Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Camille
How to Parent Your Parents 101
I stand in front of the mirror, holding two tops like I’m auditioning for a Who Wore It Best? contest no one asked for. One’s plain white, the other a soft sage. It’s not exactly Sophie’s Choice , but my brain is too cluttered to make a decision. With a huff, I toss the sage one onto the bed and pull the white over my head. Practical, professional, forgettable. It works.
There’s so many thoughts swirling inside my head that today’s attire isn’t that important. It’s definitely not a dress-for-success day. It’s more like a ‘what the fuck am I doing with my life?’ day.
The text exchange with Killion is taking all my brain cells. I told him my discussion with my parents had been amicable. Was it wrong lying to him? Absolutely. But let’s be honest, this whole second chance with Killion might not work out at all. We’ll soon figure out that being together is as realistic as me suddenly liking kale. He lives here, he’s famous, and his life is a whirlwind of people cheering his name while I’m over here wondering if I can handle not seeing him for weeks at a time.
And then there’s my family.
Last night’s call with Dad is still rattling around my brain like a particularly annoying song I can’t turn off.
“He shouldn’t be back. I’ll terminate him,” Dad snapped, the same fire in his voice that used to terrify my high school boyfriends.
“Dad, I don’t think you have that power,” I said, trying not to laugh. Sure, my dad’s got connections, but who’s really going to listen to a guy trying to take down the nation’s football sweetheart?
It’s not like Killion is just anybody. One time, I was on vacation in Cancun, and a restaurant was broadcasting a Gladiators game. Everyone was screaming his name like he was their long-lost cousin. That’s what I’m dealing with.
But Dad’s vendetta wasn’t even the worst part of the conversation. Nope. I grab my necklace from the dresser, clasping it behind my neck as his words replay like a bad voicemail.
“This business of yours, Camille . . .” His tone was deceptively calm, which in Dad-speak meant brace for impact. “It’s fine for now. Well, barely fine. You almost undressed, moving your hips like you’re . . .”
“Like I’m what?” I interrupted, knowing exactly where he was going.
“Inappropriate,” he finished, every syllable soaked in disapproval. “Do you know how it feels to see my daughter doing that on the internet?”
“Inappropriate?” I repeated, staring at my reflection like it might back me up.
He sighed—a long, theatrical sigh, the kind that comes with a side of disappointment and a sprinkle of judgment. “You’re working hard. I see that. But do you think it’s sustainable? You’re a doctor. You should focus on that. And maybe, if you spent less time on this . . . side venture, you’d meet someone. Settle down.”
Ah yes, the marriage talk. My favorite.
“Dad,” I said, keeping my voice even, “I’m not running this business to meet someone. It’s important. Women need resources and education about their health. And it’s not a side venture. It’s part of my work. ”
Silence. The kind that’s somehow louder than yelling because I’m a total disappointment.
Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter but no less cutting. “I just want what’s best for you. And this . . . this isn’t it. Not the business. Not that man. And certainly not you being single at this age.”
I yank on a pair of jeans, tightening the belt like it might keep his words from sinking in any deeper. The way he said it made everything I’ve built sound like some phase I’ll grow out of, like my career and my relationship choices are just placeholders until real life starts.
And then there’s Killion.
Dad would never approve of him. A football player? Please. In Dad’s eyes, Killion’s entire existence is a ticking time bomb of instability and public drama. I can already hear Mom’s lectures about how I’d be setting myself up for heartbreak.
But here’s the question I can’t shake: Does it even matter what they think?
I sit on the edge of the bed, slipping on my heels as the thought twists in my gut. Was I wrong to lie to Killion about my parents? Maybe. Probably. But what good would telling him the truth do? All it would do is confirm what he already suspects—that my family doesn’t think he’s good enough. Or maybe that I’m not strong enough to stand by him.
Ben hops onto the bed, staring at me with the judgmental expression only a cat can pull off .
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter. “I’m figuring it out.”
He stretches, curling into a smug little ball, clearly unbothered by my existential crisis.
Grabbing my purse, I head for the door. My phone buzzes as I step into the hall. It’s a text from Killion telling me not to dodge the driver.
I stare at the screen, the words digging under my skin like they know too much.
As I step into the elevator, I tell myself this is for the best. One complicated relationship is enough to handle. Adding Killion to the mix? That’s a mess I’m not ready to clean up.
Not yet, anyway.
