The Games We Play - Chapter 32: Chapter 32

The red minivan hums steadily along the highway, the familiar Arizona landscape stretching out around us—dry desert and distant mountains.
It's funny how quickly I slip back into the rhythm of being home. Even the little things, like the way the car smells like pine-scented air freshener and the faint hint of my dad's coffee, feel comforting.
Which is needed, considering I'm already missing Wes.
I'm a weak, weak woman.
This morning had happened all too quickly.
Dinner had been an every-man-and-woman-for-themselves kind of situation when Clay came back to the house, both arms balancing multiple boxes of pizza. Clay and I were on Team Pineapple, while Rome and Wes shook their heads like we had just slaughtered a child.
We all ate on the sectional while watching replays of NFL games from the Friday before. The boys critiqued and chatted about the plays on screen while I sat cross-legged on the floor, my laptop on the industrial coffee table as I worked on some last-minute things for class.
Every now and then, I'd look up and find Wes watching me instead of the TV, and the way he still manages to make my stomach backflip just with his gaze is insane. Illegal, actually.
Lock this man up.
Rome had passed out on the sofa with a half-eaten slice of pizza on his chest, Clay had gone to pick up Scar from her late-night lab, and Wes eventually leaned over to shut my laptop and carried me into his bedroom.
We didn't fuck, we didn't take it to pound town, there was no wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am at all.
We made love.
It was slow, soft, and so goddamn beautiful.
Wes didn't rush. He didn't devour. He worshipped.
His hands weren't greedy, weren't desperate. They were steady and patient, sliding over my skin with reverence, mapping every inch like he was committing me to memory. Like he needed to.
And his eyes.
Jesus.
That stupid, stupid blue.
Stormy and endless, locked onto mine with something raw and unguarded—something that made my breath catch and my fingers tighten in his hair. He kissed me like I was the only thing in the world, like he had all the time in the universe to just be with me.
Wes whispered against my skin, soft things, beautiful things—things that made my heart stutter and my throat close up.
"You're so fucking beautiful, baby."
"Let me take my time with you."
"Wanna feel you. Wanna memorize you."
And he did.
And then, softer—so soft I almost missed it—
"I don't wanna let you go."
I felt those words.
Like they'd carved themselves into my ribs.
Like they'd never leave me.
The next morning came way too early.
My alarm had gone off before the sun was even up, and I found out how damn adorable Wes can be when he's groggy. He pulled himself out of bed and got dressed, but he ended up putting his hoodie on backward and inside out because his eyes were closed the entire time.
I'd packed all my bags the day before, but they were at my apartment, so we had to swing by on the way to the airport. Scarlett, of course, was up, wrapped in her robe, and I caught a glimpse of Clay passed out on her bed on the way to my room.
I didn't mention it to Scar, and we just hugged each other for a long time.
It was always sad leaving Scarlett, especially around the holidays. She'd come home with me for Thanksgiving last year but decided to stay in Charlotte this year.
She doesn't talk about her family that often—only that she'd rather be waterboarded than be in another room with them again.
But at least she had Clay this year. I'll always be thankful for him for that.
Wes then drove me to the airport, his hand on mine the entire way there, not wanting to let go.
Saying goodbye was harder than I'd expected. We stood outside the terminal, his arms wrapped around me, holding me close like if he let go for even a second, I'd disappear. He didn't want me to go. I didn't want to go either.
We were finally together, and I was leaving.
Wes was right—even though it's only for five days, it feels like for-fucking-ever.
He texted me the second my plane touched down in Phoenix, the message popping up on my phone as soon as I had Wi-Fi again: "Miss you, baby. Counting the days."
I think the way I was smiling like crazy made the old lady next to me think I had a bomb on me.
She booked it for the door the second the air hostesses said we could disembark.
My parents were waiting for me at the arrival terminal, my mom holding up a huge, bedazzled sign with my name on it. She crafts a new one every time I come home—each one more sparkly and colorful than the last.
