Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Camille
The Passive-Aggressive Pivot
The moment the elevator doors close, I let out a shaky sigh. Relief? Hardly. My heart is beating faster than a cheetah on Red Bull, and my palms are damp. This isn’t supposed to happen. This isn’t how I planned it. And believe me, I planned everything. I even made a mood board to avoid this exact scenario. Yet, here I am—heart racing, knees weak, and cursing the universe.
Maybe this is what Zindy meant when she said I’d jinx myself if I continued obsessing.
“There are millions of people in Manhattan,” she’d said, barely glancing up from her glossy magazine while I spiraled. “What are the odds, Cami-Cami? Zero. You won’t even see him. Just stay in your lane for six months—a year, tops—and you’ll be back home. Unscathed.”
Unscathed, my ass. Zindy’s flair for drama might rival mine, but she was wrong. The deal I made with myself was simple since he broke up with me: avoid him and move on. And for fourteen years, it worked. Perfectly.
I stayed far away. I transferred to Stanford and went there for med school, followed by years on the West Coast doing my residency, my fellowship, and . . . I picked places he’d never touch. Sure, I knew he’d play the occasional game nearby, but most athletes go in and out of town like clockwork. They don’t have time to visit. See, easy to avoid.
Distance was my safety net, and I clung to it like it was the only thing keeping me afloat. It kept me from reliving the worst heartbreak of my life. We stayed in our lanes. He had his stupid football career, and I had my dream of becoming a doctor. We were both happy. At least, that’s what I told myself every time his face appeared on ESPN while I was at a sports bar, or on the cover of some magazine while I was in the checkout lane of the grocery store.
The worst moments, though, are when I come across him on social media. Seeing his stupidly perfect face next to some even more perfect woman. Women who are exactly what he deserves—polished, poised, and nothing like the nerdy bookworm he left behind. Women who can be his everything, who are enough.
Okay, fine. Maybe I’m still a little bitter. But can anyone blame me? He didn’t just break my heart. He shattered it.
“Sorry, Cam, but football is more important,” he’d said . . . okay, it wasn’t exactly that, but more or less. He acted like he wasn’t tearing apart the best thing I’d ever had. Like my love for him meant nothing. Nothing. “You get it, right? Things between us can’t go anywhere.”
That last part will always be seared in my heart. He said it like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.
And now? Now, he’s living in the penthouse next to mine.
The adrenaline coursing through me doesn’t fade, not even a couple of hours after the encounter. I try to focus on organizing, on making sure the movers set things up exactly as I asked. But as I step into the elevator with another box, I freeze.
There he is.
Killion Crawford. Sweaty, shirtless under a zip-up hoodie, with gym shorts slung low on his hips. His hair is damp, his skin gleaming, and I hate the way my body responds—like it’s some kind of Pavlovian reflex. My pulse quickens, my cheeks flush, and every nerve in my body feels like it’s buzzing.
He glances over at me, and the corner of his mouth twitches. He knows. Damn it, he knows. The air between us feels thick, almost suffocating, as the elevator doors close.
The silence stretches, the tension palpable. I shift the box against my hip, determined not to meet his gaze. But I can feel him watching me, his presence a gravitational pull I can’t escape.
When the elevator reaches the penthouse floor, Killion steps out first. The moment lingers, his gaze flicking back to me as he walks toward his door. My hands tremble as I adjust the box, the weight suddenly unbearable.
“Need help with that?” he asks, his voice lower than I remember, rougher, with an edge that sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
“I’m fine,” I say, my tone clipped as I push past him toward my door.
Killion doesn’t take the hint. He steps closer, unhurried, and suddenly it feels like the world has narrowed to just the two of us. His presence is magnetic, overwhelming, and I hate how much I notice—how much I feel.
Don’t feel, Camille. Not for him .
“Stay in your lane, Crawford,” I warn, my voice louder now.
“I’m just trying to help,” he replies, his tone infuriatingly calm.
“Which I don’t need,” I snap, struggling to keep my composure.
“Cam, we’re neighbors now. Don’t you think?—”
“Camille,” I correct, cutting him off. “The name is Camille. And from what I’ve heard, New York neighbors are supposed to ignore each other. So why don’t we do that? I’ll be out of here in a few months, a year, tops. You do you, I’ll keep to myself.”
His eyes narrow, his jaw tightening. “Are you alone?” he asks, his voice a little too casual.
That’s a weird question. Like he wants me to invite him or . . . I’m not sure what he means with that question but I answer, “No. Ben should be here tomorrow.”
His expression shifts, a flicker of something—hurt? Anger?—crossing his face. “Oh, there’s a Ben,” he says, stepping back like I just punched him in the gut.
“Yes. A Benedict,” I say coolly, adding, “He’ll be friendly, as long as you are.”
Killion’s lips press into a thin line, and after a moment, he nods. “I can be friendly,” he says, his voice softer now. “Welcome to New York.”
