The Games We Play - Chapter 44: Chapter 44
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It has been two days since the Colts Christmas party and I am still horizontal.
Still wrapped in a blanket like a damn human calzone, still puffy-faced and crusty-eyed. And my heart—dead, dead, dead. Do Not Resuscitate. Please wear your sexiest outfit to my funeral.
Create a national holiday for me.
Scarlett is curled up on the other end of the sofa, scrolling through something on her phone while my feet lay in her lap. I have barely moved—except to roll over and cry or to reheat the same sad pasta for the third time.
I know I look pathetic. I feel pathetic.
And the worst fucking part is I could be home with my family. With Mom and Dad and Ellie and Brynn and even Uncle Kenny's deranged hundred-year-old dog because of course he's bringing that to Christmas.
But I'm still here, still in Charlotte, still severely harming my eyesight with all this damn crying.
Wes convinced me to stay weeks ago, when we were chatting about Christmas plans. I mentioned that I'll probably return home for a few days like I always do—but he just looked at me with that gorgeous lazy grin of his and whispered "stay with me."
And because I'm such a fucking idiot, I agreed.
I don't know why I said yes—guess I'm just built different. Like incorrectly.
He said it will feel like Christmas, even without family. That we'll make our own traditions. That the guys' house will be full—full of light, full of food, full of teammates and chaos and warmth.
Full of us.
He said it will only feel like home if I'm there.
And I—fuck, I believed him.
We made plans.
Christmas Eve was suppose to be a team dinner at the house—a yearly sort of thing Clay starts in freshman year for all the players without family. There would be Clay's secret brisket recipe he gets off his Mama, Rome would be in charge of the music, and I was going to bake my nana's cinnamon sugar cookies.
Wes planned to help too—which only meant standing behind me at the kitchen counter with his hands under my shirt whispering in my ear about what he really wanted to eat.
We were supposed to wear ugly sweaters and he was supposed to peel it off me the second we were behind closed doors.
And then Christmas Day was supposed to be quiet. Just the five of us in their house. Wes bought these stupid matching pajamas from some online print store with next-day delivery. We'd do present exchange on the floor in their living room, all crowded around the tree. Laughter. Kisses. The kind of slow, lazy morning that stretches across the entire day.
He'd pull me into his lap, hands warm on my thighs and shoulder as I unwrapped something stupid and sweet. Whispering such dirty things into my ear while everyone else in the room pretended not to hear.
We made plans for after too. A whole day of lounging and sex and leftovers. He promised me he'd make me come during Die Hard. I teased him back, threatening to only moan McClane's name and that idea is wiped off the table in seconds.
For New Year's, Wes booked us a hotel. Some obscenely gorgeous high-rise spot in central Charlotte with a rooftop bar, overpriced champagne, and a velvet headboard he absolutely plans to pin me against. I'd already picked my dress and he'd already picked the suite.
We were going to dance all night. Come back drunk and buzzing. Start the new year with his head between my thighs and a smile on his face. And we'd go into the second semester together. Happy.
And now? Now I'm on the sofa, deep in my little self-pity party and angry and sad and still missing the way he used to kiss me between my shoulder blades like it was habit.
Now I have six perfectly wrapped presents shoved into my closet with Wes's name on them but no one to give them to.
Six.
Because I don't do things by halves. And because I'm a gift-giving psychopath.
I found a near-mint edition of Wes's favorite childhood football comic book on Craigslist—had to meet a guy named Rick in a Burger King parking lot to get it. I picked up a rare vintage Colts jacket I hunted down on eBay for weeks, in perfect condition, his size, from the year the Colts won their first ever championship.
A custom leather-bound notebook for his plays, a dirty joke key chain, and a bunch of just little personal knick-knacks because I literally have no self-control and—apparently now—no fucking self-respect.
I groan into the throw blanket and let my head loll toward Scarlett.
"I should've gone home. I should've gone home and had my mom fuss over my split ends and eaten three thousand cookies and gotten tipsy off boxed sangria. But noooo," I whine. "I stay in Charlotte. I stay for him. Because I'm too busy being dick-notised."
Scar snorts as she looks up from her phone. "It's an epidemic—but hey, you've got me now, baby girl. And I'm thrilled about it. I always spend Christmas alone or drunk and now I can do that with a plus-one."
I smile despite myself. "What about Captain America?"
Scar shrugs. "Eh—I'll see him later. Right now you need me. That's all that matters."
And just like that, I want to cry again. Not from heartbreak, but from the way she says it. Like I'm allowed to take up space. Like someone choosing me doesn't have to mean losing someone else.
