The Games We Play - Chapter 28: Chapter 28

The interior design studio smells like sawdust, glue, and the unmistakable tang of pure exhaustion.
Honestly, if I could bottle this smell, I'd call it Desperation No. 5 and sell it to all those stressed-out overachievers out there because the government knows we'd be too powerful if we had serotonin.
I've been here all weekend—Saturday, Sunday, and now the better part of Monday.
The long wooden drafting tables, with their battle scars of pencil marks and knife nicks, have become my second home, and the industrial fluorescent lights above have started to feel like the sun I never get to see anymore. It's only coffee and glitter gel pen running through these veins, and the bags under my eyes are so bad they're basically suitcases at this point.
But somehow, I'm not drowning anymore. Not entirely, at least.
After Friday's epic failure of a meeting with Lea—where she yanked the floor out from under me while still looking like a Pinterest board come to life—I've been in survival mode.
I know she believes in me. That's the part that stings the most. She expects me to reach that potential. Hell, she wants me to. And she's not wrong. I've been distracted. I've been coasting. I've been... not myself.
And it's not just the portfolio stuff. It's not just the fear of not measuring up or the crushing pressure of knowing only two internships are up for grabs in our entire program.
It's Wes.
I want to blame him. It'd be easier that way. But the truth? It's not his fault. Not even a little.
It's me. I've let him distract me. I've wanted him to distract me. I've let his ridiculous smile and his southern charm worm their way under my skin, and then I've turned around and blamed him when I fell behind. How's that fair?
So, I've made a decision. I'm fixing this. Alone.
No more distractions. No more spiraling. No more thinking about Wes Reed, with his stupid jawline and his big, stupid hands and the way he looks at me like I'm the only person in the world who matters. Nope. No more of that.
I've gone without it for the past twenty years. I can do it for another.
Or maybe like five. Two.
Let's just settle for six months.
I've been in this studio for the better part of three days now, slowly digging myself out of the hole I've fallen into. And for the first time in weeks, it feels like I can breathe again.
The model is done. The renderings are polished. My material board—although still a little rough—is starting to come together. Progress. Actual, tangible progress.
And yet, Wes is still there.
Still living rent-free.
Although not front and center exactly, he's been relocated to the garden shed of my brain like some sort of emotional squatter.
And the worst part is, I don't even know how I feel about it.
Do I miss him? Yeah. Of course, I fucking do. Do I want to talk to him? Definitely.
Do I trust myself to do that without completely losing focus again? Absolutely not.
So, I've thrown myself into this work. I've ignored my phone. I've ignored the ache in my chest that pops up every time his name even crosses my mind.
But ignoring things only works for so long.
At least I'm not alone.
My friends have basically turned into a six-person support squad the second they realized I was spiraling.
Scarlett has gone full mom mode and started cooking for me. I'm not just talking one or two meals—I mean, she meal-prepped my entire week. Grilled chicken, pasta, salad, little notes on the lids like "Don't forget to eat this or I'll stab you."
She even packed my lunches. Like I'm seven and heading off to school with a juice box and a PB&J.
Tasha and Liam, of course, have curated the playlist of all playlists. Five hours of bangers, ranging from indie rock to lo-fi beats to nostalgic throwbacks from when we were kids. It's absurdly good, to the point where I've caught myself bobbing my head while I work more than once.
Jude, on the other hand, has appointed himself the official Snack Queen—in all meanings of the title.
Every couple of hours, he waltzes into the studio with something random—a bag of M&M's, a pack of almonds, once even a slice of chocolate cake—and dumps it on my desk like he's a little gay fairy godmother
Half the time, he comes with a handwritten note from Yasmine or Kiki tucked into the wrapper. "This snack isn't going to fix your problems, but it will keep you from dying of hunger, and that's a start. Eat it, you gremlin."
Underneath, Yasmine has written in smaller, looping cursive: "Also, please hydrate before you turn into one of those dried-up lizards they find in the desert. Love you!"
I don't deserve them.
Any of them.
