Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Killion
When Your Family Bets on Your Love Life
My next call is to my father. Papa. The man, the myth, the unsolicited advice dispenser. He’s a legend in his own right—always there, always ready with wisdom that usually lands. Usually. Except when it came to Camille. That one? Total fumble, Papa. Okay, it wasn’t all him. It was partially him. He came with this whole lecture right after . . . well, after Camille’s father gave me one of his own.
He answers on the first ring, like he’s been sitting by the phone, waiting for my inevitable spiral. His voice is calm. It makes you think he’s already solved your problem, won a trophy for his efficiency, and started a podcast about it. “I’m surprised it took you this long to call.”
“We talked yesterday,” I remind him, flopping back on the couch. My legs stretch out, but my chest? It’s in full vice-grip mode. “You congratulated me on the game, remember? Before I boarded the plane.”
“Sure,” he says, a smirk practically dripping through the phone, “but you didn’t mention Camille. And judging by what Leif said in the chat group, you’re probably ready to hit me next.”
I squint at my phone, scrolling through messages. “What chat group?”
“Oh, there’s a new one you’re not a part of,” he says, like it’s totally normal to exclude your own kid from a family chat. “They didn’t want you influenced by the bets.”
I sit up so fast the couch lets out a protesting creak. “Wait—what?! You’re betting on my love life now? Even you, my father?”
“Of course not,” he says, mock offended. “I’m just moderating. You know how competitive your siblings get. Someone’s gotta keep the peace. ”
“Oh, yeah? And what’s the pot this time? My dignity?” My voice cuts through the air, but inside, I’m unraveling. They’re betting on my goddamn love life.
“There’s a lot riding on this bet,” he says casually, like they’re discussing the outcome of a family game night and not the wreckage of my relationship history.
I drag a hand over my face, the kind of exasperated move that usually calms me down. Not this time. “You should just cancel it. The whole damn thing.”
“Not what the playbook says,” he replies, and I can almost see the shrug in his tone. “I can’t just stop bets once they’re already set up. Your dad and I wish we’d caught it before.”
Fucking playbook.
“This is my life,” I snap, my voice rough. “Which is why I’m calling you. Why did you stop me from proposing to her? She could’ve moved with me to New York. I had the money. Not only to get us a nice place, but to pay for her education if that was needed.”
His tone shifts, steady but firm. “I told you. You two were too young. She was only eighteen. You didn’t have the right to uproot her life, Killion. She had a plan. And I bet she would’ve said yes. What I said was something along the lines of, ‘Are you so selfish that you’ll make her change her entire life for you?’”
Yes, he did, and the fact that he called me selfish just added to what Mr. Ashby had told me a couple of days before Pops did. “Leave my daughter alone or I’ll use everything I have to not only drown your career but create a media nightmare for your fathers.”
Not having the support of my parents and knowing that pushing for this would create a nightmare for my fathers was . . . well, the reason I had to walk away from her. I couldn’t do it to them. Me and my career . . . it was scary to think what he could do to it, but my parents? That’s something no one fucks with. If this man were to threaten me right now, I would show him what the name Crawford can do. Back then I was just a kid though. And the last thing I wanted was for anyone to be affected by my bad decisions. I didn’t want her to suffer or . . . but was it a good idea?
“Because I once was.” Pops brings me back from my thoughts. “I did exactly that. I asked the girl I was dating in high school to follow me. She did, and guess what? She wasn’t the love of my life. It was infatuation, or maybe something else, but the point is, she regretted going to Michigan with me. She hated it and ended up hating me. There’s also the fact that she made me realize I was in love with my best friend.”
That’s a story I didn’t know. And yeah, I can’t imagine him and Dad not being together. I mean, they have pictures of them together since they were young. They weren’t super close, but close enough.
“And you thought?—”
“Was it me, or was it what I said, Kill?” he asks, cutting me off. “I never asked you to break up with her. Did I? ”
I stop short before something I don’t mean comes out. Because maybe he’s right. He didn’t say ‘fuck up your life and break her heart.’ He said . . . what were his exact words? I can’t even remember but the last thing I wanted was for her to fail at something she was good at because of me.
“I don’t know what would’ve happened if you’d proposed to her,” he says after a moment. “Maybe she would’ve said no, or maybe she would’ve said yes. You can blame me if it makes you feel better. I had no idea she was the reason you can’t settle down. The point is, you can’t keep living in the what-ifs. Get some fucking closure, move on—you’re thirty-five.”
I exhale slowly, his words sinking in like a slow, painful truth I’ve tried to outrun. “Kill, you have the chance to try again or to realize that she wasn’t the love of your life,” he says, his voice so soft now it almost doesn’t sound like him. “You’re older. Wiser. So is she. This time, whatever decision you make, it’s hers too. Not just yours.”
The line goes quiet, and for a second, I wonder if he’s still there. “You’re right, I’m older, but also it wasn’t only what you said.” And I tell him what happened with her father.
“We would’ve handled him, Kill. If anyone threatens your family, you come to us and we handle it,” he says angry. “You were too young and that man was out of line. I can see why things played out the way they did. As I said, you’re not him anymore. Things can be different now.”
“I don’t even know if she’ll let me in,” I admit, my voice raw. Vulnerable.
“She might not,” he says simply. “But you’ll never know if you don’t try.” And then he pulls out the kicker: “You’ve got the ball, son. Don’t fumble it.”
It sounds simple, but nothing about Camille has ever been simple.
I stare at my phone for a long time, then pull up her contact again. I type out a message, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard, before finally hitting send.
Can we talk? I want to make things right.
I set the phone down and wait.