Page 89 of Slots & Sticks
He turns toward me. “You’re not your mother, Dot. You don’t have to light up a stage or pretend you’re okay. You don’t have to earn your place in the world with performance. You already have it.”
“I just—” I bite my lip. “She was bigger than life, and I’m… quieter. Smaller.”
“You’re not small,” he says, fierce now. “You’re steady. You stayed. You loved her, even when it hurt. You love me, even when it’s hard. That’s not small, sweetheart. That’s everything.”
Tears hit before I can stop them.
“I think,” he adds, “Camden sees that. I think that boy would carry the whole damn world if you asked. But he doesn’t want the world. He just wants you.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know if I can give him that. Not with everything else.”
Dad sighs and wraps his arm around me the best he can. “Then don’t rush. Grief’s not a schedule. But don’t shut the door too tight either, okay? Some love’s worth the mess.”
I nod against his shoulder, eyes stinging. “Thanks, Dad.”
He squeezes me once. “Anytime.”
After a few minutes, he pats my knee. “Think I’ll shuffle back to the den and try for a nap before physical therapy.” He backs up his scooter with a practiced turn, giving Skinbad just enough time to slink out of the way with an indignant huff. “Don’t forget to eat something, okay?” he adds over his shoulder.
“I won’t.” I rise and watch him go, heart thudding in the quiet he leaves behind.
I head for the kitchen, but instead of grabbing food, I lean against the counter and just... stand there. Thinking. Everything he said is still circling in my head. That I don’t have to earn myplace. That I’m not small. That some love is worth the mess. I never thought of myself as steady—only scared. Only trying not to let anyone down. But maybe that’s what steadiness is.
Maybe staying, even when it hurts, is a kind of courage too.
* * *
The tribute concert comes together faster than I can process. Dante must’ve had most of the pieces already waiting in the wings, because there’s no way something this big should come together in two weeks.
Maybe that’s how grief works—you put off the feeling part by drowning yourself in logistics.
Dad’s been busy too. He moves around the house with quiet determination, doing his physical therapy, pretending not to notice me watching him. We don’t talk about the conflict. Not the friction between him and Sergio, and definitely not between me and Camden.
I’ve been avoiding my phone since that night. Every vibration feels like guilt rattling in my pocket. Camden hasn’t texted again, which means he’s either angry or done—or he’s giving me the space I asked for. I can’t decide which is worse.
“Do you need help getting dressed?” I ask.
He stands next to the bed, examining his good suit laid out like a ghost of his old self. “I think I can handle it.”
“Even the shoes?”
“I’m wearing the Italian loafers. No laces.” He winks, and it almost looks like the old Ranger Shaw. Almost.
The burn scars pull when he smiles, and my chest squeezes tight. I’ve learned not to look away, even when he does. Scars mean he made it back. Scars mean he’s still here.
I leave him to get ready and head upstairs. Skinbad and Bo follow close, their claws clicking on the wood floors, their bodiestwin shadows that won’t leave me alone. They curl up on my bed as I throw open my closet.
I have nothing to wear. Nothing that feels right. The memorial dress is too somber—black satin and guilt. This is supposed to be a celebration. I want color. Hope. Anything that doesn’t feel like mourning.
“Should I call Knova?” I ask the dogs. “She’ll make me over in thirty seconds flat.”
Bo thumps her tail once. Skinbad sneezes. Neither vote helps.
“Fine. New dress it is.”
But the idea of going out into a store, being recognized as Delilah Shaw’s daughter again? My stomach turns. No thanks.
My eyes drift toward the hall. Toward her room.
