Page 68 of Off the Edge

“Cam?”

Nothing.

I knelt in front of him, laid my hands on his thighs, and looked up, into his eyes. “Cam, what happened?”

“Saga,” he croaked.

One word.

Saga.

His friend.

And I knew.

Not the committee, not my father. Cam’s friend had likely passed away. His tears suggested as much.

“Cam, I’m so sorry . . .” I reached up and wiped away a fresh tear with my thumb.

“I wasn’t there, Ren.”

I’d never heard him so defeated.

He caught my wrist and placed my hand on his heart. I tried to stand, to get to him, but he slid off the bed instead. He sat on my thighs, and buried himself against my chest, making himself small in my arms. We stayed like that, on the floor, leaning against his bed, Cam tucked into my arms, against my chest. I propped my chin on his head. My breathing matched his.

Doors slammed somewhere in the building.

People walked by outside his door, chatting.

Snow flurried against the window.

I rested my head back against the bed, my legs aching under me. The bags caught my eye. I didn’t want him to leave, but if that was his choice . . .

Saga would not want him to leave. I knew that much.

I hadn’t known Saga well.

We’d met at the converted garage that Saga had turned into a ramshackle dance studio. Stains on the ceiling, boarded-up windows, no air con . . . but the place had buzzed with the love of dance. I’d spent many hours there, training with Cam. Saga probably hadn’t liked me. Most people didn’t. And I suspected he’d known a great deal about Cam and me. He’d been Cam’s confidante, his friend, the safe harbor Cam had needed in the past. Saga may not have liked me, but I’d respected his friendship with Cam.

His death, if that’s what had happened, had clearly rocked Cam to the core.

The Games, the medals, it all seemed trivial on Cam’s apartment floor, with him in my arms. I wanted to do more, to take him away from the pain, but there was no escaping grief.

“I’m sorry . . .” Cam whispered, his voice shot.

He hadn’t spoken since I’d arrived. Except to say his friend’s name.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he croaked, his voice broken.

“It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.” I stroked his hair, then his arm through his shirt fabric. Let him rise and fall with the rhythm of my breathing.

“How did you know?” he whispered, head still down.

“Zoe.”

“Oh.”

More minutes passed, the both of us quiet.