I mean, who has friends like this? Who has a roommate like Scarlett, who insists on making sure I don't starve, or friends like Yasmine and Kiki, who think to scribble dumb, sweet notes that make me laugh-snort in the middle of a studio full of sleep-deprived students?
They all know what I'm up to. They know I'm not ignoring them on purpose, that I'm not mad or hiding or upset.
They just... know I need this time to get my shit together. And instead of giving me crap about it, they do everything they can to make it easier.
I love them for it.
And at the same time, I feel guilty as hell. Because no matter how much they help, no matter how much support they throw at me, I can't shake the feeling that I'm the one who's messed up. I'm the one who let everything pile up until it nearly buried me. And as much as they want to lift the weight off my shoulders, I can't let them.
This is on me to fix.
That's the promise I've made to myself Friday night when I walked out of the game feeling like I was moments from passing out and puking up all those cheesy fries. No more distractions. No more excuses. No more leaning on anyone but myself.
Wes included.
The soft whir of the laser cutter hums behind me, filling the air with its faint metallic buzz as the machine etches intricate patterns into a sheet of matte acrylic.
The faint smell of burnt material lingers, mingling with the scent of sawdust from the nearby model-building stations.
Someone across the room curses under their breath as they drop a tube of epoxy glue, and the noise of people sanding wood, shuffling papers, and clicking on laptops creates a chaotic symphony that is uniquely studio life.
I'm standing over the large-format printer near the back of the room, its chunky frame dominating the corner like a mechanical beast.
It's one of those ridiculously expensive monsters the university probably took a grant to afford—a printer capable of spitting out oversized, high-resolution renders of interiors, furniture layouts, and floor plans. Currently, it's chugging along at a snail's pace, and I'm leaning over the top, squinting at a test print that has just emerged.
"Your elevations are fine," I say, holding up the print to the light and tilting my head. "But your material callouts are getting lost. Try making the labels a darker gray, or even a muted navy. It'll still look clean, but it won't disappear against the background."
Harper, who's standing beside me with her hands stuffed into her hoodie pockets, sighs heavily. "How do you even see that? I thought the contrast was fine."
"It's a curse," I reply dryly, handing the sheet back to her and tapping the bottom corner. "Also, your alignment is off here. Shift the text box left by, like, a millimeter. Otherwise, Lea's going to spot it and call you out on it. Trust me."
Harper groans. "She's like a hawk."
"She's worse than a hawk. She's... I don't know, an all seeing, all knowing being from another dimension with personal vendetta against bad kerning."
That gets a laugh out of Harper, who takes the print and shuffles off to fix her file. I turn back to the large-format printer, pulling the next set of test renders from the tray and walking them over to my desk.
My station is exactly what you'd expect from someone who's been living in the studio for three days straight—complete and utter chaos.
The massive drafting table is covered in a minefield of tools: metal rulers, triangles, and French curves are scattered across one side, while stacks of tracing paper sit precariously on the other. My material board is propped up against a wall, half-covered in fabric swatches, tiny wood veneer samples, and strips of wallpaper.
A stack of foam-core sheets leans against my chair, their edges frayed from endless cutting and sanding, and my laptop is perched on a small side table, its screen filled with the latest version of my rendering file.
My X-Acto knife is stabbed into the cutting mat like a tiny sword, and there's a coffee cup sitting dangerously close to an open container of Mod Podge because that's the only thing bringing me a thrill in my life at the moment.
Across the room, the CNC router rumbles to life—a massive machine housed in a glass-enclosed area, its robotic arm whirring as it begins carving into a slab of MDF board. It sounds like a cross between a vacuum cleaner and a robot dog barking, and it draws the attention of half the studio, who are watching to see if the router will screw up someone's project.
I'm in the middle of flipping through a Pantone color guide, debating the merits of one shade of taupe over another, when my music suddenly cuts off.
The Bluetooth speaker connected to my phone lets out a soft ding, and a ringing sound echoes across the studio.
"Yo, Cam!"
I turn my head in confusion, spotting Rhea near the speaker. She's holding up my phone, which I've left on the corner of my desk, and squinting at the screen.
"It's Golden Boy," she says loudly enough for the whole room to hear.
My stomach drops.