Sliding into the sleek black SUV, I’m immediately greeted by the smell of coffee. There’s a to-go cup in the holder and a neatly wrapped pastry on the seat beside me. Typical Killion. He’s infuriatingly thoughtful in ways that make it impossible to stay mad at him. I take a sip of the coffee, and yep—he nailed it. My exact order: a triple-shot, soy vanilla latte, extra hot, with a light dusting of cinnamon on top. How did he remember that?
I hate him a little for knowing me so well. But also . . . I don’t. Deep down, I like that someone thought about me today .
I pull out my phone and dial Karla. She picks up on the second ring, and the sound of madness spills through the line.
“Hold on,” she says quickly. “Eli, put that down. No, we don’t climb the fridge. Yes, Mom’s on the phone with Aunty Cami. One second, Camille.”
There’s a muffled crash, followed by Eli’s unmistakable giggles and Karla’s exasperated sigh. A full minute passes before she comes back on.
“Okay, I’m here,” she says, her breath a little short. “Sorry about that. Eli thinks he’s Spider-Man today.”
“Better than Superman. At least there won’t be any visits to the ER because your child tried to fly.” I laugh, as I break off a piece of the pastry. “So, how’s everything over there?”
“Loud,” she says with a laugh. “But what else is new? What’s up? You don’t usually call this early.”
I hesitate, twirling the coffee stirrer between my fingers. “I talked to Mom and Dad last night.”
Karla groans softly. “Oh, that explains why Mom texted me this morning saying you’re not ‘making good choices.’ What happened this time?”
“It was about my business and Killion,” I admit, leaning back against the seat. “Dad’s upset—they apparently threatened him back when we were dating and now he’s ready to fulfill some grand threat. And he made it sound like my business is just a temporary distraction from being single. He doesn’t think it’s real. And Mom?— ”
“Let me guess,” Karla interrupts. “Mom brought up grandchildren?”
“No,” I say dryly. “Just my very loser, famous ex-boyfriend and how I’m clearly spiraling out of control for not being married yet.”
Karla snorts. “Classic Mom and Dad. What did you say?”
“I told them I’m going low contact for now,” I say, breaking off another piece of the pastry and popping it into my mouth. “I can’t keep doing this. Every conversation feels like they’re just waiting for me to fail so they can swoop in and say ‘I told you so.’ And they still refuse to acknowledge what they did when I was eighteen. Every time I tried to bring it up during our phone call, they interrupted or brushed it off like it’s nothing.”
There’s a pause on the other end. Then Karla sighs. “I get it, Camille. I really do. But you know they’ll come around eventually.”
I stare out the window, the city blurring past. “Will they? Or are they just going to keep waiting for me to fall in line?”
“Remember when I didn’t finish law school and then got pregnant after knowing Peter for six weeks?” she says, her tone half-joking. “That was a disaster, but they came around. Sort of.”
“Sort of,” I echo, my lips twisting into a faint smile. “Mom still snubs you for not finishing your degree. And she acts like Peter’s some kind of underachiever because he doesn’t have a fancy job title. ”
“That’s true,” Karla admits. “But at least they’re nicer about it now. Most of the time.”
I press my forehead against the cool window, trying to absorb some of her optimism. “If my parents looked down on my husband like that, I’d stop talking to them altogether.”
“Maybe the free babysitting is why I still talk to them,” Karla says with a dry laugh. “Or maybe I just got used to it.”
“You shouldn’t have to get used to it,” I say, my voice dropping. “You, Peter, and the kids deserve better than that.”
“Thanks,” she says softly. “But, Camille, you can’t control how they are. You can only control how you deal with them. If low contact feels right for now, do it. But don’t shut them out completely. It’ll pass. It always does.”
Her words linger, twisting in my chest. Do I want it to pass? I can’t live with their constant judgment. They should change too—at least enough to respect my boundaries.
“I don’t think I can do this today,” I say finally, my voice quieter now.
“Then don’t,” Karla says simply. “Take a breath, focus on you, and call me before you do anything drastic. I’m better at managing our parents than you are.”
I let out a reluctant laugh, the tension in my shoulders easing a little. “Deal.”
“Good. And hey, don’t let them get to you too much. They’re just . . . them. You’re doing great, Camille. Don’t forget that. And if you want to talk about Killion, I’m here.”
The chaos on her end picks up again—Eli shouting something about a cape, followed by a crash that makes Karla groan.
“Go,” I tell her, smiling despite myself. “You’ve got your hands full.”
“Always,” she says with a laugh. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I hang up and sip my coffee, the familiar flavor grounding me for a moment. Karla’s right—this will pass. But for now, distance feels like the only way to protect myself.
And maybe, just maybe, that distance will give me the clarity I need to figure out what’s really going on between me and Killion. Can there really be something real?