His words are polite, almost casual, but they linger long after he disappears into his apartment. I close my door and lean against it, exhaling sharply.
This can’t be happening. Not here. Not now. I spent years rebuilding myself after Killion Crawford dumped me. Years convincing myself that what we had was a teenage fantasy—a mistake I could learn from and leave behind.
But now he’s here. Living next door. And there’s no safety net, no distance to protect me from the man who seems like he still has the power to unravel me with a single look.
Later, as the last box is unpacked and the movers finally leave, I step onto the balcony with a glass of wine, the cool air brushing against my skin. The city hums below, alive and relentless, its lights stretching endlessly into the horizon. It’s overwhelming and exhilarating, and if I weren’t already emotionally wrung out, I might appreciate it more.
I toy with my phone, tempted to call Zindy or anyone, really. But the three-hour time difference means all my West Coast friends are probably having dinner with their families or binge-watching Love Island without me. By the time they’re free to talk, I’ll either be asleep or lying awake, replaying today’s train wreck in my head.
I hear a noise from the other side of the balcony—a soft murmur of a phone call, the distinct clink of glass against metal. My stomach tightens. Of course, he’s out here. The divider between our spaces isn’t exactly reassuring, reaching just to my hip. Too low to be comforting, too high to pretend I’m oblivious.
Before I can stop myself, my gaze drifts toward his side. And there he is—Killion Crawford, leaning against the railing like he owns the damn night. One hand holds a glass, the other a phone pressed to his ear, his broad shoulders impossibly relaxed, as if the weight of the world doesn’t dare touch him.
He murmurs something into the phone, his voice low and smooth, then pulls it away, ending the call with a quick swipe of his thumb. The device disappears into his pocket, and he takes a slow sip from his glass, his eyes fixed on the skyline like it’s just for him.
“Eavesdropping isn’t very neighborly,” he says, his tone casual, without sparing me so much as a glance.
I freeze, heat rushing to my cheeks. Caught. Of course, I got caught. Subtlety has never been my strong suit.
“Neither is talking loud enough for someone to overhear,” I counter, stepping fully into view because if I’m going down, I’m doing it with dignity. Or whatever’s left of it.
He turns to face me, and the faint smirk tugging at his lips is enough to make my blood pressure spike. God, I hate that smirk. Hate that it still does something to me, something I’d rather die than admit.
“Maybe you’re right,” he says amused.
We stand there for a beat, the silence stretching between us. The city feels too quiet, the hum of traffic below not nearly enough to drown out the way my pulse is hammering.
“You really planning to ignore me for the next year?” he asks, like it’s a casual question, like we’re old friends catching up instead of . . . whatever the hell this is.
I take a sip of my wine, letting the sharpness settle me. “I don’t see the point of having this—or any—conversation, Killion,” I say, keeping my tone as even as possible.
“We could be friends,” he dares to suggest. He fucking dares to say it, like he didn’t obliterate any chance of friendship fourteen years ago.
“We could,” I say with a smile so sweet it could curdle milk. “But I choose not to. I’m pretty selective about the people I surround myself with. You and I . . . You get it, right? Things between us can’t go anywhere.”
I feel some kind of satisfaction that I’m able to throw those exact words in his face. That’s exactly what he said to me the day he broke up with me.
“Cam—”
“No, you’re not allowed to say anything. You lost that right, remember?” I cut him off, shaking my head. “But tell you what, Killion. We’ll create a schedule to use the balcony. When you’re out here, I’ll stay inside. When I’m out here, you stay inside. That’s as friendly as this can get.”
“But— ”
“Have a good night, Killion Crawford,” I say, my tone tight, as polite as I can manage without screaming at him. Because that’s who I am now. Fucking polite.
“See you around, baby, sweet dreams,” he says, his voice softer than I expected, almost resigned. Though I’m sure he’s trying to bait me with the ‘baby’ and ‘sweet dreams’ but I don’t turn around.
I retreat to my side of the balcony, my heart racing as I shut the door behind me. The glass is cool against my back as I lean against it, clutching my wine.
The distance I created all those years ago—the thousands of miles, the years spent avoiding his name, his face—has collapsed in an instant. And I don’t know how to rebuild it. How to keep this polite. How to not scream at him for the way he left, for everything he didn’t say, for all the ways he broke me.
He deserves the rage of that eighteen-year-old girl who didn’t know better, who trusted him with her heart only to have it smashed to pieces. But instead, here I am, playing nice. Playing polite.
God, I hate this city. No. It’s not the city, but him.
I fucking hate Killion Crawford, and there’s no way around it.
Now, to live next door to the enemy for a year—I’ll make it less. There’s no way I can stick around for longer and not burn his place down to the ground—because I know him. He’ll be stubborn about creating a friendship and will piss me off so much that I’ll have to teach him a lesson.