Page 87 of Slots & Sticks
“That you were ending it.” She flops back into the chair. “It’s been… confusing. We went through all those mementos of thepast, and it felt like breathing for the first time, and then today I—”
She stops, jaw working. I wait. If I’ve learned anything, it’s to leave room for the words to arrive.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she says finally, small and ferocious at once. “You keep saying it’s amazing, and my mom is dead, and my dad almost died, and every new day is a landmine. So when you say ‘amazing,’ my brain hears ‘you’re missing the point.’”
The tiny Camdens sprint around with clipboards.Abort! Reframe! We did not say grief was amazing!Out loud, I manage, “I meant… you. With me. Us. In the cracks between the terrible.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t livebetweenthe terrible. I live in it.” Her voice thins. “And I think there’s something wrong with me.”
“Don’t,” I say, too fast. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
“I grew up as the third wheel in my own family.” She stares at the porch boards. “Dad and Mom—Delilah—were a set. She lit up out there. For everyone else. For cameras and crowds and strangers and backup bands. And I… I was the static in the line. The kid she didn’t know how to hold without looking like she was posing. Do you understand what that teaches a person? That the way you are is… inconvenient.”
“Dot.” My throat aches. “She was an extrovert with a stage-shaped heart. That’s not the same as—”
“She was my mother.” Her mouth trembles; her eyes don’t. “And this is how it felt. That matters more than the footnotes. I spent years telling myself I’d stop wanting things that made me ‘too much.’ Then you—you make me feel like I matter and keep showing up with your ridiculous patience and your stupid excellent hands, and it’s like my whole body remembers wanting. Do you know how dangerous that feels?”
The bees in my head go quiet. “Dangerous. To want me?”
“To want anything.” She’s shaking her head again, helplessly. “Because wanting means you can lose it. My mom wanted the world. She got it—and then she was gone. My dad wanted one person. He got her—and now he’s… smaller. And I’m here, holding everybody’s hurt like a leaky bucket, and you’re telling me I’m safe to want you?” Her voice cracks for the first time. “I don’t trust it.”
“It’s not a guarantee,” I say softly. “It’s a promise I’d wake up and make again tomorrow. That’s all any of us get.” I press my hand to my chest, like I’m anchoring the promise there before she can blow it away.
She presses her knuckles to her mouth. “What if I can’t make it back? What if I break you? What if I waste the best part of you on… this.” She gestures to herself. “I had a thought the day she died. A gross, selfish, unforgivable thought: if I died, she’d be sorry. Who thinks that? Who thinks that about their own mother and then gets to have a good thing?”
“It was trauma talking,” I say. “Intrusive thoughts are liars in your voice.” I reach for her hand, but she jerks back.
“Please don’t make me argue with your kindness,” she whispers. “It’s not fair. You make everything feel softer, and I don’t trust soft right now. I’m not… lovable in a way that lasts. I’m the intermission. You deserve a show.”
“Hey.” Something sharp flashes through me. “Don’t talk about you that way. And don’t talk about me like I’m some fragile audience member who showed up for a performance. I’m here for the person. For you.”
Her chin lifts, stubborn. “Then be here for me by letting me go.”
There it is. The blade, finally unsheathed. I sit back. I feel it slide in, clean and cold. The tiny Camdens scramble for triage. All I do is stare.
“So that’s the plan?” I ask. “You decide you’re unlovable, and I’m supposed to nod and walk off the porch like a gentleman? You burn the bridge and then call it a safety protocol?”
She flinches. “Don’t be mean.”
“I’m not being mean.” My voice is even. Too even. “I’m being honest. I have been patient. I have listened. I have carried boxes and dogs and a hundred small fears you didn’t have words for yet. I have not asked you for anything you couldn’t give.” My jaw ticks. “But I will not let you turn me into a cautionary tale you can file under ‘proof love ends badly.’”
She flinches a bit when I say “unlovable.” Like the word hit a bruise I wasn’t supposed to find. Tears gloss her eyes, finally spilling. “I can’t lose my dad.”
“I’m not asking you to.” I lean forward, elbows to knees. “I’m asking you to stop using your mother’s absence as a reason to disqualify yourself from your own life. You can be grieving and still loved. You can be terrified and still choose me. Those truths can stand in the same room.”
“Cam—”
“And if you can’t—if you don’t want to—that’s your call.” Heat licks under my skin; it’s not rage, not exactly. It’s frustration, and hurt, and something like respect for myself I don’t often remember to have. “But don’t dress it up as protecting me. Own it.”
Her gaze narrows. “I’m trying to keep you from getting hurt.”
“Newsflash: this—” I tap my chest. “—hurts. Being shut out hurts. Hearing you declare yourself unlovable, as if it’s a fact on a medical chart, hurts. If you want out, say it plain. If you need time, say that. But stop turning me into a saint you can’t live up to or a fool you have to spare.”
Silence hums. A moth bats the porch light. Somewhere inside, Skinbad gives one soft, offended yip, like even he thinksthis is dramatic. Bo doesn’t bark—just scratches once at the other side of the door.
Dot wipes her face with the heel of her hand. She looks so young for a second, I have to lock my fingers to the arms of the chair. “I don’t know how to do both,” she says. “Be a daughter who holds her dad together and be someone’s… person. I’ve always been bad at sharing myself.”
“Practice.” I stand since sitting feels like drowning. “You practice. That’s what we’ve been doing.”
