I'mnotmy father. My father ran. He saw a hard thing and he chose the door. That's not me. That was never me.
I followed Aiden across the state for a fresh start. I run into burning buildings for strangers. I call my mom every Sunday because she deserves someone who shows up, and so does Camille, and so does that angry, terrified kid who's testing theone thing he's most afraid of losing—the people who love him enough to stick around.
I pull out my phone.
I type five words and hit send.
I'm not going anywhere, Camille. We'll figure this out together.
CHAPTER 7
CAMILLE
"I’d like to talk to Simon, alone," Chevy asks.
We're standing in my kitchen on a Monday evening, the remains of takeout between us.
Simon is upstairs doing homework, or more likely staring at his phone with the textbook open nearby as a decoy. He hasn't spoken to Chevy beyond monosyllabic grunts since they met, and the tension in this house is thick enough to spread on toast.
"Chevy—"
"Just hear me out." He leans against the counter, and even though I'm terrified, the calm in his voice steadies me. "I know what he's going through. Not because I read about it or someone told me. Ilivedit. I was that kid, Cam. Let me at least try."
Every maternal instinct I have is screaming to protect my son from one more hard conversation, one more adult making promises his little heart isn't ready to trust.
But then I look at Chevy's face, and I don't see a man trying to play hero. I see the boy who sat on a front porch waiting for a truck that never came back.
"When?" I ask.
"Tomorrow. You've got that school event, right? The literacy night thing?"
"How do you know about literacy night?"
"You told me about it three weeks ago when you were complaining about having to make a display board." He raises an eyebrow. "I listen."
He does. That's the thing. He always does.
"Okay," I say, and the word feels as if I’m stepping off a cliff.
Thursday arrives and I'm a mess.
I set up my literacy night display on autopilot—laminated posters, a basket of bookmarks the kids decorated, a sign-up sheet for the summer reading program—while my brain runs worst-case scenarios on a loop.
What if Simon shuts down completely?
Or he says something cruel to Chevy that can't be taken back?
What if Chevy pushes too hard?
What if the whole thing implodes and my son hates me even more for letting a stranger into our messy lives?
Beth finds me rearranging bookmarks for the fourth time and puts her hand on my arm.
"You okay? You look like you're performing surgery on that display."
"I'm fine. Just want the font sizes to be consistent."
"Camille. They're handmade by eight-year-olds. One of them is shaped like a hotdog."