Scar has been the Dwayne Johnson's of rocks these past two days—making me eat, brushing out my tangled hair, keeping me upright in the small, invisible ways no one else has ever thought to. While I spiralled and sniffle and mourn a relationship that isn't even a relationship to begin with, she packed,
Boxes are appearing like weeds across our apartment. Flattened cardboard turns into neatly labeled stacks—books, bathroom, kitchen, miscellaneous crap I never want to deal with. Boxes labeled "CAM'S SHIT" scrawled in Sharpie that only make the ache in my chest heavier.
She didn't even make a big deal of it. Just started taping and folding and muttering to herself about bubble wrap while I lay fetal and pathetic.
Because, of course, we have to be out by the end of January.
Because, of course, our apartment building has been bought out to make room for yet another shiny, soulless hotel.
Because, of fucking course, the new hotel belongs to a branch of the evil Reed empire.
Scar found the paperwork buried deep in the city records—some licensing acquisition with Wes's family name hidden like a snake under layers of LLCs and shell companies.
She didn't tell me right away. Waited until I stopped crying for three straight hours and could hold a mug without shaking.
But now I know. And now it just feels like the universe has found yet another creative way to say ha—you thought, dumb whore.
Everywhere I turn, there they are. The Reeds. The empire. The ring.
It's always a game to them. To him.
The apartment is quiet except for the rain ticking soft against the windows. It's cold out, but inside it's warm—dim golden light spilling from the kitchen lamp, the heater humming low, the faint scent of cocoa and clean laundry curling through the air. Cozy, in that way that makes your heartbreak feel cinematic.
Jude and Kiki have been staying with us, crashing in my bed the past few nights like some chaotic little huddle of friendship and codependency. The others all went home for the holidays like smart people full of common sense.
Somehow, the four of us fit—Scar sideways across the pillows, Jude curled like a shrimp, Kiki stealing all the damn blankets. But right now, the apartment is just ours.
Kiki and Jude went out for some last-minute Christmas shopping, braving the cold and the rain like the little festive lunatics they are.
And me?
I'm still on the couch. Mourning a boy who apparently loves me with his whole heart but not with his whole life.
"UGH! I'm so embarrassed!" I say, dragging a pillow over my stomach like it can hold in all the rage. "That's the longest relationship I've ever had. Isn't that the saddest shit you've ever heard?"
Scar doesn't look up, just takes another sip of tea, lips twitching.
"I mean—fuck—I've been closer to death than I've ever been to a stable relationship."
"That's not saying much, babe—you're a bit of a walking hazard."
"But still!" I groan, tossing my arm over my face. "I saw the red flags flapping away in the wind. I did. I'm just apparently fucking color blind. God, I must've looked so stupid. Following him around. Smiling like an idiot. Wearing his damn jersey to games like some delusional team girlfriend when he was—"
I grunt, not wanting to finish the sentence.
Scar chuckles under her breath. "You need a new hobby. Something to distract you. Go buy a vibrator. Start journaling. Take a pottery class and make yourself another mug. Something."
I peek out from under the pillow, deadpan. "I don't need journaling, I need a gun."
"Okay, Godfather, how about we calm down, yeah?" Scarlett scoffs and pats my legs. "I'm thinking that's your empty stomach talking—let's eat and reassess."
There's a knock on the door.
"See?" she says, rising from the couch and smoothing down her hoodie. "Dumplings and ice cream heal all."
"Yeah? Who said that?"
"Pretty sure it was Socrates." Scar grins at me over her shoulder as she heads to the door.
I raise my eyebrows with a slight scoff. "Oh yeah?"
She hums cheekily at me before skipping over to the door, weaving through half-packed boxes, the space feeling emptier than usual. Decorations come down in pieces, little memories peeled from the walls. It all looks halfway erased. Fitting.
Scar swings the door wide.
But it's not the delivery guy.
It's Wes.
And he looks like hell.
In a Colts hoodie speckled with rain and sweats. Hair damp from the rain, face drawn, jaw tight with exhaustion, eyes glassy and rimmed red. Like he hasn't slept. Like he hasn't stopped crying. Like standing there is all he has left in him.
Wes's eyes meet mine across the room. I don't move, my heart falling out of my ass as what feels like an eternity passes between us.
But then Scar's hand grips the edge of the door tighter and she's swinging it back on its hinges until it's only ajar a few inches.
"I need to talk to her," Wes says quietly, his voice so wrecked it barely carries.
"She's not home," Scar says immediately.
"Scar—c'mon—I just saw her."
"She's not home, Wesley."
He glances past her, eyes flicking toward the couch like he can will me to move. "Please. I just need to see her. Just for a second."
Scarlett's tone softens, even as she stands firm. "Wes. You said you'd give her time. This isn't time. And it sure as shit isn't space."
"I'm fuckin' tryin' real hard here," he rasps. "But I—please, Scar, I don't know what to do. I can't sleep. I can't fucking eat. I just need to know if she's okay. I just need to talk to her."
