Page 93 of Slots & Sticks
Kingsley tucks the pages under her arm. “Then I’ll be ready,” she promises. Her voice is warm and knowing. “Just tell me when the encore is.”
My pulse flutters. I glance over her shoulder—Cash is waiting by the exit, giving me a nod that’s both protective uncle and silent, go-get-him.
A laugh catches in my throat, half-sobbing, half-hopeful. “It won’t be long,” I whisper. “Sooner than I deserve. Sooner than he expects.”
Kingsley pulls me into her arms again, hard enough to ground me. “Good. Your mama’d want that. I think she always knew who the groom would be. And she approved.”
Something unspools in my chest like a ribbon finally untied. Not only permission—blessing. Like she saw my future and wrapped it in a bow.
When Kingsley lets go, I wipe my face and look back at the stage. The screens have gone dark except for one still frame:my mother mid-song, eyes closed, mouth open in a laugh I can almost hear. For once, I don’t look away.
I square my shoulders, clutch the memory of her letter against my chest, and head toward the doors—toward the night, toward the man I’m done running from.
Maybe the best way to honor my mother isn’t by grieving her.
Maybe it’s by finally choosing the kind of love she wrote about—unashamed, and alive.
Loud enough that she hears me back.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Camden
Soot bumps her forehead against my chin and purrs—again. She’s been doing this for two weeks straight, like she’s trying to cheer me up. It’s sweet. But it’s not working.
“Hey,” I croak. I pet her back, and Soot’s purr intensified. I’m glad one of us is happy. I’ve been dragging myself through the last few days, and my mood shows no signs of improving. How could it? I love the girl of my dreams.
The condo feels too big without her in it. The fridge hums loud enough to fill the silence, and every time the AC kicks on, I think it’s her laugh for half a second before the air cuts off again. Soot’s fur smells faintly like her lotion—something soft and citrusy—and it makes the ache in my chest twist even tighter.
I keep petting Soot while I zone out, staring at the wall while imagining my depressing, loveless future unspooling before me. I’ve been doing this on repeat for days—staring, replaying, rewinding. Opening our old messages to see her name pop up, like the ghost of a conversation that doesn’t exist anymore. I scroll through until I hit the picture of the dogs asleep on her lap and then throw the phone across the couch before I can break something more important than the screen.
I rake a hand through my hair, wishing there was some kind of reset button for the whole week.
Eventually, I’m jostled out of my doom spiral by a buzzing from a few feet away. I have to shift around to reach my phone, which disturbs Soot. She slinks off with a snitty twitch of her tail.
“Sorry,” I call after her. Seems like I’m always driving women away. I press the phone to my ear without checking the ID. “Hello?”
“Camden Beck, legendary sad sack. Are you alive or just answering from the grave?” Geo asks.
“About the same,” I admit.
“Are you at least wearing a different shirt than last time?”
“Uh.” I look down at the practice jersey Viktor had printed for me. “I plead the fifth.”
“My guy, I need you to take a shower and put on some fresh duds.”
I snort. “Who says duds? Have you taken up polo since the last time I saw you? Are you British now?”
“I’ll have you know that I am a classy guy who uses classy words—”
“To describe the clothes you bought at Kohl’s.”
“You get me,” Geo says. “So, how are you doing? Penny for your thoughts?”
“They’re not worth that much.” I hesitate, running a thumb over the seam of the cushion. She would’ve told me to talk about it—to stop bottling things up. But if I start talking, I might not stop.
“Cam…”