Dad loaded my bags into the back, and we were soon off on the two-hour journey back to my hometown.
Mom instantly launched into telling me all the plans for Thanksgiving.
"...Your Aunt Trixie's bringing the mashed potatoes—and yes, she still puts too much garlic in them. I told her last year, but you know how she is—stubborn as a mule." Mom shakes her head at her stepsister, the turquoise bangles on her wrists clattering as she moves her hands animatedly.
"Mhmm." I nod, folding one leg over the other, trying to get more comfortable in the leather seat.
Mom continues, "Uncle Jerry's bringing some Nordic mush, which I might have to store in the refrigerator in the garage."
"That one doesn't work."
"Oh, I know." Mom nods as I glance at Dad's eyes in the rearview mirror. He's glancing back at me, clearly used to this for weeks now. "He's just bringing it so his child bride feels comfortable."
"Mom, you can't say that," I groan, slapping a hand over my face. "You do know Ingrid is older than me, right?"
"By three years!" Mom holds up the same number on her fingers before swiping her hand through the air. "And I betshe'll bring her own snacks this year. Did you hear what she called my casserole last year? 'Too indulgent.' Too indulgent, Cameron!"
I snort, pressing a hand over my mouth. "Oh no. The horror."
"It was a low-fat green bean casserole!" Mom protests. "I practically starved it of flavor for her sake!"
Dad grins at me in the rearview mirror. "Let her vent, Cammie. You know this is her Super Bowl."
"True. Thanksgiving would be a mess without her," I add, looking at Mom.
"You're damn right it would," she says, straightening in her seat. "You amateurs think these things just come together on their own? The array of perfectly served food, the cocktail bar fully stocked, the parade chairs all being in the perfect spot? No, ma'am. That's all Kirby."
I hold up my hands in surrender. "Don't worry, Mom. I'll be there bright and early to help. I've already made peace with the food coma I'll be in by mid-afternoon."
"Good," she says with a nod, like I've passed some kind of test. "And you're still handling the pumpkin pie, right? Homemade crust?"
"Of course. I already bought the pie weights and everything."
"Pie weights?" Dad asks, raising an eyebrow.
"They're these little ceramic things that—"
"I don't need to know," he cuts me off, grinning. "You're already miles ahead of me in the kitchen."
Mom hums in approval. "I'm glad you're prepared. Last year's store-bought pies were a crime against humanity."
I laugh. "Mom, it wasn't that bad."
"Cameron Mae Cole, my bowels are still recovering," she says, dropping into the mock-stern tone she uses whenever she wants to make a point.
"Okay, okay," I say, holding up my hands. "Pumpkin pie is covered. I promise."
Satisfied, Mom leans back in her seat, and the conversation shifts to tomorrow's parade.
"Brynn and Ellie are already planning their outfits," Mom says, smiling at the mention of my younger cousins. "You know how they are—matching scarves, matching hats, the whole nine yards."
"I bet they're already on the air mattress in my room, scheming away," I say.
"Oh, they are," Dad confirms. "They were giggling when we left. Something about sparkly socks?"
I laugh, shaking my head as I turn and stare out the window.
I love Thanksgiving. Love it.
The food, the noise, the sheer, unfiltered insanity of cramming over a dozen people with big personalities into one house for three straight days. It's messy and loud and unpredictable, and it's home.
There's the food drive tomorrow morning, a tradition Mom started volunteering for when I was a kid, and now she runs the whole thing with military precision. I can already picture her barking orders while Dad tries to sneak cookies from the dessert table.
The Thanksgiving parade is next on the agenda—another tradition Mom refuses to compromise on. Dad has apparently already pulled the collapsible chairs out of the garage, and they've scouted locations, circling multiple areas on the map of where we'll all be sitting.
These next few days will be exactly what I need, and the endless chaos will no doubt keep me distracted from thinking about Wes. I'll be back in his big arms before I know it.
