Camille’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. Her breath came quicker, uneven.
Lila grew immediately concerned. “Camille?”
Her daughter’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. “That’s his truck.”
A chill ran through Lila, cutting through the warmth of the sun. She knew enough to recognize the warning bells blaring in her daughter’s demeanor. “Who’s truck, Camille?”
Camille kept glancing at the vehicle, her jaw clenched. “I knew this would happen,” she murmured. “I knew he’d come looking eventually.”
A pang of realization hit Lila, settling deep in her chest. She wrapped an arm around Camille’s shoulders, pulling her close. “Baby,” she muttered, her voice gentle but firm. “Who’s in the truck?”
Camille’s hand instinctively went to her belly. “The father.”
Lila was confused. “And that’s a bad thing?”
She’d wondered about the baby’s father for weeks, but every time she’d tried to bring it up, Camille shut down, her answers clipped or nonexistent. Eventually, Lila stopped asking, figuring she’d learn his identity when Camille was ready to spill.
Still, countless questions swirled in Lila’s mind.
How had they met? Were they classmates? Where did he live? Did his parents know? And the biggest of all—did Camille love him? Did he love her?
Lila’s pulse quickened as she followed her daughter to the waiting truck. She was about to find out.
26
Capri stretched out on the sofa, her injured leg propped up on a pillow. The weight of the cast and the crutches leaning against the coffee table were constant reminders that she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. She hated it. Being active defined her, and now she was stuck, bored out of her mind.
The television droned on in the background, an endless loop of talking heads, reality shows, and overly dramatic medical dramas. She thumbed the buttons on the remote, flipping through the channels mindlessly.
Channel 7 – A courtroom show where two neighbors screamed at each other over a broken fence. Click.
Channel 14 – A cooking competition where a celebrity chef berated a contestant for overcooked risotto. Click.
Channel 23 – A real estate show in some exotic location where couples argued over which multimillion-dollar mansion to buy. Click.
Channel 47 – A classic Western with a standoff in the middle of a dusty street. Click.
Channel 55 – The local news, leading with another grim headline. Click.
She sighed and turned the television off, tossing the remote onto the cushion beside her. Her head pressed against the back of the sofa, and for a moment, she simply stared at the ceiling.
She reached for her phone. Maybe social media would provide a distraction. She scrolled mindlessly through posts—pictures of friends’ kids, vacation snapshots, and a relentless flood of political debates. The comments section was a war zone.
“Ugh,” she muttered, locking her phone and dropping it onto her lap. Politics. She was definitely not in the mood for that today.
A thought crossed her mind. She hadn’t talked to her mom since leaving the hospital, aside from a few brief texts. The silence gnawed at her. Maybe her mom was just giving her space, but Capri missed hearing her voice, even if their relationship had been strained lately.
She hesitated for a moment, then pulled up her mom’s number and pressed the call button. The line rang. Capri tapped her fingers against the armrest, waiting.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mom.” Capri cleared her throat. “Just thought I’d check in.”
“Capri, sweetheart. It’s so good to hear your voice.”
Capri exhaled, a tension she hadn’t realized she was carrying loosening just a bit. Maybe this was what she needed—a little normalcy, a little connection.
“So, tell me,” her mom said warmly. “How are you?”
