threads her fingers through his.

The tension across her shoulders eases enough that I can see it.

I park in the driveway, and we all take a collective breath.

My mother opens the front door before we have a chance to knock and immediately wraps her arms around me.

The instant contact is unexpected, but after three decades my nervous system has had more than enough practice at categorizing Norma affection. I hug her back without needing to think much about it.

“Merry Christmas,” she says against my shoulder before releasing me.