Page 3 of End Game

We barely speak on the ride home. Micah stares out his window. I watch streetlights slide across the glass and replay Ben’s hand around Cami’s arm despite every attempt not to.

By the third red light, I’ve constructed four different versions of the conversation I should have had with him.

By the fifth, I’m forcing myself to stop.

But when we get home, Cami isn’t there.

Cameron

I don't go home—I can't.

I pull over instead and do the next best thing—reach out. I message StillStanding from the forums—someone who actually gets this life without needing a glossary. She's been through her own shit too, and right now I just need a woman who understands without trying to fix me.

She answers almost immediately. We make plans. We exchange real names and phone numbers. No overthinking.

I'm halfway through my first drink when my phone lights up.

StillStanding

Hey - this is Alexis

Parking was a nightmare

I'm so sorry - I'll be there in a minute

Some of the tension eases, and I let out a long breath.

Cami

No worries, I'm here

When she walks in and heads toward me, I immediately feel like a muddy mutt of a puppy someone dropped into a pen with an adorable, freshly groomed golden retriever.

Alexis is gorgeous—like unfairly so.

Meanwhile, I’ve been crying. My mascara is probably staging a coup, my nose won’t stop running, and I’m pretty sure blotchy isn’t anyone’s best color.

Her light brown hair looks professionally maintained—or at least expensive enough that I don’t want to know what she spends on it. Her makeup is flawless against sun-kissed skin, and I’d known she was an athlete, but apparently I’d failed to translate that information into built like one.

Still, when she finds me at the table, she greets me with a warm smile and a hug.

“I’m so sorry you had to wait for me,” she slides into the booth across from me.

“Probably the least of my worries right now.” I manage something vaguely smile-shaped.

“So what’s up?” she asks like we’re old friends instead of two women who learned each other’s real names less than an hour ago.

Weirdly, it doesn’t feel that far off.

I swallow around the knot in my throat and tell her what happened in the garage.

She listens without interrupting except to clarify a point here or there; her expression tightens in all the right places. No minimizing. No maybe he didn’t mean it that way. No attempt to turn it into something I should have handled differently.

Mostly, she just lets me be pissed.

When I finish, she says, “Unfortunately, that experience is not unique to you or to Ronan’s brother.”

“Seriously?”