Our Playbooks

Chapter 6

Cammy

I finish the last of my breakfast and push back from the table, ready to dump my plate and head home, but Ellie beats me to it.

“Thank you for breakfast, Mrs. Jacquelyn,” she says, then looks toward us. “I’d love to stay for a bit, but I think I’m going to head home instead.”

Meg shoots to her feet, and so do I. I can already see it coming — the way her mouth opens just a half-second too fast — so I drive my elbow into her ribs before she can finish. “But Ell-”

Before Meg can recover, I cross the room and loop my arm through Ellie’s, steering us both toward the door. “I’ll walk you home. My mom’s expecting me back anyway – the baby could come any day now, so she wants me close just in case.”

Meg tries again. “But -”

Her mom cuts in.

“Sweetie, your dad needs us at the cafe – he’s swamped. Her mom gives Meg a look that carries the full weight of a mother’s patience, then turns to Ellie and me with a warm smile. “You girls will see each other tonight.”

We both nod and head toward the front door together.

“Wait,” Meg stops us.

We both turn. I shoot her a look, but she ignores it completely and pulls us both in, squeezing like she’s trying to hold something together. “I love you both. I’ll see you tonight.”

“We love you too,” I say for both of us as we pull apart.

“See you tonight,” Ellie adds as we wave her goodbye and head to our houses.

We walk back to our houses in silence, our footsteps the only sound between us. Something’s off. She’s too quiet — and she only ever gets this quiet after something happens with Caleb. She gave so much of herself to him, so completely and without holding anything back, that afterward she came back drained, almost hollowed out, like a candle burned all the way down.

When we reach her driveway, I slow to a stop. I have to ask — I always have to ask, even knowing it’s a gamble. Sometimes she’ll tell me. Sometimes it brings back too much, and she shuts down completely, and I just have to stand there and hold the space for her.

“I know you hate it when I ask,” I say, holding her gaze, “but I’m going to ask anyway. Are you okay?”

Her shoulders drop — just for a second, just enough — before she catches herself and squares them again. Then she pulls me into a hug, and that alone tells me everything. She only ever reaches first when things aren’t great. I lean into her and let the quiet settle between us, the kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling. Her voice comes so low I almost miss it entirely, pressed somewhere near my shoulder. “No. But I love you for asking.”

“I love you too.” We pull apart slowly, and that’s when I notice it — her necklace, buried under her shirt and sweatshirt both. I reach over and draw it out gently. “This is too beautiful to hide.”

She takes it between her fingers and traces it slowly — a delicate 14k gold snowflake, its brilliant-cut diamonds catching the light like fresh frost. Seeing it in her hands takes me back. Her brother had found it online and, with their grandfather's help, bought it for her the day before he passed — something for her to hold onto, a piece of their last and best memory together. It arrived in a navy-blue box, her favorite color. She still keeps it on her dresser, right under her TV, next to a photo of both our families taken after the snowball fight and a few of her own framed shots. She's a gifted photographer. Some people say her images feel cold, distant — but they're wrong. Every frame she takes is full of her. They just don't see it like I see her.

Two winters ago, she’d just recovered from the bone marrow donation, and he was finally feeling stronger after the transplant. The second the first real snow started falling, my siblings and I — all six of us — burst outside in whatever layers we could throw on, already launching snowballs before we’d even reached the yard. Ellie and Caleb followed not long after, and what started as a skirmish turned into a full-on war. Their parents joined. Then my mom and my soon-to-be stepdad. We ended up piled inside afterward, hot chocolate in hand, still laughing. A month later, he was back in the hospital. He didn’t come home again until the following summer — and by then, it was to say goodbye.

I come back to myself and find tears running down her face, quiet and unhurried, like she doesn’t even know they’re there. I don’t think — I just pull her in, and she melts into me.

Something pulls tight in my chest. “I’m sorry,” I murmur into her hair. “I didn’t mean to take you back there.”

She squeezes me tighter. We stand there for a long time before she releases me and wipes her eyes. “I know. It’s okay.”

“I love how brave you are,” I tell her, my voice catching a little, “but you don’t have to be, not with me. Falling apart isn’t weakness. It’s just your heart showing.” I wipe my own face with the back of my hand. There’s more I want to say — I can feel it sitting in my throat — but I let it go.

“I love you so much for seeing me.” She pulls back just enough to look at me. “You know I’ll tell you when I’m ready, right?”

“I know,” I say. “I just want you to know I’m not going anywhere.”

She pulls me into another hug, and more tears spill down my face. It must be bad — worse than I thought. I hate not knowing, but I know better to push. She’ll tell me when she’s ready, and I’ll be here when she does. I feel a small pang of guilt, knowing she doesn’t open up to Meg the same way — but Meg has always been a little sheltered. Her moms kept her at a distance during the worst of it, and Meg never really saw the full weight of what Ellie carried. I made sure I was there, though. I saw it in Ellie’s eyes early on — that quiet, bone-deep kind of exhaustion — and I wasn’t willing to let her carry it alone because she never lets me carry it alone.

