I let him.
He drags a hand down his face, and when it drops, his fingers are trembling a little. “I thought I was handling it. I thought if I stayed busy and kept moving, it would…I don’t know. Make it less real.”
My chest aches, sharp and familiar. “We all grieve differently.”
“I know.” He nods, eyes glossy now, and he blinks hard like he’s angry at his own body. “I know that. But you’re my little sister.”
The words land heavy. Protective. Sacred.
“And it’s my job,” he continues, voice cracking just slightly, “to be there for you. I haven’t done a good job. I want to do a better job.”
I swallow hard, forcing the emotion back into the box I’ve been carrying around campus like it’s my backpack.
“You don’t have to fix this,” I say quietly. “You can’t. None of us can.”
“I’m not trying to fix it,” he says, and there’s something fierce in the way he looks at me now. “I just…I don’t want you doing it alone.”
I stare at him for a second, at the way he’s trying so hard to be steady for me when he’s barely holding himself together.
And suddenly I’m twelve again, scraping my knee in the driveway, and Cameron’s the one scooping me up like pain is something he can lift off my skin if he holds me tight enough.
My voice goes softer. “I’m not alone.”
His eyes flicker—like he hears the subtext. Like he’s thinking about Logan.
But he doesn’t say his name.
Instead, he reaches across the table and taps my knuckles with his fingertips—quick, awkward, very Cameron.
“Okay,” he says, swallowing hard. “Good.”
I nod, breathing through the lump in my throat. “Okay.”
“How are…things with Logan?” he asks carefully.
My stomach does something complicated.
Because “things with Logan” is a phrase that exists in two worlds at once.
There’s the version Cameron sees: Logan helping, Logan showing up, Logan being steady in the way I’ve needed.
And then there’s the version I’m living: Logan’s hands on my waist in the kitchen. Logan’s mouth on my forehead before he leaves for rehab. Logan in my bed, breathing against my neck, holding me like I might float away if he lets go.
But we haven’t said anything out loud yet.
Not really.
So I keep it safe.
“He’s…good,” I say too quickly. “He’s been around a lot.”
Cameron’s eyes narrow slightly. “Yeah. I noticed.”
A small, nervous chuckle escapes me as heat crawls up my neck. “He’s helping.”
“I know,” Cameron says. His tone is careful, but there’s something under it. Something sharp. “I’m not mad he’s helping.”
I swallow.
