Mom emerges a few minutes later, closing Tabby’s door softly behind her. She walks towards me, her steps measured. She stops a few feet away, folding her arms. The neutral mask is gone. What’s left is unmistakable disappointment which hits harder than anger ever could.
“She drew a picture for you,” she says quietly. “Of the three of you. You, her, and Holly. Baking cookies.” She pauses, her gaze boring into mine. “She asked me why the three of you can’t stay together.”
I can’t hold her gaze. I look away, focusing on the view of the snow-dusted city. My throat is tight. “I did what I had to do, Mom.” The justification sounds weak, I know.
“Did you?” her voice is still quiet, but there’s steel beneath it now. “Or did you do what was easiest foryou?” She takes a step closer. “Denton Michael, look at me.”
I force my eyes back to hers. The disappointment is still there, etched deep, but now it’s mixed with something else. A profound sadness.
“Sarah,” she says, the words deliberate and precise, “She loved Christmas. She loved the chaos, the lights, thejoy. She lovedyou, fiercely. And she loved that little girl more than life itself.”
Her voice catches slightly, but she presses on. “Do you honestly believe, for one single second, that she would have wanted this for you? For Tabby?” She gestures around the apartment, at the sterileness of it, at the silent, oppressive grief that hangs in the air thicker than the scent of pine. “Living in this… this fortress? Locking your heart away because you’re afraid of getting hurt again?”
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. The image of Sarah flashes – her bright laugh, the way she’d drag me into the holiday craziness, the absolute joy she took in decorating, in baking, inliving. She wouldn’t recognize the man standing here.
Mom continues, her voice dropping to a near whisper, thick with emotion, “She would have wanted you tolive, Denton. To find joy again.”
She steps up next to me, placing a hand on my arm. Her touch is warm, but her eyes are relentless. “She wouldn’t havewanted you to choose this… lonely misery. She would have wanted you to be brave. For Tabby. For yourself.”
It’s the undeniable truth. A bright spotlight onto the cowardice I’ve been dressing up as responsibility. I wasn’t protecting Tabby with my decisions. I was protectingmyselffrom the terrifying vulnerability of loving Holly, of needing her, of risking that loss.
I chose the guaranteed shutout of emotional isolation over the glorious, high-risk game of loving someone. And in doing so, I lost everything that mattered.
The realization crashes over me, cold and horrifying. The carefully constructed wall of logic, the justification for the trade, for leaving… it crumbles to dust. Leaving nothing but the hollow, aching truth of what I’ve done.
Mom squeezes my arm. “Talk to her, Denton. It’s not too late to fix it.” She gives my arm a final pat, then turns and walks back towards Tabby’s room.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out numbly. Evan’s name flashes on the screen.
I swipe to answer, bringing the phone to my ear. “Ev.”
“D.” His voice is uncharacteristically flat. No teasing, no hockey banter. “Heard about the trade.”
Of course he did. The Blades’ rumor mill operates at warp speed.
“Yeah,” I rasp, bracing for the fallout.
Silence stretches on the line. Long enough for the tension to coil tight in my shoulders. Then Evan speaks, his voice low. “So, you’re gonna do it?”
There’s no judgment in his tone. Just a desperate hope that he’s heard wrong.
I close my eyes. The image of Holly’s devastated face fills the darkness behind my lids. “It’s not bullshit,” I admit. “I… I took the trade. It makes sense.”
Another beat of silence. “Does this have anything to do with Holly James?” He doesn’t give me time to answer before he continues. “Because let me tell you what that looks like from the bleachers, buddy. It looks like you saw a hard check coming – the risk of getting hurt, really hurt – and you turtled. You abandoned the play, left your teammate wide open, and skated straight for the fucking bench.”
I don’t know what to say to him. Can’t think of any words to defend what I’ve done.
“Listen, man, I’ve got to go. I’m here for you if you need to talk.”
And the line goes dead, leaving me feeling even worse than I did before I talked to him.
Evan’s words, Mom’s words, Holly’s words – they merge into a deafening roar inside my head.
Fix this. Before it’s too late.Mom’s plea echoes.
Is it too late? Holly looked absolutely shattered, broken. And I did that. The thought is unbearable.
Suddenly, a desperate, wild energy surges through me, burning away the paralysis. It’s not over. Itcan’tbe over.
