Page 88 of Slots & Sticks
She shakes her head. “Not well enough. Not now.” Her voice steadies. “I need to choose Dad.”
“You didn’t have to pick.” The anger cools to clean lines. “You did anyway.”
“I did,” she says, eyes steady on mine. “And I need you to respect that.”
It lands. That’s the thing about boundaries—they sting because they’re real.
“Okay,” I say. A word like a door closing gently. “Here’s mine in return: I will not be your ghost. I will not be hung on a hook with your mother’s mistakes. If and when you want me—want this—you’re going to have to tell me clear. No more reading between the lines.”
Her eyebrows knit together. “So, you’re… done?”
“I’m not done loving you.” I swallow. It scrapes. “But I’m done standing on the porch begging for scraps of whatever you have left after you’ve given everything away.” I glance at the door, at the slit of warm house light around the jamb. “I’ve been nothing but here, Dot. I’m not perfect, but I showed up. I keep showing up. And I won’t apologize for wanting you to meet me halfway.”
She reaches for the knob behind her without looking, like muscle memory. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I am. For all of it.”
“Me too.” I back down a step, because if I stay, I’ll try to fix this, and that’s not what she’s asking for. “Tell Coach I’ll swing by with broth tomorrow. And chew toys. For the rat-dog.”
Her mouth jerks like a laugh tried to get out and failed. She nods once. Turns the lock. The bolt slides home with a small, decisive click.
I stand there longer than I should, hand hanging stupidly in the space where her fingers used to fit. The porch light hums. Crickets start their useless applause.
Then I take the stairs, one, two, three, and walk to the car with my pulse thudding in my ears. I’ve got a cat to feed and a hundred miles to skate out of my legs, and a plan to make that doesn’t include waiting like a loyal retriever on a stoop.
I start the engine. I don’t look back.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dot
The front door clicks shut behind Camden, and I sag against it, arms trembling like I just ran a mile in cement shoes. My ears are ringing from the silence he left behind—clean, final, echoing with everything I didn’t let myself say.
I turn around to head upstairs and stop short.
Dad’s parked just inside the entryway, seated in his scooter. He’s facing the door, hands resting on the console like he’s been there a while.
Listening.
My throat closes. “How much did you hear?”
“Enough,” he says quietly.
I expect a lecture, or disappointment. Maybe that soft sigh he does when I’ve let him down. Instead, he just gestures toward a chair in the living room. “Sit with me a sec?”
I do. Slowly. I perch on the armrest with my legs tucked up. He doesn’t say anything at first, just holds space for me like he used to when I’d get overwhelmed after school.
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he says. “But you were both raising your voices. And I was nosy.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I know you like Camden. I-I tried to let him go gently.”
Dad hums. “Wasn’t gentle. Was kind. There’s a difference.”
We sit there in silence for a beat.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit, voice cracking. “Mom is gone. You almost died. And I’m still here, trying to be everything for everyone, and I think I just broke the one good thing that made it feel okay.”
He nods, slow and solemn. “You’ve had to hold too much. I see that.”
A breath catches in my chest.