Scar is silent for a long second. And then she says, softer, almost a whisper, "But she doesn't want to talk."
He nods, breathing in slow like it physically hurts. "I know. I know I don't deserve to be here. But I have to try—I'm beggin' here, Scar."
She swallows, glancing back at me for a beat, like she wants me to say something.
I don't.
I just sit there, blank and aching and too small in my own skin.
"Wes," Scar says, almost apologetically, "Not now."
"Then when?"
There's a pause.
"Please." Wes whispers, softly, helplessly, so quiet I almost don't catch it.
"Just... not now, yeah?"
Then she closes the door.
The lock clicks gently into place.
She takes a second before turning, and I hear her sigh out heavily. But when she does turn, there's a forced smile on her face as she brings her phone up to her face.
"Damn—this delivery guy's taking so long. Zero stars. No tip," Scar mumbles, dragging a manicured finger over the screen.
I'm already pulling the blanket over my head.
I don't want her to see me cry again. I don't want to see me cry again.
But she's already moving, already crossing the apartment, already dragging the edge of the blanket down with both hands. "Cam, no—if you go under now I won't fucking see you until February."
"Let me die in peace," I groan. "If only I remembered to die before I told Wes how I felt."
"I'll set a reminder for you next time," Scar huffs as she manages to pry the blanket away from my face and hands. "But for now we're going to eat dumplings and watch shitty Christmas movies and wait for Jude to get back with the weed."
I mumble with a pout, "Wish I could just press a button and magically be high."
"That's the dream, baby." Scar chuckles as she plops herself back down onto the sofa, curling her legs up underneath her and resting an arm on the back.
☆☆☆☆
As the prophets say, if you can't run away from your problems then you're not running fast enough.
And what's faster than a non-stop flight from Charlotte to Phoenix?
I just... I couldn't stay.
Four days of couch grief, near-blanket suffocation, and near-Wes encounters in Charlotte was enough to convince me I was not mentally stable enough to stay.
I couldn't keep having a mini heart attack every time I saw a blonde from behind or a blue RAM truck drive by like some stupid ghost of heartbreak past.
I almost got arrested when I accidentally grabbed an elderly man to hide behind after seeing a blonde guy in Trader Joe's. It wasn't Wes at all—not even close—but that split-second reaction ended with me nearly in cuffs because the old dude claimed I'm trying to jump his decrepit bones.
Scar and I both agreed it was probably better if I came home. So I did.
Because sometimes a girl just needs her mom. And three forms of potatoes.
Rome drove me to the airport. Which was... surprising, honestly. I hadn't expect to hear from him again—given his loyalties to Wes and all. But he showed up in his truck with sweatpants and sunglasses, handed me a coffee, and threw y suitcase in the back of his car.
He didn't say much at first, but halfway through the drive, he cleared his throat and said, "Look—I'm not picking sides. You're my friend too, Cameroonie. And yeah, I want to see my boy happy and getting his shit together... but if walking away is what's right for you? Then you walk away and don't look back. I support it. A hundred percent."
Then he tried to hit on me.
Naturally.
He grinned and said smoothly, "Just sayin', you're single now, and I'm an excellent rebound—with references if needed," which was so peak Rome that it almost makes me feel normal again.
But now?
Now I'm home.
It's late afternoon and the house is still full of people—but finally, blissfully quiet. The kind of hush that follows an absolute war zone of wrapping paper and baked hams and whatever ritual Uncle Kenny starts this year that may or may not involve setting the grill on fire again.
I'm curled up on the living room sofa, half-buried in my mom's giant tartan sherpa throw, a sleeping Ellie stretched across my lap like some tiny, chaos-drained demon child. She passed out after climbing me like a jungle gym and telling me she's going to "hex Wesley's bloodline." I didn't stop her.
In my hands is the newest cowboy romance book from my favorite author—gifted to me by my mom that morning, right after she shoves a mimosa into my hand and yells at Poppa Bill to get off the roof. (He isn't, technically, on the roof. He's leaning out of an upstairs window to see if the neighbors have inflatable reindeer.)
The TV is still on, playing reruns of the Christmas parade. The volume is low, fairy lights illuminating the room, and little Zach spreads out on the floor like he's making snow angels amongst the blankets and pillows.
Dad is still in the kitchen, trying to get a head start on the dishes—which we all know he'll tap out of in a few minutes claiming indigestion.
Poppa Bill snores in the recliner with a tin of cookies on his chest. Granny Anne is passed out in the armchair, wrapped in a shawl she knits herself, and Nana Bea apparently falls asleep upright after too many champagne flutes snuck to her by my younger cousin Carter for a crisp twenty-dollar bill.
Aunt Fallon and Aunt Lou are still somewhere in the house recovering from the wine-fueled verbal brawl over who destroys more Christmas crockery this year, while Uncle Kenny has been banned from both the stove and the outdoor stove after what we're now calling "The Great Turkey Explosion, Round Two."
