Page 14 of Slots & Sticks
Don’t ruin what she has left by needing her.
Viktor murmurs something about going to sit with her, and the relief I feel that he said it first is disgusting. I nod like it was his idea, and we gather the others.
Dot sees us coming and tries to smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes. When she steps into my arms, she smells like flowers and camera flashes and grief that won’t wash off. Her shoulders tremble once, and I smooth my hand over her hair because it’s the only thing that feels remotely safe to do.
I want to cup the back of her neck. I want to pull her into my chest and let the world fall away. But this is all I’m allowed.
For now.
The cameras keep clicking, catching the moment for strangers to consume. I wish they’d all disappear. I wish I could wrap her up in my arms and take every ounce of this pain into me instead.
Let her breathe again.
Let her be a girl, not a headline.
Let her forget the fire, the noise, the way people keep looking at her like she’s next.
But I can’t.
So I hold her a second longer than I should and hope she can feel everything I’m not allowed to say.
We take our seats near the front, the six of us moving as one—an instinct more than a plan. The lights dim until the ballroom feels like a chapel, shadows climbing the walls of white flowers. Dot’s knuckles are bone-white where she grips the edge of her chair.
Then the stage lights rise. Cash and Kingsley step into the glow.
They don’t need an introduction. The whole room exhales when they appear—Vegas royalty, the kind of couple whose harmonies have sold out arenas. But tonight, the usual polish is gone. Kingsley’s hair isn’t quite as styled as if she’s been runningher hands through it. Cash’s tie is missing. They look like people trying to sing through the wreckage of their own hearts.
Kingsley leans into the mic, voice trembling. “Delilah was my first duet partner. She taught me that being brave isn’t about standing center stage—it’s about standing there even when your hands are shaking.” Her eyes flick toward Dot. “So we wrote this for her. For the hands that kept shaking, and the soul that never stopped.”
Cash starts to play, a simple acoustic riff—three chords, stripped bare. Kingsley joins in, her voice thin at first, then blooming into something raw.
You danced through the smoke, lit the dark in your wake,
Every spotlight a promise you’d never quite break.
Now the crowd is still listening, the echo remains,
A melody threaded through all of our veins.
So keep singing, my sister, wherever you roam,
We’ll meet you in music, and call it home.
By the second verse, half the room is crying. The other half is praying not to. Dot presses her fist against her mouth, shoulders trembling. I slide my hand over hers, palm to palm, anchor to anchor. She doesn’t look at me, but she doesn’t pull away either.
When the final chord fades, there’s no applause—just a heavy, uncomfortable silence. Kingsley steps off the stage and goes straight to Dot, gathering her into a hug that folds decades of friendship into one moment.
I can’t hear what she whispers, but whatever it is makes Dot’s knees buckle. Kingsley holds her up. Cash stands behind them, eyes red, hand over his heart.
It’s grief made holy—music as confession, love as the only thing left standing.
And I can’t stop thinking that if I could sing, I’d write her something too. Something that told her how the world feelssmaller without her mom, how the light in her has to survive for both of them now.
But I’m not a songwriter. I’m the guy sitting beside her, wishing my voice could be enough.
The speeches and eulogies blur together—one long ache of voices, microphones popping, and flowers wilting under the stage lights. At some point, Dot’s hand finds mine. Her fingers are cold and trembling, but she doesn’t let go. Every few minutes, I give a small squeeze—enough to remind her she’s not drifting through this alone.
When the final song fades, the crowd rustles to its feet. The air smells like too many perfumes fighting the same grief. Kingsley catches Dot’s arm and draws her aside. I back away to give them space, weaving through clusters of people hugging and crying and pretending they didn’t come here to be seen.
