Page 18 of Slots & Sticks
I lean close and whisper, “You don’t have to apologize.” Then to Camden, quieter still, “We should go. I don’t want to tire him out.”
Cam shakes his head. “You don’t have to apologize, either.”
Something in the way he says it—quiet, sure—makes my chest ache all over again.
If I could, I’d stay here forever, holding him up by sheer will.
But all I can do is take one last look at my father—the man who taught me how to love fiercely and without fear—and let Camden guide me back into the hall, where the world smells like bleach and loss.
I hold it together until the car door shuts. The click of it feels like a gun going off inside my chest. My core hollows, and then everything spills—tears, hiccupped gasps, the kind of crying that burns behind your eyes and in your throat all at once.
Dad’s no worse than he was this morning. They’re managing his pain. The logical part of me knows all that, but my body doesn’t care. My body thinks it’s back in the hallway outside the ICU, hearing the word burns for the first time.
Camden drives without a word. No music. No small talk. Just his hands steady on the wheel, his profile carved out by the light streaming in through the window. I hate the silence, and I’m grateful for it in the same breath. I can fall apart without having to perform my grief for him.
I sneak glances at him through wet lashes. He’s still here. Still choosing to be here. Not because he wants something from me. Not because he needs me to be okay. Just… because.
I didn’t know people like that still existed. I’ve never really understood why. I used to wonder if he liked me, but I’ve let that go. As far as I can tell, he doesn’t date. Never a girlfriend, never a puck bunny in his lap at the Puck Drop. I told myself that meant he was simply another hockey guy who couldn’t commit.
But then there are moments like this—his jaw tight, eyes soft, giving me space without drifting away—and I wonder if I’ve been wrong about him all along.
A thought flickers through me, so bright it hurts: What would happen if I asked him not to leave when we get to thehouse? If I asked him to come inside and… hold me. Not sex. Not even kissing. Just a big, warm body and a heartbeat next to mine until I fall asleep. For one night, I want to wake up to something other than grief and guilt.
The wanting is so strong it feels like an open wound. My hands shake. I close my eyes and let the tears dry where they’ve fallen, ashamed and exhausted. I’m so tired of crying. So tired of feeling like an orphan even while my father’s still alive.
We’ve been driving in silence long enough for the AC to evaporate any remaining moisture in my eyes. Camden keeps flexing his hands on the wheel, like he’s arguing with himself. When we finally stop, the engine cuts off, but he doesn’t get out.
When I don’t move right away, he clears his throat. “So, um. I’m realizing that this might not have been the best idea.”
“What?” I open my eyes. Everything is too bright. I block the sun with one hand and examine his profile.
“I thought I was being helpful, but in hindsight, I’ve probably put more on your plate. This was probably awful timing.” We’re parked, but you wouldn’t know it from his death grip on the steering wheel.
I don’t know what he means. It sounds like he’s breaking up with me, which would be a real trick given that we’re, you know,not dating.
I lick my lips. “Cam—”
He doesn’t look at me. “I can put it in the garage for you. If you want.”
I blink a few times. After a moment, I follow his gaze toward the house, but the only thing I can see is entirely new. Between the car and the house is a giant object wrapped in plastic. If I turned it on its side, it would be the size of the car.
“What am I looking at?” I squint out at the… whatever it is.
“Books,” Camden says. His Adam’s apple bobs.
“Books?” I repeat. “How many?”
“Um. Like… fourteen hundred or so?” His voice lilts up, the way it did back when he was sixteen and trying not to admit he liked indie music. “You’ve always turned to reading when you’re overwhelmed, so I was going to get you some books, but then I thought, what if you’ve already read half of them? So I looked up your wish list but you hadn’t updated it in forever, and then I found this site that sells mystery book pallets, and I thought it could be fun for you to open them, you know, see what worlds are waiting for you, and we could donate the extras or start a tiny library somewhere, like by the lake, or—”
He runs out of air mid-sentence, looks at his hands on the wheel, and swallows hard. “Anyway. You’re going to be busy getting things ready for Coach, so I’ll move it all to the garage for now.”
Between hospital updates, insurance calls, and estate paperwork, the garage is fine. “Okay.”
That’s all I can manage at first. My throat’s tight and stupidly hot. The mountain of boxes outside my window is ridiculous and perfect, exactly the kind of impossible gesture that only Camden Beck would make.
I try to joke because the real thing—the surge of affection and grief and something that feels a lot like love—might break me open. “You could’ve gotten me flowers,” I whisper.
My voice shakes on the word flowers. Mom loved flowers. But Cam gave me something that won’t wilt.
