Chapter 67 Distractions
Violet
Camille does not give me time to think.
That’s the first thing I notice.
The second is the iced coffee already in my hand before I even realize we’ve stopped walking.
“Drink,” she orders, shoving it toward my mouth. “You’re vibrating.”
“I am not—”
“You are absolutely vibrating,” she says. “And you haven’t had caffeine yet, which means this is about to get worse.”
She’s not wrong.
The cup is cold, condensation slick against my palm, and the first sip is sweet and sharp and grounding in a way I hate how much I need. I swallow again, then again, and Camille beams like she’s just administered life-saving medicine.
“Good,” she says. “Now donuts.”
Theo clears his throat behind us. “Camille—”
“No,” she says immediately, not even looking at him. “Don’t start.”
“I’m just saying maybe we don’t need—”
She pivots on her heel and points at him with the authority of a woman who has decided she is in charge of today. “If I stop, she spirals. If she spirals, I lose her. So unless you’d like to personally catch her when she short-circuits in the middle of a mall, you’re letting me do my thing.”
Theo opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Sighs.
“…Fine,” he mutters. “But maybe don’t bankrupt anyone.”
Camille grins. “No promises.”
She drags me into the first bakery we pass and orders like she’s feeding an army. Chocolate glazed. Powdered sugar. Maple bars. Something filled with cream that immediately gets sugar on my sleeve.
I don’t protest. I don’t even comment.
I just chew.
And while I’m chewing, my brain keeps going anyway.
Two funerals. No. One now. Rowan fixed that. I still have to pick dates. Burial plots. Flowers. Did my mother want lilies or roses? Did Evan hate roses? I think he did. Or maybe he didn’t care. God, what if I get it wrong?
“Hey.”
Camille’s voice cuts through the noise.
She presses a donut into my hands. “Try this one. It’s lemon.”
“I’m not hungry.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Lie again and I’ll make you try on something ridiculous.”
I sigh and take a bite.
It’s good. Too good.
“That’s what I thought,” she says smugly.
The shopping center is massive, bright, crowded. Noise everywhere. Music. Voices. The constant movement of people who are just living. It’s overwhelming in a way that almost works.
Camille keeps me moving.
Dress store first.
She hands me three things before I can blink. “Try these.”
“They’re all black.”
“Yes,” she says. “And?”
“And I already own—”
“Different black,” she insists. “Go.”
I disappear into a dressing room and change because it’s easier than arguing.
When I step out, she makes a noise like she’s personally offended by how good it looks.
“Oh no,” she says. “That one is coming home with us.”
I glance at the mirror. The dress fits. Clean lines. Professional. Something I could wear to work or to a funeral or to nothing at all.
My chest tightens.
Camille clocks it instantly.
“No thinking,” she says, grabbing another hanger. “Next.”
It becomes a blur.
Suits for work. More than I need. More than I asked for.
Shoes I try to justify logically and fail.
Necklaces she insists “don’t scream grief.”
A lingerie store that makes me freeze in the doorway until Camille physically nudges me forward.
“Camille—”
“Relax,” she says. “This is about you feeling like a human being again, not a ghost.”
She hands me a bra set. Black. Simple. Soft.
I stare at it like it might explode.
“I don’t—”
“You don’t have to buy it,” she says gently. “Just try it.”
I do.
And when I look in the mirror, it isn’t about sex or anything remotely like that.
It’s about remembering my body is still mine.
I change back quickly, hands a little shaky.
Camille doesn’t comment. She just hands me a pretzel on the way out and asks me what I think about gold versus silver jewelry like it’s a life-or-death debate.
Theo trails behind us like a resigned chaperone, occasionally muttering things like, “Do you really need three pairs of boots?” and “Camille, please,” which she ignores with expert precision.
Every time my thoughts start slipping, Camille redirects me.
Try this on.
Taste this.
What do you think of this color?
Is this too much?
Is that hideous or iconic?
My energy drains. My body moves on autopilot.
And somewhere between a candle store and a bookstore, I realize I haven’t thought about burial logistics in almost ten minutes.
It scares me how grateful I am.
Finally, after bags pile up in the trunk and my legs start to ache, Camille pulls us into a quiet parking lot.
I squint at the sign.
“…A spa?”
She turns in her seat, eyes soft but determined. “You’ve been holding yourself together with duct tape and caffeine. If anything is going to help, it’s this.”
Theo exhales. “Please tell me there are massages.”
“There are massages,” she says.
I hesitate, fingers tightening around my coffee cup.
A spa feels indulgent. Wrong. Like I don’t deserve to relax when my family is dead and my life is a mess and everything feels like it’s balanced on a blade.
Camille sees it. Of course she does.
She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to enjoy it,” she says quietly. “You just have to let yourself exist for an hour.”
I swallow.
Then nod.
Maybe this will help.
Or maybe it will just delay the crash.
Either way, Camille isn’t letting go.
Camille unbuckles before either of us can respond.
“I’m going to see if they have availability,” she announces, already opening the door. “If they don’t, we’re going to the next one. And if that one doesn’t, we’re going to the next one after that.”
Theo groans like this is a personal attack. “Camille—”
She points at him without turning around. “You will survive.”
Then she’s gone, marching toward the entrance like she’s about to negotiate a hostage release instead of a spa appointment.
The car goes quiet.
Not awkward quiet. Just… heavy.