Page 21 of Slots & Sticks
“I like it.”
Good enough for me. I turn the show back on and settle back in.
I don’t know how it starts, but Camden and I drift toward each other. By the end of the next hour-long episode, I’m cuddled up beside him. It’s not fully dark, and I’ve barely done anything today, but my eyelids keep closing on their own.
I should call the hospital. Just to see how Dad’s doing. It’s been hours. Something could have changed.
But Camden’s warm, and he smells like pine soap. My eyes flutter shut.
I tell myself I’ll only rest my eyes, that I’ll call the hospital in five minutes. But Camden’s warmth seeps through the blanket, steady as a metronome, and for the first time since the crash, my body believes it’s safe enough to stop.
Within minutes, I’m asleep on his shoulder.
* * *
Pale morning light spills through the living room windows. For a few precious seconds, I don’t know where I am. My body’s heavy but my mind floats—no sirens, no fire, no hospital. Just warmth.
Then memory hits like gravity.
Mom. The crash. Dad’s hands bandaged to the elbow.
Camden shifts beside me. At some point in the night, we must have folded into each other; now our legs are tangled under the blanket, the scent of takeout clings to the air. I squeak and bolt upright so fast the couch betrays me, pitching me onto the floor.
“Hey.” Camden leans over the edge of the sofa, hair sticking up in a dozen directions. “You okay?”
“My leg fell asleep,” I mumble. My face is burning.
He grins, sleep-rough and gentle. “Not just your leg. You were out cold. Did you sleep okay?”
“Better than I have in a week.” I push to my feet, brushing off imaginary dust. “You make a pretty solid heated blanket.”
He checks his phone and frowns. “Viktor’s calling an off-season practice. Want me to skip it? You still need groceries, help setting things up—”
For a second, I almost say yes. But I can’t make him my life raft. Not after everything he’s already done. “No, go. I’ve got it covered.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
He nods slowly. “Leftovers are in the fridge. I’ll check in after practice.”
“Cool.” The word tastes flimsy. “Say hi to everyone for me.”
He lingers by the door like he’s not convinced, then finally steps out. The latch clicks behind him.
The house exhales, and so do I. The quiet rushes back in, thick and merciless.
It’s as bad as the first time. Maybe worse—because now I know what it feels like to wake up and not hurt.
“Jesus.” I flop back onto the couch and press my palms to my eyes. “Get it together, Dot. So you’re completely alone. So what?”
My bag, abandoned beside the pile of books, beeps. Mira’s synthetic voice comes through the canvas, muffled: “Are you forgetting something?”
“Oh!” I scramble up, pressing a swallow down my throat, and dig her out. Mira is my one constant, my digital ride-or-die. I can’t believe I left her zipped in a bag all night. I set her on the side table to charge; her little status light blinks like a patient heartbeat.
I’m in yesterday’s clothes, hair tangled, skin sticky. I should shower. I should start on the dreaded chores. I should be doing literally anything other than sitting here.
Instead, I do what I’m best at. I curl up in the spot Camden warmed last night, pull my knees to my chest, and start doomscrolling. The indentation his body left in the cushion is there, faint but unmistakable, and I sink into it like a bruise.
