I want to touch her.
But more than that, I want her to want me to touch her.
And I think I’m close.
So close I can almost feel her heartbeat in my own chest.
Maggie’s voice cuts through the spell. “Candace, come get you some food, sweetheart!”
She blinks, as though waking up from a dream, and slides off the stool without looking at me again. But I watch her walk away, because how could I not?
The ghost of her scent lingers in the space she leaves behind. I breathe it in, foolish to the bone.
She moves into the crowd with effortless ease. Laughing at something Maggie says, nudging James in the ribs when heteases her. Her smile is easy, radiant even. This version of her—unguarded, unbothered—makes something twist in my chest.
The way sunlight breaks through smoke.
Then she crosses paths with Chuck.
And everything shifts.
She pauses, just enough to let him see her. There’s a flicker of something in her eyes. Perhaps hope. That childlike ache that never really dies, even when the man you once called your hero has done everything to kill it.
But he doesn’t even glance at her. Just brushes past as if she’s a stranger. Her smile falters. It’s barely a second, but it cuts deep.
I clench my jaw, rage boiling low and steady. What kind of father does that? She’s here, showing up, trying. And he can’t even acknowledge her? My hands curl into fists, nails digging into my palms. I want to grab him by the collar and make him look at her. Make him see what he’s throwing away.
She’s hurting. And I’m the only one who seems to see it. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand on the sidelines.
I don’t know where he got the money. But the way she looked at me, as if something had been ripped out of her, doesn’t sit right.
Now she’s standing here, broken-hearted and empty-handed, and I’m just watching. Boiling. Wondering what the hell I missed. It takes everything in me not to cross the room and put my fist through something.
Because for the first time in a long time, I care too much to pretend I don’t.
Chapter 17
Candace
“We’rehavingaridein a couple of weeks. You should come,” Maggie says as I reach for another cinnamon roll. They’re warm, soft, gooey; exactly the kind of thing that should be comforting.
But nothing feels comforting right now.
The scent of cinnamon and sugar curls up from the plate, stirring a memory I can’t hold on to. Sweet. Heavy. Too much. My stomach tightens as if it knows better than to let it in.
My fingers tap a slow, silent beat against the plate. A rhythm without a song. A habit I thought I’d broken.
I tear off a piece and chew slowly, nodding as though I’m listening, but I’m not. My mind’s a million miles away.
When I was little, I used to watch the bikes ride out from the upstairs window—lined up, roaring with the weight of thunder rolling down the street. There was something magical about it, as though they belonged to another world entirely. A worldwhere people had each other’s backs. Where your name meant something.
Back then, I’d dream of being one of them. Of someone lifting me onto the back of a bike and taking me away from everything.
The first and only time Dad let me ride with him, I must’ve been nine or ten. He had this old Harley he’d rebuilt himself. Painted it a dark green that shimmered with an oily sheen in the sun. He told me to hold on tight, then took us out on the back roads, just the two of us. No chaos or bar tabs. No screaming. Just wind in my face and his voice in my ear saying, “See, baby girl? This is freedom.”
For a minute, I believed him.
The hum of that engine used to settle something in me. Now, that sound just feels more like a warning. A reminder that the man who once made me feel safe on the back of his bike is the same one who hasn’t looked at me the same in years. I’m not sure when exactly I stopped feeling safe at all.