Brynn locks herself in the bathroom to film TikToks in peace. My teen cousins—Tessa, Hannah, and Isobel—are currently passed out in a cousin pile in the den after trying to race folding chairs down the hallway. (They call it "extreme sleighing." It does not end well.)
Aunt Trixie reads everyone's Christmas horoscopes aloud over lunch and declares I'm in a "soul growth crisis," which feels like a polite way of saying "your love life is garbage and the stars are judging you."
And my mom?
My mom kissed my forehead three times before noon, then tries to send me to bed with a heating pad and a tequila shot after catching me staring too long at the wrapping paper scraps on the floor like they hold the answer to my emotional demise.
I am warm. I am fed. I am surrounded.
But I can't stop thinking about him.
My phone buzzed once earlier, and I didn't even need to check the name. I knew it was him. After threatening to block him, he finally stopped bombarding me with messages. For two whole days—no texts, no calls, no pleading voicemails. I thought maybe he actually listened.
Then, this morning, just one line:
No emoji. No question. Just those three stupid words.
I wanted to throw my phone across the room.
I also couldn't afford to throw my phone across the room.
So I just place it facedown on the side table, press my face into Ellie's hair, and whisper, "How long does this hex take—is it like Amazon with next day delivery?"
She just giggles into my lap.
I close the book, not because I'm not enjoying it, but because the words keep blurring, and my chest feels too tight.
Ellie shifts again, mumbling something about glitter glue and revenge, and I hold her a little closer. She's warm and soft and safe, and it almost makes me cry.
Almost.
It hits me again—quiet and sudden—how tired I am.
Not physically. Not even emotionally, though God knows that tank is running on fumes. But soul-tired. Like something inside me has been wrung out, hung up, and left to dry in the cold.
I don't even notice how bad it is until I walk through the airport.
People move past me with their luggage and their Starbucks and their Christmas sweaters, and I swear I think every single one of them is looking at me. Not in a "Hey, isn't that girl from that thing?" way. In a "Oh, that girl looks like she's just been emotionally run over by a truck" way.
I keep my head down and my hood up and try not to cry in the middle of TSA.
But all I can think about is how empty I feel. How I've given Wes everything—every good thing I have. Every soft part. Every vulnerable piece. My body. My laugh. My secrets. My mornings. My fucking cinnamon roll recipe.
And now?
There's nothing left.
I don't feel like myself. I don't feel like anyone.
I don't even know if I've been worth it to him.
If he really loves me. If I'm just a detour. A fling. A game.
It's always a fucking game for Wesley Reed.
I must zone out because I don't even hear her coming up behind me.
My mom's hands slide gently over my shoulders from behind the couch, warm and sure, and then she presses a kiss to the top of my head like I'm five years old again and have scraped my knee.
I blink up at her.
"Hey, baby," she says softly, smoothing a hand over my hair. "How you doing?"
"I'm fine," I murmur, trying for neutral.
"Mmm." That's all she says. But it's the kind of mmm that translates to you're full of shit but I'm choosing peace today.
She looks over her shoulder and calls out, "Trixie! You around?"
"No," I groan instantly. "No. Mom, I'm not doing an aura steam cleanse in the tub while she yells at my womb."
"That was for Lou and it was extremely effective," Mom tells me while gesturing to Zach, passed out on the floor with chocolate sundae sauce all over his mouth and even some on his forehead.
I eye him for a silent second. "Clearly."
My mom rolls her eyes. "Relax, drama queen. It's not that. But we are taking Trixie up on her suggestion."
"What suggestion?" I ask warily, already sensing doom.
"You'll see. It'll be good for you. Get you out of your head, burn off all that mac and cheese. Think of it as post-holiday catharsis."
"I don't want catharsis," I groan. "I want sleep and mashed potatoes."
But Aunt Trixie is already rounding the corner, practically vibrating with excitement, decked out in velvet leggings, a crescent moon necklace, and an oversized tee that says Trust the Vibes or Leave the Tribe.
She is not my most fashionable aunt.
"She said yes?" she beams.
"She did not say yes," I snap.
"She'll love it," my mom says, ignoring me. "I'll go round up the rest of the girls."
"I swear to God, if this is a moon circle or some shit—"
"It's not," Mom says, already heading for the kitchen. "You won't even have to chant."
"You're not selling this."
"I am selling it," she calls back. "C'mon, Cameron. Mom always knows best."
"We'll fix you, baby girl. Nothing a little feminine energy purge can't handle," Trixie says, winking as she pulls something shiny and ominous from a tote bag that has crystals sewn into the side.
"I want a refund on this bloodline."
"You want dinner tonight?" my mom shouts back.