☆☆☆☆
Just as predicted, Thanksgiving at the Coles' is an absolute shitshow.
But in the best way possible.
The kitchen is a war zone of clattering pots, yelling relatives, and enough food to feed a small army. Mom has commandeered the stove, barking orders like a tiny, fiery drill sergeant in her custom "Grateful AF" apron.
Dad is in charge of the turkey, which means he spends most of his time peeking into the oven and frowning, muttering about basting schedules like the bird will turn to coal if he misses a step.
The man is sweating, and it sure isn't from the oven heat.
And me? I'm on mashed potato duty because Aunt Trixie brought her garlic-bomb potatoes, and everyone knows we need a backup plan.
"Cameron!" Mom calls from across the kitchen. "Did you peel all the potatoes?"
I wave the peeler in the air, brandishing it like a sword. "Mom, I've been peeling for thirty minutes. My hands are prunier than a damn senior water aerobics class. Ain't no potato skins getting in here."
"Ain't?"
"What?"
"Oh, nothing—just never heard you sound so Southern before," Mom says with a knowing smirk, and I freeze.
I hadn't realized it before but—shit, I'm starting to sound like Wes.
His little Southern lilts and sayings and horrible grammar are starting to rub off on me, and I hadn't even noticed.
Well, I'll be damned...
Mom claps her hands together. "Well—keep it going, sweetie. We need at least two more pots."
Two more pots. Was she feeding the entire state of Arizona?
"Brynn!" I yell toward the living room, where the sounds of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade drift in. "Ellie! Get in here and help me peel!"
"No way!" Brynn shouts back. "I'm on float patrol!"
Ellie chimes in. "And I'm supervising!"
I groan, rolling my eyes as I return to my mountain of spuds.
"Of course they are," I mutter, mutinously slicing into another potato.
Just then, Uncle Jerry strolls into the kitchen, carrying his infamous bowl of Nordic mush. It jiggles ominously with every step he takes.
"Don't even think about it," Mom says, pointing her spoon at him like a weapon.
"It's traditional! Ingrid made it!" Jerry argues, his voice so earnest it almost makes me feel bad. Almost.
"Put it in the garage fridge!" Mom snaps.
I give him a supportive smile. "It'll keep it nice and cool, Uncle J."
Jerry sighs dramatically but obeys, carrying his culinary abomination back toward the garage.
The rest of the house is no better.
People move in and out of the sliding doors. Nana Bea is the only chill one, sitting in Dad's massive leather chair in the den, a knitted blanket on her lap as she watches the parade on the flat screen.
She was driven over by her caretaker from the retirement home—Armand.
He's young, handsome, and French. Naturally, all the men in my family hate him, but all the women love him.
It seems I'm the only one here who has gaydar because that man is so entirely camp.
Beside Nana Bea, Uncle Kenny has turned the volume up on the Thanksgiving Day Parade, narrating every float like he's a professional commentator.
"Now that's craftsmanship," he says, gesturing at the screen. "You see those balloons? That's engineering at its finest."
Outside, Dad is overseeing the table setup in the backyard, his usual air of calm barely holding up under the pressure.
"Donnie!" Mom calls through the screen door. "The turkey better not be dry!"
"It's fine, Kirby!" Dad calls back, though his expression says he isn't quite sure.
The kids have gotten hold of the footballs again, resulting in an impromptu game that quickly devolves into chaos. One of the twins—I'm not even sure which—manages to throw a perfect spiral straight into the snack table, sending chips and dip flying.
"Oh, come on!" Dad groans as he rushes to salvage what he can.
"Sorry, Uncle Donnie!" one of the twins yells, looking more amused than remorseful.
Minutes fly by, as do food, bodies, and bottles of wine.
I'm in the middle of cutting another pan of cornbread when the front door swings open, letting in a gust of cold November air.
