Page 80 of Bring You Back

And Iamhis friend. The Julian of right now is just a phase. It won’t last. And when he’s fully back to the Julian I know, the Camille he knows will still be here.

“When you want more,youwill have to do something about it.”

“I don’t want more.” He leans in with the words, hungry for control. But I’m just as hungry. Our needs are clashing, and I continue to feed myself.

“I came back. And no, I don’t expect that to be enough, but you know what? I’ve already been punished.”

My voice cracks on that last word and so does his demeanor. He tries to smooth the break, but I see the emotion still stirring in his eyes. I look away from the pity, the guilt there, swipe up my plate of unfinished grapefruit, and start for the hall.

“I’m angry,” he says around a tight mouth, stopping my steps, his next words coming through on a breath. “I’m so fucking angry.”

I face him, find his eyes. He looks younger. Softer. Lost. His stare reaches for me, and it would be so easy to give him something to grasp. To take advantage. But I stand firm. “Me, too. But I’ve always been a bitch. You’re not an asshole.”

His spine straightens, face hardens. And he’s back to being a victim. Back to needing the last word. “When I was out of sight, was I out of your mind?”

The question catches me off guard, exactly how he wanted it to. He knows my answer, and he’s trying to make my earlier argument invalid.No, I never stopped thinking about you. You were always there, inside my head, even when you weren’t before my eyes.

“Just say it,” he says, a plea in his voice, so reminiscent of when he implored me to fight.

“After you.”

With that, I leave him to stew, able to breathe easier.

Julian

After you.

She’s throwing it back. Givingmepermission to lead.

With her promise to follow.

I should’ve known Camille would be Camille. Tommy sees it. I see it. Her seemingly void of change. She’s still uptight, set in her ways, more stubborn than I am, infuriatingly sarcastic. . .

Who am I kidding.Beautifully sarcastic.

A fighter.

Tommy wasn’t exactly right. I wasn’t exactly right. She knows what it means to fight. She fights every night when no one is looking.

But I saw her. I froze watching her at that light. The way she shook through rapid breaths, like she couldn’t get enough air, then stilled completely, like she didn’t want it anymore. My mind wasn’t focused on my body, on my lungs, but on her body, on her lungs, on the sound of her breathing, on the absence of sound when she stopped.

I’m not hurting myself.

Yeah, holding her fucking breath until she can’t take it anymore isn’t compatible with that statement.

Besides the inner scarring that was just visible right in front of me, I haven’t seen new physical scars. Then again, Camille still leaves some to the imagination, allowing just glimpses of her legs through the rips in her jeans. That’s another thing that hasn’t changed—her wardrobe. I’d have to strip her down, explore her body for proof of more.

I suck down the last of my toast, barely tasting the honey and butter as the piece lumps its way down my throat.

I’m guessing what I had seen is a nightly thing for her. That this has been happening since Caleb’s death, and continues to happen here. And she is still breathing.

I have to believe her.

Your problems are our problems.

She’s not dealing.

You’re gonna let her suffer, because she can’t say something you need to hear?

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