DAMIAN
Idon’t know how long I’ve been standing here, but my fingers are still curled around the edge of the doorway, locked in a death grip, like letting go means losing something I’ll never get back. Maybe if I hold on tight enough, something, anything, might start to make sense.
But nothing about this does.
My mother sits at the kitchen table, a fork in her hand,eating. Slow, careful bites, her brow pinched in concentration, but she’s doing it.
Because of Marlowe.
I exhale through my nose, sharp and slow, trying to shove down the knot in my chest before it chokes me.
Marlowe shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t bethis. Soft-voiced and patient, tucking a napkin onto my mother’s lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like she gives a damn. Like she cares.
And maybe that’s the part that makes me feel sick. Because Marlowe isn’t the kind of person who cares, not about people like us. Not about a woman who forgets to eat, who forgets where she is, who often forgets me. She’s Vick’s daughter. Vick’s. A man who’d steal from his own blood if it meant lining hispockets to feed his habit. A man I wouldn’t trust to hold a door open. He’s a liar, a con man, a thief.
And Marlowe’s in on what he did. She has to be.
So why does she look like this matters to her?
Why does my mother look safe with her?
I want to ask her what the hell she’s doing. Call her out. Rip through whatever game she’s playing and watch it crumble. But my throat feels tight, full of gravel, and the words get stuck. My mother’s humming now, soft, some old tune she probably doesn’t remember the name of. Her hands aren’t shaking. There’s a faint trace of peace on her face that I haven’t seen in months.
And it’s because of her.
My jaw tightens as I drag a rough hand over my face, stubble scraping against my palm. I don’t like this. The way it twists something in my chest, like I’m standing on a ledge and the ground’s crumbling beneath me. Like I’ve already lost, I just don’t know to what or whose game.
It’s all an act. It has to be.
But for the first time since this whole goddamn mess started, I can’t tell what’s real.
When my mother is done, Marlowe moves to the sink, gathering the lunch dishes without a word. My body moves before my brain catches up—I pick up plates and scrape leftovers into the trash. The water runs, steaming as she squirts dish soap into the sink. She doesn’t ask me to help, but I roll up my sleeves and start washing anyway. My hands work on autopilot, my mind somewhere else, stuck in the mess of it all.
I scrub at the frying pan like it personally wronged me. Maybe if I scrub hard enough, I can scrape away the feelings clawing at my skull—the anger, the helplessness, the slow, sickeninggrief.
Dementia. My mother has dementia. It’s a death sentence that doesn’t come all at once. It drags. Slow. Ugly. Twisting its way through everything, stealing pieces of her while we watch.
She walked out of the house. Alone. And we couldn’t find her. And I can’t stop thinking about what the doctors told us—that little by little, she won’t just forget to eat; she’ll forget how.
It’s eating me alive, twisting my stomach into knots so tight I can’t breathe. And the worst part? I have no idea how to stop it. No idea how to deal with any of this.
The clatter of a plate hitting the drying rack is sharper than I meant it to be, my grip too tight.
Marlowe barely flinches. Just keeps cleaning, her shoulders tense but steady. Her voice is quiet when she finally speaks. “I didn’t do any of that for you. I did it for her.”
The words blast through the mess in my head. I don’t care. She says it like I’m supposed to believe she’s got a grain of humanity or sympathy in her. I laugh. Sharp, bitter. Ugly. “Right,” I bite out, dropping another dish into the drying rack with a little too much force. “You’re some fucking saint now? Because you made a sandwich?”
She still doesn’t look at me, and that just pisses me off more.
“You really expect me to believe you’re a good person? That you give a single shit about her?” I take a step closer, my voice dropping lower, rougher. Meaner. “Because last I checked, you’re Vick’s kid. And people like you don’t do things out of the kindness of your heart. You do them because you want something.”
Marlowe’s shoulders go rigid, but she doesn’t turn to face me. And that just makes me want to dig in deeper, twist the knife, make it hurt.
“You can play the role all you want, sweetheart,” I sneer, my voice razor-sharp, meant to cut. Meant to wound. “But we both know what you really want. You’re just trying to get your handson that money to save your own ass. Just like your old man.” I take a step closer, watching for the flinch, for the crack in that too-steady facade. “But you and I both know the money isn’t there, don’t we?” I press, my words turning venomous, cruel. “It’s tied up in that shiny new bakery you pretend you built with your own two hands. Like that little ass-shaking bartender job was ever gonna cover the cost of a place like that.”
She still doesn’t turn. Doesn’t snap back. Doesn’t deny it. And that shouldn’t piss me off more, but of course it does. It enrages me. Because if I’m right, then she’s just another con.A lying, thieving, little bitch. But if I’m wrong, if she’s actually real in all of this, if she’s not just another selfish piece of shit, then I don’t know what the fuck to do with that.
And I sure as hell don’t know what to do withher.