My cousin Danny strolls in, his arm slung casually around a petite brunette in a fitted red sweater and skinny jeans. She looks polished and cheerful—the kind of effortlessly put-together that always makes me feel a little disheveled in comparison.
I have to do a double take.
But I know it's her.
Shit.
"Hey, Aunt Kirby!" Danny greets as they stroll into the kitchen, hand wrapped around yet another bottle of Merlot.
"Ah, my sweet Danny boy!" Mom exclaims, throwing her hands in the air as she quickly rounds the table. "Mind the flour on my hands."
She embraces my cousin—older by only a year—and kisses the top of his reddish-brown hair.
Movement, laughter, and talking all blur in the background, but my eyes are trained on the brunette.
It's like the world collapses in, and there's only her.
Mom stands back, eyeing the girl next to him. "Oh. And who's the lovely lady?"
"This is Jenna," Danny says proudly, gesturing toward her. "Been dating for—what—a couple of months now?"
"Yeap. So far, so good." Jenna laughs lightly, wrapping an arm around his back. "Thank you so much for inviting me, Kirby."
Mom swipes a hand through the air. "Oh, don't mention it. We almost threw a party when we heard Danny was bringing a plus-one!"
"Gee, thanks, Aunt Kirbs," Danny mumbles, rolling his eyes.
"Well, Jenna, Danny here will probably introduce you to everyone. But I'm Kirby, as you well know." Mom does a little curtsy with her apron. "My husband, Donnie, is the big guy outside who looks like he's about to faint at any second. And this is my daughter, Cameron."
All three sets of eyes turn to me as Mom gestures with one big arm.
Jenna's blue eyes lock onto mine, and her smile tightens.
Her eyes widen. "Oh my god—Cam?"
"Wait." Danny pauses, flicking a finger between us. "You two know each other?"
My mouth opens to answer, but Jenna's already squealing. "Of course we do! We went to school together."
I feel my entire body tense as she hurries around the kitchen island, arms open.
She wraps me up, pressing me hard against her chest in a tight hug.
"How the hell have you been?" she asks as she steps back. "It feels like forever since senior graduation."
"It sure has been," I say, stabbing a little too hard into the cornbread, sending crumbs flying. "I've been good. Just getting through my junior year at Charlotte."
She clicks her fingers and points. "Oh right—I forgot you went there."
As far away as possible.
"Yep," I say curtly, keeping my tone neutral as I turn my focus back to the cornbread.
The knife in my hand digs a little too deep, scattering more crumbs onto the counter.
Mom, completely oblivious to the tension, claps her hands together. "Well, isn't that nice! Small world, huh?"
"So small," Jenna echoes, her voice sickly sweet.
Danny, bless him, clearly misses the subtext.
"So, uh, what's with the jerseys?" He gestures to the array of navy blue and white Reed jerseys worn by nearly every family member in sight.
"Oh!" Mom's face lights up as she gestures to the name on the back of her own jersey. "My future son-in-law—Cameron's boyfriend, Wesley Reed. He's the quarterback for the Charlotte Colts! We'll be watching him play soon. You lovefootball, don't you, Danny?"
"Hell yeah." Danny beams while glancing at me. "And Reed's a damn good player. He'll be in the NFL Hall of Fame for sure—damn, Cammie, who knew you had it in you?"
Jenna's smile freezes, the corner of her mouth twitching as she glances at me.
"Wow, that's... impressive," she says, her voice a touch too high-pitched. "Good for you, Cameron."
I nod with a small smile. "Uh—yeah—thanks."
Jenna holds up a pie in her hands, the glossy plastic cover gleaming under the kitchen lights, "And we brought dessert! Store-bought, but it's from a really nice bakery."
Mom beams. "Oh, wonderful! Cam, could you put that in the garage fridge for me?"
"Sure," I say, grateful for the excuse to step away.
