35. Take Care #2
"Help me?" I barked a laugh. "You made a mess happen, Akasha. We went over this. There is no universe in which what you did actually helped me. I got chased by the fucking paps behind you!"
She stepped closer, jaw tight, and I braced for another round of the diss-track thing, the you-left-me thing, whatever loop we'd been stuck in. But she didn't reach for any of it. The fight drained out of her face, and what was left underneath looked exhausted.
"Why'd you really do it, Skye?" I asked. A real question. "Don't bullshit me. We've known each other way too long for that."
She stared at me, and for a second I thought she'd give me another line. Then her face did something I hadn't seen on her in years—it stopped trying to be brave.
"Because you never looked at me the way you look at her." Flat now, wrung out. "For years, Cam. I told myself you just weren't built for the soft stuff. That it wasn't in you." She swallowed. "Then Romi shows up and it turns out it was in you the whole time. Just never for me."
It landed somewhere I wasn't braced for.
"So you blew up my track," I said slowly.
"To make you feel something about me again. Even hate." She wiped hard under her eye with the side of her thumb, as her voice shook. "Being your enemy was the last way I had to matter to you. Beat clapping for you and her from the cheap seats."
There was no zinger for that. Nothing to win.
She'd handed me the saddest true thing she had, after holding onto it herself.
I understood I'd run my own version of the same play—kept her close long after I'd checked out, let her be the drama so I'd never have to sit in the quiet and admit what I actually wanted. Both of us too scared to just let go.
Silence stretched between us. I could've played my part. Instead, I let myself see her—not the person who leaked my track, but the person I'd left behind.
"Not even gonna hold you," I said quietly. "I did play the game." I took a breath. "And I'm sorry. For using you as a safety net while I figured my shit out. For not being honest about where my head was. You deserved better than that."
Her eyes went glassy for a second before she blinked it away. "Don't."
"I mean it. You deserved somebody who was all in, and I wasn't. That's on me."
The irony wasn't lost on me. I was finally saying what she'd wanted to hear for months, Years, maybe. And now? Now she'd never be able to twist it into a headline or a tearful confession on someone's podcast. This apology died here, in this empty hallway, between us.
She stared at me, jaw working. Then her shoulders dropped, and she let out a long breath like she'd been holding it for months.
"Yeah. You weren't." She wiped at the corner of her eye again, not bothering to hide it this time.
When she looked back at me, her smile was small and sad and real.
"But I also leaked your shit out of spite, so I guess we're both even. And messy as hell."
"You think?" I laughed, and it eased some of the wet pressure behind my eyes.
Not quite sad, not quite relieved. Somewhere in between.
Because this was it. We were letting go.
All those years, all that history, the good parts and the ugly parts…
done. The weight of it settled on my chest, heavy and bittersweet.
She shook her head. "Okay." Her voice wavered slightly. "We're done then." She said it as if she was testing it out. Then she nodded to herself, eyes wet but clearer somehow.
"Yeah. We're done."
She turned to go. "Take care of yourself, Cammie."
"You too, Akasha."
I watched her go, and the heaviness on my shoulders eased.
The doors closed behind her, and the whole thing felt less like an ending and more like a Friday.
The drive across town was ugly, but not even gridlock could put a dent in my mood.
The air was crisp, the sun had burned through the haze, and I was about to see Romi for the first time since I got back to LA.
I rolled down the window, let the wind slap my face, and sang along to the dumbest pop song on the radio to prove I was alive.
By the time I pulled up to Romi's building, my stomach was in knots. Not the nervous kind. The kind you get when you know the next thing could be great, if you don't fuck it up.
The penthouse was more intimidating in daylight.
Giant stone pillars, a lobby done in matte black and gold, every surface engineered to make you feel like you'd lost the game before you sat down.
I killed the engine, grabbed my overnight bag from the passenger seat, and stared up at the windows until my heart slowed back to human.
The security desk was staffed by a woman who looked like she bench-pressed gym bros for sport. I gave her Romi's apartment number. She squinted at me, then hit the phone with a knuckle and announced, "Miss Sweet, your guest is here."
Static, then her voice. Romi. Clear as anything, even though I stood ten feet from the speaker. "Send her up."
The elevator ride was silent, but the anticipation did weird things to my body.
My hands were damp. I wiped them on my shorts, then on the tote bag, which made it worse.
I checked my reflection in the metal doors—messy hair, old T-shirt, backpack slung over one shoulder like a high school sophomore.
Not a power couple look, but at least it was honest.
When I reached the top floor, the hallway was carpeted so thick it felt like walking on cake. I knocked, waited.
The door opened, and Zaniyah stood there in full glam: liquid liner, nails like switchblades, and a Tupac cropped shirt with leggings. She looked me up and down, then grinned.
Zaniyah stepped aside and let me in, the scent of something expensive drifting through the air. The apartment was warm and bright, art on every wall, a space that didn't reflect the person who lived there; it announced her. Even though there was hardwood everywhere, I kicked off my slides anyway.
Romi was nowhere in sight.
Zaniyah watched me for a second, then called over her shoulder, "You got five minutes, Ro! I'm leaving before you two get all disgustingly cute."
She scooped up a designer purse from the kitchen island, then fixed me with a look that could be joke or threat, and I didn't want to find out which. "Just so we're clear—hurt my sister, and we're gonna have a problem. Got it?"
"Crystal clear."
She winked as she headed out the door, but I didn't miss the steel under her smile.
The quiet click of the lock barely registered before Romi was on me.
No words, just arms around my shoulders and lips meeting mine with enough force to remind me what all the hype was about.
I dropped the overnight bag on the floor, nearly tripped on my slides, and wrapped her up in both arms, smelling her scent.
Romi was wearing my hoodie. I had long given up any notion of her giving it back.
She kissed me long enough to leave my ears ringing, then pulled back. "I might've missed you. A little," she said, and it wasn't her usual drawl, it was soft and so real I could've melted into the parquet.
"I missed you, too," I said, and felt the dumbest, hottest flush run up my face. "Even with the three phone calls a day."
She chuckled and tucked her head into my neck. "The phone doesn't smell like you," she murmured, then pulled me further inside, half-dragging, half-leading. "Come on. Let's get you settled."
Romi's place was like her: expensive but not ostentatious, all cool tones and real wood, sunlight pooling across a cloud-colored rug and art on the walls that wasn't just for show.
One corner of the living room was dominated by a glass case filled with her awards, but the shelves below were jammed with hardcover books, vintage vinyl.
A picture of Romi, Zaniyah, and a pretty, older woman who was probably their mom, which proved that she really hit copy-and-pasted both of her daughters. Dad's genes put up zero fight.
Ridiculously expensive-looking throw rugs everywhere. A weird, oversized succulent guarded the window, looking vaguely like it was plotting a coup.
I let her steer me to the couch, then flopped down and stretched my legs across the cushions, to see if she'd yell at me for it.
She didn't. Instead, she curled up next to me, her knees tucked under, body angled so our faces were only a few inches apart. For a minute, we just looked at each other. I wanted to say something profound, but the best I could do was: "You look good."
Romi rolled her eyes, but I caught her smile. "You always say that."
"It's always true," I replied, softer.
She glanced away. Her hair hung in loose waves, smelling like toasted coconut. I reached out and brushed a lock behind her ear, and she let me.