"He's been calling a lot," Rhea continues, glancing at the missed calls on the screen. "Do you want me to answer it? I can tell him to fuck off if he's being a stalker."
"No! Don't!" The words shoot out of my mouth like a firework, but it's already too late.
Rhea swipes to answer, holding the phone up to her ear. "Look right fuckin' here, buddy—"
My knee catches the edge of my chair, and I almost go flying, but somehow, I manage to scramble across the table, scattering fabric swatches, pencils, and God knows what else in my wake.
I launch myself forward without thinking.
I hike a foot up on a chair, sending it spinning out behind me like it's auditioning for a car chase. My arms flail for balance, but my momentum carries me forward until I'm on my hands and knees atop the large table.
The table is a battlefield—swatches, scissors, glue sticks, and a half-full coffee cup all litter the surface like tiny obstacles on an obstacle course—all sent flying as I scramble across the top.
"This whole damn stalker thing is getting real old real fast—"
When she's within reach, I'm snatching the phone from her ear and falling onto my stomach atop the table, my face pressed against the cool surface of the table as I try to catch my breath.
The entire studio goes silent.
Every single person in the room is staring at me.
Okay, so maybe I'm not as ready to talk to Wes as I thought I was.
☆☆☆☆
The rain is coming down in sheets, the soft patter against my window almost lulling me to sleep.
It's dark for a Tuesday afternoon, clouds so thick they've swallowed the sun whole. The apartment smells faintly like garlic bread and the vanilla candle I've left burning in the bathroom.
My damp hair is plastered to the pillow, the ends soaking into my blanket, and I'm lying here like a human burrito—half-covered, legs sticking out, zero dignity.
The universe is finally, finally cutting me some slack.
After three days in the studio inhaling coffee and Jude's weirdly aggressive trail mix offerings, I'm caught up.
I'd shown Lea my portfolio, barely able to look her in the eye as I lay it out on her desk.
My palm were clammy, my heart racing, because even though I've spent three days in the studio trying to dig myself out of the hole I've fallen into, there's still that voice in the back of my head whispering, What if it's not enough?
But when she turned to me, all smiley and proud, and said, "This is incredible, Cam," my heart fell out of my ass.
I sat there blinking like an idiot while she gave me the kind of feedback that could make your soul ascend. And when she was done, she smiled—an actual, real smile—and said, "Now, go home and rest, mon amour. You're giving roadkill."
I didn't argue. She didn't have to tell me twice.
The second I got home, I dove headfirst into an Everything Shower.
And I mean everything.
I turned the water as hot as I can stand it, so hot it sent steam billowing out of the shower like a low-budget sauna.
The sound of the rain outside mixed with the soft hiss of water hitting the tile, and for the first time all day, the world finally slowed down.
I started with my hair. The fancy shampoo—the one that smells like a field of roses and comes in a glass bottle that always makes me nervous to drop—foams up in my hands as I lather twice. It feels indulgent, like I'm washing the past few days out of my life.
The conditioner was next, thick and creamy, and I combed it through my hair with my fingers until it softened into smooth, untangled waves. I let it sit while I moved on to the rest of me.
I scrubbed my skin with a vanilla and brown sugar body polish that smelt like comfort and warmth, the grains dissolving into the water as I worked it over my arms, my legs, every inch of me that needs some extra care.
It felt grounding, like I was exfoliating more than just dead skin—I was sloughing off the weight of deadlines, expectations, and every lingering thought I don't have the energy to deal with yet.
Then I shave until I'm a hairless mole rat everywhere.
By the time I stepped out, the mirror was completely fogged over, the air thick with the scent of vanilla and bergamot, and I was three seconds from passing out and simultaneously puking.
Everything showers are no fucking joke.
My body felt warm, soft, clean in a way that isn't just physical—it's like the water had washed away the stress that's been clinging to me for weeks.
I moisturized my body and applied a rich, creamy clay mask that felt cool against my skin and smelt faintly like cucumbers. I picked out some lacy dark green underwear that sits high on my hips and then throew on a oversized heather gray tee that's basically a dress on me.
