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“It’s a good song” She starts bobbing her head to it

I look at her “What’re you doin’ here, Camille?”

“Your brother’s hubby Billy called ht needyour partner without any notice right before the big dance” She eyes me “Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

I drop aze to the floor

“It’s pro closer to theon her shirt—a bit of fuzz or a loose thread

Even her walking is graceful, like she’s crossing so like she’sarea ofon

Camille peers back atwhat I suspect you’re busy doing—turning your big piece into a solo act—or … if you’re willing … I can be your partner instead”

I consider her offer with heavy, dry eyes, even if every inch of my brain aches and doesn’t feel capable of such consideration

My chest is still as crushed in as it was before

My spirit is broken

“Alright,” I decide flatly, soullessly, uncaring “I’ll go through the piece with you”

Camille crosses her ar smile “I’m a quick learner”

Then begins a two-hour session of rehearsing at whatever-o’clock on a don’t-even-knohat-day-of-the-week-it-is night

I don’t knohat Billy told her Does she know Bobby and I had a falling out? Does she kno shitty I’ve felt the past feeeks? Does she know anything at all, or everything?

It doesn’tme zero questions about it

She doesn’t even shootat breakfast

She doesn’t ask me if I’m okay

Hell, she doesn’t even try to hug ive ement

In just awith Camille, I feel more comfortable and at ho and cracking jokes and feeling confident, but at least I don’t feel scrutinized and interrogated and prodded at In fact, I feel downright secondary to the piece Ca on

Even after we’ve had enough, Camille simply helps herself to some water from a pitcher in the kitchen, then tells me she’ll be back tomorrow, and with a casual wave, she’s off