We’re pulled from our hug when my mom’s voice comes from behind us. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No, we’re okay, what’s up, Mom?” I ask as I stand next to Ellie, facing my mom.

“I was just coming to get you when I saw you out here. My water broke, and so I was hoping you could watch the boys until we come back from the hospital. Okay, sweetheart?” My mom sounds out of breath, her hand pressed against her lower back.

“Of course. Come on, let’s get you to the car.” I take her arm as the garage door rumbles open behind, Enzo already backing out.

“Congratulations on the baby, Mrs. Beth,” Ellie says softly. Her hand finds my arm and gives it a quiet squeeze — telling me if I need anything to let her know. She knows how I get when my mom's away, and I’m in charge. It drains me like the way helping Caleb would drain her.

I nod back at her as I guide my mom to the car and ease her into the seat. Mom reaches up and catches my hand. “They’ve had breakfast, but that’s about it, love. If you need anything, call Enzo.” She squeezes my fingers. “I love you, Camilla. I’ll see you in a couple of days. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“It’s okay. I love you too.” I give her my most convincing smile — the one that says I’ve got this — even as the weight of it settles across my shoulders like something physical. “We’ll be okay, I promise. Go. I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

She squeezes my hand once, and then they’re gone. I watch the car until it turns the corner, then walk into the garage and hit the button, standing there while the door groans shut behind me. Inside, the house hits me all at once — dishes stacked in the sink, toys scattered across the living room floor, jackets hanging off the backs of chairs like nobody’s ever heard of a hook. Two days. Just me, two boys, and all of this. I don’t let myself think about it too long. I go straight to my room, grab my headphones, fire off a quick message in the group chat to let Meg know we’re moving to my place tonight, and then I press play and turn the volume up until the music fills every corner of my head. Then I get to work. Top to bottom. This is what I do — because if I don’t, it only gets worse.

I start on the second floor, in Mateo’s room. He’s still asleep, sprawled across his bed with one arm hanging off the edge, mouth slightly open — nine years old and completely out. I move quietly, gathering his clothes into the basket and sweeping up the wrappers and scattered trash with the bag I brought. Once I’m done, I set the basket and bag in the hallway — I’ll vacuum later, when he’s up and running around with Diego. In the doorway, I pause and look at him, and something in my chest loosens just a little. He looks so much like our dad. Same curly black hair, same dark brown eyes, same olive-brown skin. He’s even got the build — tall and broad for his age, already as tall as me at nine, even though I have six years on him.

I pull the door shut softly and carry the basket downstairs, load it into the washer, and start it before heading back up. Diego’s room is directly across from Mateo’s — the second floor splits off the landing into two short hallways, each with two bedrooms and a shared bathroom, and the boys’ rooms face each other at the end of theirs. I knock and wait until I hear him say “Come in” before I push the door open. He’s at his desk, pencil moving fast across the paper, sketching something with too many teeth and too many limbs to be anything real. He’s twelve, almost thirteen in November, and drawing has always been his thing — though he plays football and soccer too, the same way Mateo plays basketball. He just prefers watching the game to playing it.

His room isn’t as bad as Mateo’s — more clothes than trash, at least. He usually brings his garbage downstairs on his own, which I’ll give him credit for. I work through it quickly, sweeping clothes into the basket and what little trash there is into the bag, then head out with both in hand. The basket goes down to the laundry room, and then I make myself face the bathroom. It’s exactly what I expected. Towels on the floor. Clothes on the floor. The towel rack was completely bare, and the basket was completely ignored. I stand in the doorway for a second and just take it in. Rinse, wash, repeat — when did I turn into someone who audits a bathroom with this level of resignation?

Maybe it’s just a boy thing — but damn, they’re messy. I squirt toilet bowl cleaner in and let it sit while I deal with the floor, gathering the clothes and towels and dropping fresh ones from the hall closet onto each rack. Then it’s the broom, then the mop, the mats pulled up and tossed into the basket. I leave the floor to dry and move on.

The spare room belongs to my older sister when they visit. Evelyn is the oldest, twenty-four, an editor at a publishing house in Cleveland, and just married this past summer. Then there’s Ava, twenty-one, who married her high school sweetheart at nineteen and now works as an architect in Cincinnati. She got the artsy gene from our dad, same as Diego. When they come home, they split between this room and the extra one in the basement, depending on whether Ellie’s using it. I dust quickly, since nobody’s been in here since early summer, then move to the bathroom on this side of the hall. It’s mostly untouched — just a pair of clothes and a towel on the floor. I grab them and add them to the basket I already have, rather than starting a new one, then clean the toilet, showerhead, shower walls, sink, and mirror. I sweep, mop, and pull the door shut to let the floor dry before crossing to my older brother’s room.

Alexander left for college three weeks ago — early, because of soccer. They don’t play their first game until December, but preseason practice starts in July, and he wanted a week to get his dorm sorted before camp began. His room is the easiest: I just dust and move on. Back in the boys’ bathroom, I lay down fresh mats and finish up the shower walls, showerhead, mirror, and sink. Once I’ve done a final check of the whole floor, I grab the basket and trash bag and head back downstairs.