Afterward, I heated up one of Scarlett's pre-made meals—pasta salad with grilled chicken, spinach, and sun-dried tomatoes—and toasted a slice of garlic sourdough until it was perfectly golden.
I eat it slowly at the counter, my back like fucking Quasimodo as I replenish my soul, the rain still pattering against the windows, my apartment quiet except for the faint hum of the toaster cooling down.
And then I crawled right into bed for a nap, which of course didn't last long.
Not when Kirby Cole treats Thanksgiving weekend like her own personal Super Bowl.
"So, you'll fly in Wednesday night," Mom is saying, her voice rapid-fire, "and your father will pick you up because I'll still be at the church getting everything ready for Thursday."
"Don't let her fool ya, Cammy," Dad's deep, warm voice cuts in. "She's got both of us signed up for food drive duty too. I'll be hauling tables until midnight."
"You'll survive, big guy," Mom shoots back without missing a beat. "And Cam, sweetie, remember we're putting up an air mattress in your room for your cousins. Brynn and Ellie are dying to see you."
I groan softly, sinking further into the couch. "Mom, they're twelve and nine. They're not going to sleep. They're going to turn my room into an active war zone."
"Oh, stop," she says, brushing me off. "They adore you, Cameron. Besides, it'll be fun! Like a little sleepover."
"Do you remember what happened the last time we had a 'little sleepover' with them?" I ask, arching a brow even though she can't see me. "Ellie tried to give Brynn bangs, and Brynn cried so hard she threw up on my comforter."
Dad's laugh rumbles through the phone. "Yeah, and then Brynn made Ellie sleep in the closet because she was mad at her. Good times."
"Great times," I mutter, rolling my eyes.
"They've matured since then," Mom insists. "Well, a little. And Brynn's been practicing some TikTok dance she wants to show you, so be prepared for that."
"Oh, good," I say dryly. "That'll be so relaxing."
"You'll survive," Mom replies breezily. "Just think of it as training for when you give me lots of grandbabies."
I groan and run a hand down my face. "Mom!"
"You've got this, kiddo," Dad says encouragingly. "And hey, if things get out of hand, just send them into the kitchen. Sergeant Kirby here'll have plenty of chores for them."
Before I can respond, Scarlett's voice rings out from the hallway, loud and clear. "Cam!"
"Hey, I heard that," Mom shoots back at Dad. "And you'll be doing chores right alongside them, mister."
There's a knock at the door. "Cam?"
"Hang on a sec," I say to my parents, pulling the phone away from my ear slightly. "What's up, Scar?"
I roll off my bed and walk toward my door—but Scar's words have me freezing with my hand on the doorknob.
"It's Wes," she calls, her tone quieter now. "He's at the door."
I freeze.
I grip the doorknob tighter as I speak to her through the closed door. "Tell him I'm not home."
"Cameron?" Mom's voice is sharp now, laced with concern and echoing from the phone at my hip. "What's going on?"
I pull the phone back up to my ear.
"Nothing," I say quickly, the lie automatic. "Just Scarlett needing something."
I tread lightly back to my bed and bring up a knee, pressing it into my mattress as I stare at the torrential rain pouring down outside.
"Honey, you sound stressed," Dad says, his tone gentle but probing. "Are you sure everything's okay?"
"Oh, I'm just fine and dandy." I wave a hand through the air. "It's just getting to that time of the semester."
"Just make sure you're eating!" Mom insists over the phone. "And lots of tea. Aunt Trixie has just made a fresh batch of Sencha that she'll bag up for you to take back. And there are no hallucinogenics this time!"
I sigh. "Has it been test—"
The sound of my bedroom door opening cuts me off.
I slowly turn to see Wes standing in the doorway.
Rain clings to his hair and hoodie, droplets sliding down his sleeves as his blue eyes lock onto mine. He's completely drenched.
He doesn't speak, doesn't move, but the quiet intensity in his gaze makes my chest tighten.
"Cameron?" Mom's voice crackles faintly in my ear, but I can't bring myself to respond.
Wes steps inside, his expression unreadable but unmistakably determined, closing the door behind him with a soft click.