Page 12 of Love is a Game

My eyes linger on the trace of dark chocolate left on his skin.

“It must be an awful shock, Pen,” he murmurs.

I bite my lip, suddenly hyper-aware of Tuck’s arm against mine. The strong male energy emanating from him.

It feels so…protective. When I feel so untethered, my mind murky and hazy. Like stepping in and out of a dream.

“I’m not sure I’m in shock…” I start before abandoning my attempt to explain it. “My therapist says everyone deals differently and I should just take it moment by moment.”

“What?” Tuck splutters. “You’re finally seeing a therapist after years of saying only crazy people do that?”

“Well, I guess it took a while to admitI’mcrazy!” I pop my eyes.

“So—is it working?” he wonders. “Talking things through? Your past?”

I shrug. “It’s CBT—cognitive behavioral therapy, you know? So it’s more about focusing on your present issues, not digging up crappy history.” I finger the band on my wrist. “More becoming aware of your core negative beliefs in the here and now—and consciously breaking them.”

“How long have you been working on this—the CBT?”

“Ever since I…refused Mia’s initial request to design her dress,” I say hesitantly.

His face stiffens. “Youwhat?” he bursts out in the middle of the safety announcement. “You said no to her? Why would you do that?”

“Why do you think?” I hiss back. “I’ve never done a wedding dress! What if I fucked it up? I would never live it down.”

He sighs.

“Tuck, my designs are not flowy and romantic! I’m known for innovation. And what avant-garde-style wedding dress ever works?” I crunch my face in disgust. “Carrie in theSex and the Citymovie? Tragic. Diane Keaton inBecause I Said So? Horrific. Gwen Stefani?” I wince painfully.

“Honestly?” I slouch back in the seat. “I’ve been stressed out of my head ever since Mason convinced me to do it. So yeah, between the panic attacks and nightmares of Mia walking down the aisle looking like a Vegas showgirl or a tribute to ‘80s power ballads—I needed help.”

Tuck’s face softens as he listens.

“I started therapy and found out it’s not just the wedding dress issue.” I look down, adjusting my seatbelt. “I mean—the dress is well underway now. But the constant negative stuff in my head hasn’t dissipated.”

I sigh, rolling my eyes. “Why would it? It’s always been there. I just didn’t know my anxious thoughts are…kinda at the extreme end of the scale.”

He reaches for my hand, and the warmth of his penetrates my palm, running like a current up my arm to my chest.

And he keeps holding it. All the way through takeoff—as the plane vibrates, building to that singular moment at lift-off, which always brings a hollow, fluttering panic in my stomach.

I grip my fingers tighter through his as we launch into the air, the mass of high rises, rivers, and the huge expanse of humanity shrinking away.

We reach cruising altitude: Journey’s set. No turning back. I’m plummeting through space, through time, to a place I don’t want to be. I don’t want to confront my mother’s death, her remains, her belongings.

I feel Tuck’s silence pressing on me. He’s searching for the right words, fumbling for a path forward through the emotional minefield I’ve laid out.

But there is no path. There’s no way to fix this. My mother is gone, and nothing we say or do will change that fact. And now I have to face the truth I’ve been dodging since the call came in: that the relationship I always hoped to fix will never be mended.

The fantasy I’ve clung to for years, of reaching some magical milestone where she might finally be proud of me, died with her. I thought that if I could achieve enough, become enough, I’d win her approval. If I could prove I wasn’t the mistake she always seemed to regret, she might finally see me as more than the burden that derailed her life.

I imagined it so vividly, hitting all the right marks: financial stability, emotional balance, professional success. And then, showing her I could make a choice she once warned me against. Because she always said having a child too young could unravel your life, just like it did hers.

But in my fantasy, I’d be different. I’d be ready. And maybe, just maybe, under those circumstances, she’d have the capacity to accept it—to welcome it, even. I pictured her holding that baby—loving them in a way I had never felt loved. And in loving her grandchild, she might finally find a way to love me, too.

But that was just a dream. And now it’s gone, along with any chance to make it real.

So what’s the point in wallowing? My life is mine alone, and I’ll live it on my terms.

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