Page 143 of The Games We Play
I’d always prided myself on smelling good. Perfume, lotions, hair products—it was one of my little passions, a personal ritual that made me feel put together.
Mac let out a low chuckle, cutting his eyes toward me for a beat. One hand rested on the wheel, the other draped lazily across the center console. “No,” he said. “You don’t stink. But we had to come up with something to get you to leave.”
I huffed, turning to look out the window with a pout. “That’s just mean.”
He grinned. “You’ve been there two nights, Pen. It was time to get you home, rest, and shower. Maybe sleep in a real bed for once.”
I wanted to argue, but the truth was, he wasn’t wrong. Still, being near Sandy made the anxiety quiet, if only for a while. Watching her breathe, hearing her voice reminded me she was okay.
“I know you were scared,” Mac said gently when I didn’t respond right away. “But she’s okay.”
Something about hearing it from him—his steady, gravel-edged voice full of quiet reassurance—hit me harder than I expected. My throat tightened.
“I just… I can’t lose her.” I stared at the dashboard, eyes blurring. “It felt like a slap in the face. A reminder that it can all be gone in a blink. Anyone I love, just… gone.”
The words came out raw, stripped down to their marrow.
I’d spent so much of my life not knowing what love and real affection looked like. And once I found it, once I let myself feel it, suddenly the idea of losing it felt like a kind of death. Like being abandoned all over again.
“She means a lot to you,” Mac said, his voice low and understanding. He didn’t try to fix it. Just sat with me in the grief of the moment, which somehow meant everything.
“She took a chance on me,” I said. “Gave me a start when I had nothing and nowhere to go. When my mom packed up and left the day I turned eighteen, I had no idea what the hell to do. I saw the apartment above the flower shop was for rent, walked in, and offered Sandy every last dollar in my bank account from working at the library.”
Mac reached for the radio, turning the volume down until it was just a whisper, giving me space to keep talking.
“She let me move in. Charged me almost nothing for rent in exchange for helping her on weekends. She supported me while I went to school online, while I worked at the library. She was the first person who really believed in me. Reallysawme.”
I paused, emotion rising fast. My voice cracked. “Without her… I don’t know where I’d be. She’s my family. This whole thing just reminded me how fragile life is. How stupid it is to waste time on grudges and bitterness.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mac’s jaw tighten, a flicker of something unspoken crossing his features. He nodded slowly, swallowing hard.
Even with my mom, I didn’t carry hate anymore. But that didn’t mean I had to let her stay in my life. Letting go didn’t make me cruel—it made me free. I chose peace over resentment. I chose my own happiness.
She doesn’t get to have that power over me anymore, and I’m better for it.
Mac’s hand left the center console and searched for mine, his grip was commanding and consuming as he brought my hand to rest with his. Silence filled the rest of the drive until we pulled up to the store.
The broken door had been repaired, the lights inside Petal Pusher were off and a sign was hanging on the glass.Be back soon.Written in Mac’s scratchy handwriting.
43
MAC
Isat in my desk chair, one hand resting over my chest, the other hanging limp at my side. The room was still, and I stared blankly at the wall across from me, letting the quiet settle over me like a heavy blanket. I needed it—to think, to figure out how the hell to say what I needed to say.
Penny’s words from yesterday echoed in my head. About permanence. About bitterness and resentment.
I dropped her off at her apartment and went home. I made it through another shift at the bar, but I wasn’t really there. I kept thinking about everything that had happened over the last few months—not just with Penny, but with Lizzie.
As much as I hated to admit it, maybe I hadn’t given my sister a fair shot. Sure, I had my reasons. I carried resentments I could practically name by date and time—bitter memories from a childhood that felt like walking barefoot over broken glass. But for all that damage, not all of it was her fault.
And if I was serious about growing, about taking accountability and not letting my past dictate my future, then maybe this was where I needed to start.
This morning, I called Lizzie and asked her to come by the bar. Told her it was important. I needed to talk. Really talk.
Now, I was just trying not to lose my nerve.
I shifted in the chair, leaning forward, elbows on my knees, head hanging low between my shoulders. Patience wasn’t my strong suit, and waiting made every second feel like an hour.