"...I'll get my shoes."
Still wrapped in a blanket like a damn human calzone, still puffy-faced and crusty-eyed. And my heart—dead, dead, dead. Do Not Resuscitate. Please wear your sexiest outfit to my funeral.
Create a national holiday for me.
Scarlett is curled up on the other end of the sofa, scrolling through something on her phone while my feet lay in her lap. I have barely moved—except to roll over and cry or to reheat the same sad pasta for the third time.
I know I look pathetic. I feel pathetic.
And the worst fucking part is I could be home with my family. With Mom and Dad and Ellie and Brynn and even Uncle Kenny's deranged hundred-year-old dog because of course he's bringing that to Christmas.
But I'm still here, still in Charlotte, still severely harming my eyesight with all this damn crying.
Wes convinced me to stay weeks ago, when we were chatting about Christmas plans. I mentioned that I'll probably return home for a few days like I always do—but he just looked at me with that gorgeous lazy grin of his and whispered "stay with me."
And because I'm such a fucking idiot, I agreed.
I don't know why I said yes—guess I'm just built different. Like incorrectly.
He said it will feel like Christmas, even without family. That we'll make our own traditions. That the guys' house will be full—full of light, full of food, full of teammates and chaos and warmth.
Full of us.
He said it will only feel like home if I'm there.
And I—fuck, I believed him.
We made plans.
Christmas Eve was suppose to be a team dinner at the house—a yearly sort of thing Clay starts in freshman year for all the players without family. There would be Clay's secret brisket recipe he gets off his Mama, Rome would be in charge of the music, and I was going to bake my nana's cinnamon sugar cookies.
Wes planned to help too—which only meant standing behind me at the kitchen counter with his hands under my shirt whispering in my ear about what he really wanted to eat.
We were supposed to wear ugly sweaters and he was supposed to peel it off me the second we were behind closed doors.
And then Christmas Day was supposed to be quiet. Just the five of us in their house. Wes bought these stupid matching pajamas from some online print store with next-day delivery. We'd do present exchange on the floor in their living room, all crowded around the tree. Laughter. Kisses. The kind of slow, lazy morning that stretches across the entire day.
He'd pull me into his lap, hands warm on my thighs and shoulder as I unwrapped something stupid and sweet. Whispering such dirty things into my ear while everyone else in the room pretended not to hear.
We made plans for after too. A whole day of lounging and sex and leftovers. He promised me he'd make me come during Die Hard. I teased him back, threatening to only moan McClane's name and that idea is wiped off the table in seconds.
For New Year's, Wes booked us a hotel. Some obscenely gorgeous high-rise spot in central Charlotte with a rooftop bar, overpriced champagne, and a velvet headboard he absolutely plans to pin me against. I'd already picked my dress and he'd already picked the suite.
We were going to dance all night. Come back drunk and buzzing. Start the new year with his head between my thighs and a smile on his face. And we'd go into the second semester together. Happy.
And now? Now I'm on the sofa, deep in my little self-pity party and angry and sad and still missing the way he used to kiss me between my shoulder blades like it was habit.
Now I have six perfectly wrapped presents shoved into my closet with Wes's name on them but no one to give them to.
Six.
Because I don't do things by halves. And because I'm a gift-giving psychopath.
I found a near-mint edition of Wes's favorite childhood football comic book on Craigslist—had to meet a guy named Rick in a Burger King parking lot to get it. I picked up a rare vintage Colts jacket I hunted down on eBay for weeks, in perfect condition, his size, from the year the Colts won their first ever championship.
A custom leather-bound notebook for his plays, a dirty joke key chain, and a bunch of just little personal knick-knacks because I literally have no self-control and—apparently now—no fucking self-respect.
I groan into the throw blanket and let my head loll toward Scarlett.
"I should've gone home. I should've gone home and had my mom fuss over my split ends and eaten three thousand cookies and gotten tipsy off boxed sangria. But noooo," I whine. "I stay in Charlotte. I stay for him. Because I'm too busy being dick-notised."
Scar snorts as she looks up from her phone. "It's an epidemic—but hey, you've got me now, baby girl. And I'm thrilled about it. I always spend Christmas alone or drunk and now I can do that with a plus-one."
I smile despite myself. "What about Captain America?"
Scar shrugs. "Eh—I'll see him later. Right now you need me. That's all that matters."
And just like that, I want to cry again. Not from heartbreak, but from the way she says it. Like I'm allowed to take up space. Like someone choosing me doesn't have to mean losing someone else.
Scar has been the Dwayne Johnson's of rocks these past two days—making me eat, brushing out my tangled hair, keeping me upright in the small, invisible ways no one else has ever thought to. While I spiralled and sniffle and mourn a relationship that isn't even a relationship to begin with, she packed,
Boxes are appearing like weeds across our apartment. Flattened cardboard turns into neatly labeled stacks—books, bathroom, kitchen, miscellaneous crap I never want to deal with. Boxes labeled "CAM'S SHIT" scrawled in Sharpie that only make the ache in my chest heavier.
