Page 90 of Slots & Sticks
Before I can talk myself out of it, I walk there barefoot. The doorknob is cold in my palm. When I open it, a soft puff of lilac and stage perfume drifts out—powder, leather, and some note that’s uniquely her. My throat closes.
Mom’s closet is a time capsule of a life too big for this small house. Sequins. Silk. Suede boots lined up like trophies. I run my fingers along the hangers, whispering memories into the quiet.
The gold gown from the Grammys—the one that broke the internet. The boys at school used to pull up pictures and snicker, asking if she’d worn underwear that night. I’d laugh along and die inside.
The silver pantsuit from Madison Square Garden with a cropped top and glittering midriff. I hated that outfit. I thought it made her look like someone’s fantasy instead of my mother.
And then—
My hand pauses on something softer. Cream lace. A white liner. Modest. Elegant. A dress I don’t recognize.
“Did you ever wear this, Mom?” I whisper. “Did I miss it?”
I slip it off the hanger and carry it to the bed. The fabric’s delicate but strong. I pull it on carefully, mindful of seams that have waited decades to breathe again. The zipper sticks halfway up. My boobs protest, so I grab a wrap to hide the gap. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see Delilah the superstar. I see… me, if I’d been loved out loud.
I whisper goodbye to the girl who never thought she was wanted. Only one word, barely spoken. “Goodbye.” Then I blink, and she’s gone—replaced by someone who’s ready to believe differently.
And suddenly, the tears I’ve been avoiding all week punch through.
I shouldn’t have said those things to Camden. I shouldn’t have told him I was broken. I just—
I was scared. Still am. When he said he loved me, I felt it in my bones, and all I could think about was how love always ends in ashes. I saw my parents’ wreckage, not their devotion. I saw the fire, not the way Dad crawled out alive.
Swiping at my eyes, I dig through a jewelry box on the dresser. Her perfume bottles are dusty, half-empty, but when I open one the scent punches straight through my chest—rose and musk and memory. I find a pair of garnet studs and slip them in. They flash red in the light, like heartbeats. Mine. Hers. Maybe both.
Downstairs, Dad calls, “Dottie? You about ready?”
“Coming!” My voice cracks. I blow my nose, fix my eyeliner, and step into my sparkly silver heels—the ones I borrowed on my birthday. The ones Camden said made me look like moonlight.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, Dad looks up—and his eyes fill.
“Dottie, you look lovely, sweetheart.” His voice trembles. “Was that your mother’s?”
“It was in her closet,” I admit. “But I don’t remember ever seeing her wear it.”
He smiles, faintly crooked. “You wouldn’t have. She wore it to the party where she announced her pregnancy.”
The air leaves my lungs. “Wait. So this is… a maternity dress?”
“Barely. She was only a few months along. She loved this one. Said it felt lucky.”
My fingers trace the lace over my stomach. “Why did she keep it?”
“Because she wanted the reminder,” he says simply. “We worked so hard to have you.”
It takes me a second to understand what he means. “Wait—what?”
He nods. “Fertility treatments. Two years’ worth. I used to give her the shots. She’d bruise, but she never complained.”
The room tilts. “You never told me that.”
He chuckles faintly. “Of course, we did. You must’ve forgotten.”
Forgotten.
Or blocked it out because it didn’t fit the narrative I’d built—that she hadn’t wanted me. That I was the accident that got in the way of her spotlight.
But if she fought this hard… if she wanted me…
