“Juju,” Camden called, his voice rough.
I turned before he could catch up, my hair flying into my face. “Don’t bother, Camden.”
He slowed, but he didn’t stop. His expression was angry and worried, and for some reason, that only made me madder.
“Come on, Juju. You didn’t want that.”
Erin squeezed my arm and stepped back. I shook my head at Camden, forcing the lump in my throat down.
“You don’t get to decide what I want,” I whispered.
He stared at me, and for one breathless moment, neither of us moved. The distant firelight flickered against his face, and it felt like we were on a tightrope, barely hanging on.
“You…” My voice cracked, but I pushed through it. “I’m not a child, Camden. I can make my own mistakes, with or without your interference.”
“I don’t think you’re a child, Juju.”
His eyes locked on mine.
He stepped closer, his jaw tight, and added, “That’s the whole fucking problem. You’re not a child anymore. You’re not myfriend anymore. I don’t even know you. And you’re…making me lose my mind.”
The world tilted. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Hearing him say that…I didn’t even know how to feel about it. I had so many questions.
We just stood there, staring at each other. His chest rose and fell like he’d just run a mile, and my heart threatened to pound out of my chest.
His jaw flexed, his mouth opening to speak.
“Juju? Camden? What’s going on? I just saw Mitch, and someone said you hit him?” Jackson barreled toward us.
Camden’s mouth shut, fists clenched at his sides.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “He deserved it.”
Jackson glared at me then. “What are you even doing here?”
I rolled my eyes. “Both of you need to get out of my way. I don’t have the patience for either one of you tonight.”
I turned and motioned to Erin that I was ready to go, and we left.
When Camden came to the house the next time, we ignored each other. I preferred to pretend he didn’t exist, even though that was impossible, because he was all I could ever think about.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHANCE ENCOUNTERS
CAMDEN
Present
It’s been a long week of interviews. Sammi was no better than Britney. The next person I interview is Olivette. She comes in with a low-cut blouse, and the only reason I notice that is because she drops a mint down her shirt and then giggles and makes a production out of digging it out. When I ask for a little more detail about her resume, she says “How about we get to know each other first?” as she slides her cell number across the table.
I don’t bother tasting her profiteroles.
And then Virginia walks in, an elderly woman with a kind smile.
“How are you today?” she asks after she’s introduced herself.
“I’m great. How about you?”