She didn't even make a big deal of it. Just started taping and folding and muttering to herself about bubble wrap while I lay fetal and pathetic.
Because, of course, we have to be out by the end of January.
Because, of course, our apartment building has been bought out to make room for yet another shiny, soulless hotel.
Because, of fucking course, the new hotel belongs to a branch of the evil Reed empire.
Scar found the paperwork buried deep in the city records—some licensing acquisition with Wes's family name hidden like a snake under layers of LLCs and shell companies.
She didn't tell me right away. Waited until I stopped crying for three straight hours and could hold a mug without shaking.
But now I know. And now it just feels like the universe has found yet another creative way to say ha—you thought, dumb whore.
Everywhere I turn, there they are. The Reeds. The empire. The ring.
It's always a game to them. To him.
The apartment is quiet except for the rain ticking soft against the windows. It's cold out, but inside it's warm—dim golden light spilling from the kitchen lamp, the heater humming low, the faint scent of cocoa and clean laundry curling through the air. Cozy, in that way that makes your heartbreak feel cinematic.
Jude and Kiki have been staying with us, crashing in my bed the past few nights like some chaotic little huddle of friendship and codependency. The others all went home for the holidays like smart people full of common sense.
Somehow, the four of us fit—Scar sideways across the pillows, Jude curled like a shrimp, Kiki stealing all the damn blankets. But right now, the apartment is just ours.
Kiki and Jude went out for some last-minute Christmas shopping, braving the cold and the rain like the little festive lunatics they are.
And me?
I'm still on the couch. Mourning a boy who apparently loves me with his whole heart but not with his whole life.
"UGH! I'm so embarrassed!" I say, dragging a pillow over my stomach like it can hold in all the rage. "That's the longest relationship I've ever had. Isn't that the saddest shit you've ever heard?"
Scar doesn't look up, just takes another sip of tea, lips twitching.
"I mean—fuck—I've been closer to death than I've ever been to a stable relationship."
"That's not saying much, babe—you're a bit of a walking hazard."
"But still!" I groan, tossing my arm over my face. "I saw the red flags flapping away in the wind. I did. I'm just apparently fucking color blind. God, I must've looked so stupid. Following him around. Smiling like an idiot. Wearing his damn jersey to games like some delusional team girlfriend when he was—"
I grunt, not wanting to finish the sentence.
Scar chuckles under her breath. "You need a new hobby. Something to distract you. Go buy a vibrator. Start journaling. Take a pottery class and make yourself another mug. Something."
I peek out from under the pillow, deadpan. "I don't need journaling, I need a gun."
"Okay, Godfather, how about we calm down, yeah?" Scarlett scoffs and pats my legs. "I'm thinking that's your empty stomach talking—let's eat and reassess."
There's a knock on the door.
"See?" she says, rising from the couch and smoothing down her hoodie. "Dumplings and ice cream heal all."
"Yeah? Who said that?"
"Pretty sure it was Socrates." Scar grins at me over her shoulder as she heads to the door.
I raise my eyebrows with a slight scoff. "Oh yeah?"
She hums cheekily at me before skipping over to the door, weaving through half-packed boxes, the space feeling emptier than usual. Decorations come down in pieces, little memories peeled from the walls. It all looks halfway erased. Fitting.
Scar swings the door wide.
But it's not the delivery guy.
It's Wes.
And he looks like hell.
In a Colts hoodie speckled with rain and sweats. Hair damp from the rain, face drawn, jaw tight with exhaustion, eyes glassy and rimmed red. Like he hasn't slept. Like he hasn't stopped crying. Like standing there is all he has left in him.
Wes's eyes meet mine across the room. I don't move, my heart falling out of my ass as what feels like an eternity passes between us.
But then Scar's hand grips the edge of the door tighter and she's swinging it back on its hinges until it's only ajar a few inches.
"I need to talk to her," Wes says quietly, his voice so wrecked it barely carries.
"She's not home," Scar says immediately.
"Scar—c'mon—I just saw her."
"She's not home, Wesley."
He glances past her, eyes flicking toward the couch like he can will me to move. "Please. I just need to see her. Just for a second."
Scarlett's tone softens, even as she stands firm. "Wes. You said you'd give her time. This isn't time. And it sure as shit isn't space."
"I'm fuckin' tryin' real hard here," he rasps. "But I—please, Scar, I don't know what to do. I can't sleep. I can't fucking eat. I just need to know if she's okay. I just need to talk to her."
Scar is silent for a long second. And then she says, softer, almost a whisper, "But she doesn't want to talk."
