Usually this would be the point in the conversation where I’d tell her to knock herself out—literally. But today I don’t. I can see bright tears gleaming in the corner of Camille’s eyes. In all the years I’ve known her, in all the times I’ve seen her pissed off, agitated, or stressed, I’ve never seen her cry. Not once. There’s something seriously wrong with that sight. It’s like a lion with its mane shaved off. It makes me feel the one thing I don’t ever want to feel—pity.