I take the pie from Jenna, my fingers brushing hers briefly before I turn and make my way toward the garage. The cool air hits me as I open the door and cross the garage, muted light flooding in from the driveway.
I open the fridge, sliding the pie in with the rest of the food Mom had deemed inedible, and close the door. I rest my forehead against the cool metal, and for a moment, I let myself breathe.
Just one second. Just one moment where my head isn't buzzing, where I can let my forehead rest against the cool metal and let the noise of the house filter out.
But, of course, it doesn't last.
Footsteps echo against the garage floor. Slow. Measured. A predator that thinks it's already won.
I turn, my stomach already twisting.
Jenna.
Fucking Jenna.
She stumbles in with a carefully casual smile, all bright teeth and a perfect blowout. "Oh—hi—I was just looking for the bathroom."
I don't even entertain her. "It's down the hall on the left."
I hope she takes the hint. I hope she turns and walks away.
She doesn't.
Jenna hesitates at the door, fingers resting lightly on the frame, her head tilting just slightly as she looks me over. The smile on her lips is thin, but the glint in her eyes is sharp, slicing straight through the years between high school and now like they never even existed.
I feel it immediately.
That sinking, shrinking feeling.
Like I'm back in high school. Like I'm fifteen again, standing in the middle of a crowded hallway while whispers slither through the air and rip my skin to ribbons.
I force my arms over my chest, standing straighter. "Excuse me?"
"It's still impressive how well you lie." Jenna tilts her head, her voice dripping with something that makes my skin itch. "But even to your own family? Everyone in there. I mean, come on, Cam. The quarterback? Really?"
My stomach clenches.
The words hit like a slap.
Not because I care what she thinks. Not because she's right.
But because this is how it always started.
The whispers. The slow, creeping erosion of truth, of me.
I need Scarlett.
I need Wes.
I need—
"I guess it's smart," she continues, stepping deeper into the garage, her confidence growing with every word. "Not like anyone here can fact-check you—not when he's in another state."
"You think I'm lying?"
Jenna shrugs, her smirk deepening. "It's just a pretty big leap, isn't it? From... well, high school to this."
Ah.
There it is.
The same old Jenna, just wrapped up in shiny new packaging.
"I mean, I probably would've believed it," she adds, "had you not pulled the same shit back then." She presses a hand to her chest, all mock concern. "I'm just—I'm recognizing a little pattern here."
The air tightens.
My chest, my throat, my everything tightens.
Please. Scar. Wes. Someone.
Jenna flicks her hair back. "You remember Dylan Carter, right?"
My blood runs cold.
Jenna sees it. Enjoys it.
She smiles. "Football captain? Married to Caitlin now. Two adorable little girls."
I say nothing. I can't.
Jenna hums. "Yeah. And you almost ruined that for them."
My nails bite into my palms.
"Told everyone he drove you home and you two made out in your driveway."
Made out.
Like it had been mutual.
Like he hadn't trapped me in his car. Like he hadn't shoved his tongue down my throat. Like my dad hadn't come outside just in time to stop it from getting worse.
Like I hadn't sat in my room that night, shaking, wondering if maybe, somehow, it had been my fault.
Not all men, but all women, huh?
"Because he did," I say, my voice cold.
Jenna tuts, shaking her head.
"No, no. He didn't." She pouts at me and steps forward. "Oh, honey boo boo—we're learning about recognizing patterns in my psychology classes, and I only wanted to point out—"
I exhale sharply, forcing the memory back, forcing it all back.
But something is cracking inside me.
Not breaking—changing.
Because this time—
This time, I don't want Wes to save me.
I don't need Scarlett to swoop in.
I don't need my friends, because they're already here.
In me.
Their love, their belief, their laughter—it's all in me.
And Wes.
Wes.
His voice in my ear. I've got you, baby.
His eyes, that stupid, stupid blue, looking at me like I built the fucking stars.
No one's coming to save me.
And I don't need them to.