He nods, breathing in slow like it physically hurts. "I know. I know I don't deserve to be here. But I have to try—I'm beggin' here, Scar."
She swallows, glancing back at me for a beat, like she wants me to say something.
I don't.
I just sit there, blank and aching and too small in my own skin.
"Wes," Scar says, almost apologetically, "Not now."
"Then when?"
There's a pause.
"Please." Wes whispers, softly, helplessly, so quiet I almost don't catch it.
"Just... not now, yeah?"
Then she closes the door.
The lock clicks gently into place.
She takes a second before turning, and I hear her sigh out heavily. But when she does turn, there's a forced smile on her face as she brings her phone up to her face.
"Damn—this delivery guy's taking so long. Zero stars. No tip," Scar mumbles, dragging a manicured finger over the screen.
I'm already pulling the blanket over my head.
I don't want her to see me cry again. I don't want to see me cry again.
But she's already moving, already crossing the apartment, already dragging the edge of the blanket down with both hands. "Cam, no—if you go under now I won't fucking see you until February."
"Let me die in peace," I groan. "If only I remembered to die before I told Wes how I felt."
"I'll set a reminder for you next time," Scar huffs as she manages to pry the blanket away from my face and hands. "But for now we're going to eat dumplings and watch shitty Christmas movies and wait for Jude to get back with the weed."
I mumble with a pout, "Wish I could just press a button and magically be high."
"That's the dream, baby." Scar chuckles as she plops herself back down onto the sofa, curling her legs up underneath her and resting an arm on the back.
☆☆☆☆
As the prophets say, if you can't run away from your problems then you're not running fast enough.
And what's faster than a non-stop flight from Charlotte to Phoenix?
I just... I couldn't stay.
Four days of couch grief, near-blanket suffocation, and near-Wes encounters in Charlotte was enough to convince me I was not mentally stable enough to stay.
I couldn't keep having a mini heart attack every time I saw a blonde from behind or a blue RAM truck drive by like some stupid ghost of heartbreak past.
I almost got arrested when I accidentally grabbed an elderly man to hide behind after seeing a blonde guy in Trader Joe's. It wasn't Wes at all—not even close—but that split-second reaction ended with me nearly in cuffs because the old dude claimed I'm trying to jump his decrepit bones.
Scar and I both agreed it was probably better if I came home. So I did.
Because sometimes a girl just needs her mom. And three forms of potatoes.
Rome drove me to the airport. Which was... surprising, honestly. I hadn't expect to hear from him again—given his loyalties to Wes and all. But he showed up in his truck with sweatpants and sunglasses, handed me a coffee, and threw y suitcase in the back of his car.
He didn't say much at first, but halfway through the drive, he cleared his throat and said, "Look—I'm not picking sides. You're my friend too, Cameroonie. And yeah, I want to see my boy happy and getting his shit together... but if walking away is what's right for you? Then you walk away and don't look back. I support it. A hundred percent."
Then he tried to hit on me.
Naturally.
He grinned and said smoothly, "Just sayin', you're single now, and I'm an excellent rebound—with references if needed," which was so peak Rome that it almost makes me feel normal again.
But now?
Now I'm home.
It's late afternoon and the house is still full of people—but finally, blissfully quiet. The kind of hush that follows an absolute war zone of wrapping paper and baked hams and whatever ritual Uncle Kenny starts this year that may or may not involve setting the grill on fire again.
I'm curled up on the living room sofa, half-buried in my mom's giant tartan sherpa throw, a sleeping Ellie stretched across my lap like some tiny, chaos-drained demon child. She passed out after climbing me like a jungle gym and telling me she's going to "hex Wesley's bloodline." I didn't stop her.
In my hands is the newest cowboy romance book from my favorite author—gifted to me by my mom that morning, right after she shoves a mimosa into my hand and yells at Poppa Bill to get off the roof. (He isn't, technically, on the roof. He's leaning out of an upstairs window to see if the neighbors have inflatable reindeer.)
The TV is still on, playing reruns of the Christmas parade. The volume is low, fairy lights illuminating the room, and little Zach spreads out on the floor like he's making snow angels amongst the blankets and pillows.
Dad is still in the kitchen, trying to get a head start on the dishes—which we all know he'll tap out of in a few minutes claiming indigestion.
Poppa Bill snores in the recliner with a tin of cookies on his chest. Granny Anne is passed out in the armchair, wrapped in a shawl she knits herself, and Nana Bea apparently falls asleep upright after too many champagne flutes snuck to her by my younger cousin Carter for a crisp twenty-dollar bill.
Aunt Fallon and Aunt Lou are still somewhere in the house recovering from the wine-fueled verbal brawl over who destroys more Christmas crockery this year, while Uncle Kenny has been banned from both the stove and the outdoor stove after what we're now calling "The Great Turkey Explosion, Round Two."
