Page 65 of Bring You Back

“But that’s so far away from you,” he mock pouts, then laughs, practically skipping to the kitchen.

I shake my head and get back to work. My hands move mechanically, like I’ve done this before, while sounds, movement other than my own fade to the background as Camille works her way to the forefront of my thoughts. My head goes back to dissecting her texts.

Stop doing this to her.

And to me.

And to you.

I’m hurting Reyna.

I’m hurting Camille.

I’m hurting myself.

Thanks for the reminder.

I can keep telling myself that Camille has no right to my life, my thoughts, or my heart, but she does. And I can keep denying my feelings for her, but she can see them hiding under my asshole exterior.I don’t believe you.She knows, and she’s not afraid to letmeknow.

She’s being as transparent as she can about her own feelings, with what little of me I’m giving her. She’s fighting in herCamilleway—subtle barbs mixed with imploring undertones, but I need more.

Stop doing this. . .

Don’t fall for her.

I fumble, the screwdriver slipping off the nail and scraping against the doorjamb. I can’t just have Camille’s voice in my head, I have to have Reyna’s, too. One at each ear, whispering demands, warped guidance, choices that aren’t really choices at all. No matter which direction I take, I’ve already made my choices, and I have to live with them. No matter which way I go from here, I can’t change the ending. None of us will be the same. We have no chance of going back to how things were. Regardless of who set this undoing into motion, it’s a ripple effect that I won’t be able to stop.

This isn’t supposed to be my life.

I wasn’t supposed to kiss Reyna.

Camille wasn’t supposed to come back.

And wecan’tgo back.

So, it doesn’t fucking matter how things should be because this is how they are.

My hands work faster—the quicker I twist, place, screw, the quicker my thoughts will hopefully die.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Banks’s voice sounds.

“You’re such a waste of space.”

I fumble again at the sound of Camille’s voice—loud, real, here—as she meets Banks in the kitchen.

It’s too much to ask that she stay out of the house for a day, at least while I’m trying to work in the path to the room she lives in.

And to the bathroom she uses.

Why does every damn room have to be in this hall?

She heads my way, the sound of her boots slowing as she comes to a stop in front of me.

My jaw tightens, words breaking through before I can stop them. “Your room’s over there.”

“Yeah, but you’re right here,” she says as she drops to the floor, back against the wall, arms resting on her knees. I pause my work to meet her eyes, but the contact lasts just a second as she checks out my handiwork. Then chuckles.

“So, who are you trying to keep out? It can’t be me. You know I’m a knocker.”

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