"It's best if you leave me alone," I said quietly. He looked down, his big hands curling into fists. When his eyes returned to my face, there was an emotion in them that tightened my throat. "Tell me why you left," I said. He rubbed his mouth with his hand, his blue gaze taking in my features, as if he was memorizing every one of them. But when he stayed quiet, I grabbed my backpack and my phone and walked away. "Fuck!" I heard him hiss in frustration. But I ignored it, even when my heart was yelling at me to turn back around and talk it out with him. I knew Cameron had practice tonight. It took ten minutes of circling my way to the campus parking lot before I headed to my car. And even then I was thinking if I should stay and wait for him or just leave. I looked at my phone for the thousandth time today. No text from him. It was eight-thirty at night and I noted that he still had half hour before his practice ended. It was dark outside, but the lampposts illuminated the parking lot. There were only about fifteen cars left in the massive parking lot, probably most of them from the basketball team. Did Cameron bring his own vehicle tonight? "I'm leaving. I'm not waiting," I muttered under my breath as I stashed my phone in my purse. When I looked up, I gasped. Cameron was leaning against the side of my car, waiting for me. He had his hoodie up, covering his angelic face, but I knew it was him. There was no way I wouldn't recognize that devil-may-care way of his stance, the confidence in his movements as he pushed away from my car. He looked up, and the need I saw in his blue gaze spoke to me more than his words, but then he masked it so quickly, hiding himself from me again. This was not going to work. "I didn't expect you to," he said quietly. "But I wanted you to wait anyway." I swallowed the lump in my throat. He'd heard me. "I thought you have practice tonight?" I asked. "I did." "You didn't go?" He didn't answer. I closed my eyes, praying for patience. "If you're not going to talk," I said under my breath, "just go. I want to go home." "I don't know why the fuck I can't let you go," he said suddenly. My chest felt tight. "I—" My phone rang and he stopped whatever he was going to say. Then his eyes narrowed. "Same guy who texted you this morning?" His voice was cold again. How fast he switched moods. "I was gone for a couple of weeks and you already moved on." It was a statement. He believed it. "I don't know why the fuck I'm here." He pushed away from my car, raked his hands in his hair as he looked down on the ground. When he looked up, his blue eyes were accusing. My temper ignited. I had no idea where he was coming from. I don't know why the fuck I'm here? And that look he gave me made me furious. As if I had no right to move on, as if I cheated on him when he was the one who left. We weren't even in a relationship. I don't know why the fuck I'm here? He might as well have told me I wasn't worth it. It fucking hurt. I couldn't go on like this. This had to end. "I wish I hadn't met you," I said softly. He looked stunned for a moment, and whatever emotion followed was shadowed when he lowered his eyes from me. "I was fine before I met you. You're confusing me, but worse than that is you're hurting me. And I feel so pathetic because I've been so careful, so fucking careful, protecting myself from people like you. But you're so good, so convincing, because in such a short amount of time, I had let you in my life. You asked me to trust you, but you won't give the same thing you're asking of me. You're hot one minute, then cold the next. You'd say one thing that would touch my heart, but then you'd break it next by not saying anything at all. By disappearing without a word. And now you're back again. And you're acting like everything is fine. "I wish you didn't tell me any of those lies that night before you left," I continued. "I wish you just left, then it would've made it easier for me to forget about you. Then I wouldn't have to worry or feel like I've done something wrong to push you away. I wouldn't have to miss you or keep expecting you'd text or call." I was showing him my heart again, opening it up so he could shred it again. Why didn't I learn? But he had to know, and maybe after this it would be over. And that thought that it would be over scared me. So I got angrier to mask the fear, and fought harder. "If this is a game you're playing," I continued, my voice breaking, "just stop. I know you don't feel the same way about me, and I'm not saying this to burden you. It's my fault, too. I built you up in my head, expected things I shouldn't. And I'm responsible for my own feelings. But now I just want all of this to stop. I don't want to care about you anymore. It's heartbreaking to care about you. You make it so hard. So just fucking stop. Get the hell away from me." I got in my car, slammed the door closed. My tires squealed as I drove away from the parking lot. And this time, I didn't look back. When I parked in front of the local gymnasium, my anger had gone out from me, replaced by a whole lot of tired and numb. Today had been a long day, as usual, but the emotional storm that Cameron brought in my life felt more exhausting. I saw my dad priming the poop brown walls with white. "Hi, Dad." He jumped, almost dropping the roller paint on the floor. We were jumpers in the family. Even Dylan was—most especially Dylan. "You scared the bejesus out of me!" "Sorry." I laughed and the sound made me wince. It sounded rough and stiff and fake. I threw my backpack on the floor and crossed to him. The gymnasium was probably over five-thousand square feet. It was old, dark, and dingy. The new white walls would definitely light it up. It was unfortunate that they had built rooms near the entrance where it disrupted the flow of the space. If they took down those walls and moved them to the rear it would open everything up. It was huge. I wondered how long it would take my dad to finish it. And how tired he'd be. "Where's your helper, Dad?" He dipped the roller paint in the bucket. "I sent Dyl home and Erwin just left. Jamie phoned him and she said their kid's pretty sick." "I hope Junior's fine," I said. "He was just eating ice cream with his daddy in town when I saw him last." "Junior will be fine. Boy's as healthy as a horse. Took after his Pa." He ran the paint roller on the wall expertly. Up, down. Up, down. He looked over his shoulder at me, smiling. "Been a long time since we went for ice cream, eh Kara Koala?" I nodded. I pushed up the sleeves of my sweater, re-tied my hair in a bird's nest on top of my head, picked up the other roller paint, dipped it in the bucket, and slapped that shit on the wall. We worked for a while. My dad piling on his dad jokes, me laughing uproariously. My shoulders and legs were screaming from the activity, but I knew my dad's muscles were worse. Last time I gave him a massage, they were as hard as bricks.