Brynn locks herself in the bathroom to film TikToks in peace. My teen cousins—Tessa, Hannah, and Isobel—are currently passed out in a cousin pile in the den after trying to race folding chairs down the hallway. (They call it "extreme sleighing." It does not end well.)
Aunt Trixie reads everyone's Christmas horoscopes aloud over lunch and declares I'm in a "soul growth crisis," which feels like a polite way of saying "your love life is garbage and the stars are judging you."
And my mom?
My mom kissed my forehead three times before noon, then tries to send me to bed with a heating pad and a tequila shot after catching me staring too long at the wrapping paper scraps on the floor like they hold the answer to my emotional demise.
I am warm. I am fed. I am surrounded.
But I can't stop thinking about him.
My phone buzzed once earlier, and I didn't even need to check the name. I knew it was him. After threatening to block him, he finally stopped bombarding me with messages. For two whole days—no texts, no calls, no pleading voicemails. I thought maybe he actually listened.
Then, this morning, just one line:
No emoji. No question. Just those three stupid words.
I wanted to throw my phone across the room.
I also couldn't afford to throw my phone across the room.
So I just place it facedown on the side table, press my face into Ellie's hair, and whisper, "How long does this hex take—is it like Amazon with next day delivery?"
She just giggles into my lap.
I close the book, not because I'm not enjoying it, but because the words keep blurring, and my chest feels too tight.
Ellie shifts again, mumbling something about glitter glue and revenge, and I hold her a little closer. She's warm and soft and safe, and it almost makes me cry.
Almost.
It hits me again—quiet and sudden—how tired I am.
Not physically. Not even emotionally, though God knows that tank is running on fumes. But soul-tired. Like something inside me has been wrung out, hung up, and left to dry in the cold.
I don't even notice how bad it is until I walk through the airport.
People move past me with their luggage and their Starbucks and their Christmas sweaters, and I swear I think every single one of them is looking at me. Not in a "Hey, isn't that girl from that thing?" way. In a "Oh, that girl looks like she's just been emotionally run over by a truck" way.
I keep my head down and my hood up and try not to cry in the middle of TSA.
But all I can think about is how empty I feel. How I've given Wes everything—every good thing I have. Every soft part. Every vulnerable piece. My body. My laugh. My secrets. My mornings. My fucking cinnamon roll recipe.
And now?
There's nothing left.
I don't feel like myself. I don't feel like anyone.
I don't even know if I've been worth it to him.
If he really loves me. If I'm just a detour. A fling. A game.
It's always a fucking game for Wesley Reed.
I must zone out because I don't even hear her coming up behind me.
My mom's hands slide gently over my shoulders from behind the couch, warm and sure, and then she presses a kiss to the top of my head like I'm five years old again and have scraped my knee.
I blink up at her.
"Hey, baby," she says softly, smoothing a hand over my hair. "How you doing?"
"I'm fine," I murmur, trying for neutral.
"Mmm." That's all she says. But it's the kind of mmm that translates to you're full of shit but I'm choosing peace today.
She looks over her shoulder and calls out, "Trixie! You around?"
"No," I groan instantly. "No. Mom, I'm not doing an aura steam cleanse in the tub while she yells at my womb."
"That was for Lou and it was extremely effective," Mom tells me while gesturing to Zach, passed out on the floor with chocolate sundae sauce all over his mouth and even some on his forehead.
I eye him for a silent second. "Clearly."
My mom rolls her eyes. "Relax, drama queen. It's not that. But we are taking Trixie up on her suggestion."
"What suggestion?" I ask warily, already sensing doom.
"You'll see. It'll be good for you. Get you out of your head, burn off all that mac and cheese. Think of it as post-holiday catharsis."
"I don't want catharsis," I groan. "I want sleep and mashed potatoes."
But Aunt Trixie is already rounding the corner, practically vibrating with excitement, decked out in velvet leggings, a crescent moon necklace, and an oversized tee that says Trust the Vibes or Leave the Tribe.
She is not my most fashionable aunt.
"She said yes?" she beams.
"She did not say yes," I snap.
"She'll love it," my mom says, ignoring me. "I'll go round up the rest of the girls."
"I swear to God, if this is a moon circle or some shit—"
"It's not," Mom says, already heading for the kitchen. "You won't even have to chant."
"You're not selling this."
"I am selling it," she calls back. "C'mon, Cameron. Mom always knows best."
"We'll fix you, baby girl. Nothing a little feminine energy purge can't handle," Trixie says, winking as she pulls something shiny and ominous from a tote bag that has crystals sewn into the side.
"I want a refund on this bloodline."
"You want dinner tonight?" my mom shouts back.
"...I'll get my shoes."
End of The Games We Play Chapter 44. View all chapters or return to The Games We Play book page.