Page 67

My phone buzzed thirty seconds later.

A like on my story from @camrusso.

Then, a text message.

Cam

Thank you for hearing me out. I meant what I said. I'll do better. I promise I'll take care of myself. And Harper? Thank you for not giving up on me.

I stared at the message for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.

She's attracted to me.

The thought sent heat through my entire body.

Finally typed back:

Harper

Don't make me regret giving you another chance, Captain. And seriously, go sleep. You looked like death.

Cam

I will. Thank you.

Harper

Stop thanking me. It's weird.

Cam

Noted.

I set my phone down, tried to focus on Mrs. Rahman's claim, and failed spectacularly.

Because somewhere between the waterfront and my building, between Cam's tears and her hand on my waist, between her raw apology and her admission that she wanted me—an awareness had shifted.

I wasn't ready to forgive her. Wasn't ready for whatever this was between us. But I was willing to try.

And that felt like progress.

Complicated, messy, she's-attracted-to-me-and-cried-about-hurting-me-and-I-don't-know-what-to-do-with-that-information progress.

But progress nonetheless.

10

That Escalated Quickly

Cam

Basketball had always made sense to me in ways that people didn't.

The geometry of the court, the physics of trajectory and spin, the calculus of reading defenses and exploiting weaknesses—all of it followed predictable patterns. Ball goes in basket, team scores points, points accumulate toward victory. Clean. Logical. Controllable.

People were chaos.

I stood at the free-throw line in the third quarter, the arena noise fading to white static the way it always did when I found my focus. Dribble once, twice, three times. Bend knees, elbow in, follow through.