Page 110 of Hot Shot

Davis’s mouth gapes like a trout, opening and closing.

I realize then that Wilder has Davis up on his toes—Wilder lowers him to the ground and roughly smooths out his jacket. “How about I tell you the best way to get the fuck outta my town, starting with directions off my porch. See, it starts with you getting in that fancy fucking car and driving east. When you hit the ocean, keep going.”

Wilder claps him on the back so hard, Davis almost falls down the stairs. Instead, he sort of stumbles down them backward.

Wilder waves, smiling like he’s psychotic as he says, “Thanks for stopping by. Never fucking come back or I won’t kid around. I’ll just put you straight in the hospital.”

Davis swallows hard, but he’s shaking his head like we’re crazy. Wilder backs up so he’s standing directly in front of me, his body tense. I peer around his arm to watch Davis drive away.

Wilder doesn’t turn around until the car is out of sight. When he does, his face is bent with concern.

“Are you okay?”

I nod, tears threatening again. “Can I have a hug?” My voice wobbles, but he’s the one who breaks, wrapping me up in his arms to rock me gently.

“You never have to ask, Cass. I’m always here.”

But that’s when my tears begin to fall.

Because that might be part of my problem.

Davis was right, and he doesn’t even know the half of it. I stepped into Wilder’s life, moved into his house, agreed to be married to him, became a stepmom to his daughter. I adopted their schedules, their needs, their emotions—I took it all on. They filled up the empty vessel so suddenly, with somuch, that there’s no room left for me.

It might be too late. I’m in too deep to turn back.

But I don’t know if there will be anything left of me when it’s all said and done.

CHAPTER 41

BEND > BREAK

CASS

The universe decides to use the rest of the week to prove a point.

When Wilder told me he’d picked up a shift for a guy whose wife had a baby three weeks early, I thought, how sweet. What a guy. What I didn’t consider was that he’d be gone Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Which meant I was completely on my own for everything but after school on Tuesday. Which would have been helpful, except Wilder had a game, so he said hi to us when we got home and then took off for practice.

Monday, I was ambitious. I was gonna own the fuck out of it and have plenty of time for myself left over (fuck Davis forever—I’d prove how wrong he was or so help me). I helped Cricket with homework. Did laundry I’d ignored over the weekend in exchange for getting fucked into oblivion. I made a nutritious dinner, cleaned up said dinner largely alone, got Cricket cleaned up and ready for bed, read her a chapter from the book she and I decided to read when Wilder is working, put her to bed. All I had left to do was grade homework and work on lesson plans.

What did I end up doing?

Faceplanting in bed, scrolling social media for an hour, and passing out, phone still in hand.

It was downhill from there.

I carted Cricket around town for her ball practices, therapy, Wilder’s game, errands, and many a trip to Sonic—all the things Wilder did when he was home was on me. Every single day, we were on the go, a flurry of homework and commitments and work. Through all the time I found myself sitting in a camping chair behind a chain link fence, I tried to get through grading all my babies’ math and spelling, which wasn’thard,obviously. But I was still behind.

By Friday, that fact has not changed. The physical stack of things that need to get done grows. Grades needed to be input—I’ve already gotten in trouble for it once. The end of my prepared lesson plans is approaching, but I can’t seem to keep my eyes open past nine. At least on the nights we’re home. And last night, Cricket had a double header. We didn’t even get home until almost ten.

It’s fine,I assure myself for the millionth time that week, clutching my steering wheel, trying to stay awake as I drive us home from school on the gray, dreary day. Cricket is chatterboxing, animated and happy and adorable—I haven’t heard a word she’s said. The knot in my chest is too tight, demanding attention as it recites the list of things I need to do in a doom loop I cannot seem to break.

It’s fine,I think again. Wilder is home right now, then we’re leaving to take her to her grandparents. And when we get back, I can get through a chunk of homework and sleep and spend the weekend alternating between passed out and catching up. It’ll be great. It’ll be glorious. It’ll befine.

The reminders don’t make me feel better. Every task I complete for someone else takes something from me, and I feelit like a physical thing, like a coin plucked from the coffer in my chest. I pride myself on my resilience. Six months ago, I would have told you I could have weathered anything.

And if it was anyonething, I would have been able to without flinching, even if it endured for months as it had now. But it’s not one thing—it’s a hundred little things every day, taking a precious coin every time. I used to think that coffer was bottomless, since I’d never hit the end of it before. But for the first time, I can see the bottom, just a hint, a sliver.

The trouble is, it’s going to be a hundred little things every day indefinitely.

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