I let out a slow breath, feeling my own shoulders settle.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I snap, ripping my hands from my hair and glaring at her across the garage. "You're actually still spewing the same bullshit you did back in high school."
Jenna flinches, her cheery mask slipping for just a second before she plasters it back on—tighter this time. "I'm just saying, Cam, you've always been... creative with the truth. I'd hate for your own family to turn on you."
I tilt my head. "You'd hate that, would you? Oh—fucking grow up."
Her smile falters, her gaze narrowing. "Jeez—you don't have to get so defensive."
"Oh my god! Shut up!" I laugh in disbelief, pressing my hands to my temples. "Just shut the fuck up, Jenna. It's seriously not that hard."
She gapes at me like a goddamn fish.
I take a step forward, closing the space between us. "Let me tell you what's not going to happen, Jenna. You're not going to walk into my house, eat my family's food, and try to make me feel like I'm still that girl you and your friends fucking ruined."
Her cheeks flush, but I'm not done.
"And while we're clearing the air—Dylan Carter did drive me home, and he did force himself on me. I didn't lie about it then, and I sure as shit am not lying now."
Jenna's eyes widen, and for the first time, she seems at a loss for words.
"But you know what? I'm not that girl anymore. I've got a good life, real friends, and yes, my boyfriend, Wesley Reed." I exhale, shaking my head. "Go ahead and call me a slut, a whore, throw eggs on my car again. But don't you fucking darecall me a liar in my own house."
At his name, her lips part slightly, and I can practically see her calculating.
"So what? I'm just supposed to take you at your word?" she asks, a hint of desperation lacing her voice.
I pause—truly in complete shock that she's still scheming, still just a conniving bitch.
"Y'know what—fine." I smile at her as I slip my phone from the back pocket of my jeans.
Scrolling through my photos, I find the one I'd snapped just a few mornings ago—Wes fast asleep, sprawled across my chest with his arms wrapped securely around my waist.
His face is peaceful, his golden hair tousled, and my freshly painted nails are visible where my hand rests on his shoulder.
Jenna stares at it, her mouth tightening as she tries to mask her surprise.
I pull the phone back, locking the screen with a smirk. "I'd show you more, but I'm pretty sure a picture of me with his massive cock in my mouth isn't very in the Thanksgiving spirit."
Her jaw drops, her cheeks flushing as she gapes at me.
Before she can muster a response, Danny pops his head through the open doorway into the garage. "Hey, there you are. Thought you got lost."
I shake my head. "No, no. Just catching up."
"It's so wild that you two went to high school together." Danny grins as he wraps an arm around his girlfriend and squeezes her. "I'm so looking forward to hearing all the crazy stories about this one."
Both Jenna and I laugh awkwardly.
"Oh, I have plenty." I smile sweetly at the couple, catching the flicker of irritation in Jenna's expression. I flick my fingers at them. "Well, get inside, you two. Mom's needing more hands in the kitchen."
"Just nod and do whatever Kirby says, and you might just survive," Danny tells Jenna as he turns her and guides her back inside.
I stand there in the garage, my smile slowly slipping from my face and landing on the concrete floor with a dull thud.
That felt good to say to her. It did.
It's just—I thought it would be different by now. I thought I would be different.
But I'm still angry, and Jenna is still the girl I think about when I put on a tight top or a short skirt.
And now she's in my house, with my family, and I can't breathe.
I hate being so angry. But I have nowhere to put it.
I feel tears prick at the edges of my eyes, and I quickly wipe them away, forcing myself to calm down.
That felt good. Damn good.
For the first time, I didn't need anyone to come save me.
But that doesn't necessarily mean I didn't want someone.
I wanted Wes. I still want Wes.
But he's probably warming up for kickoff in twenty, so I'll just have to call him back after the game.
He'll be proud of me—I just know it.
And that's all I need.
I stretch a smile back onto my face and head back out into the chaos.