I also hate how much I’ve started to rely on it.
“How was practice?” he asks, casual on purpose.
“Fine,” I say, dropping my bag by the door.
Logan’s eyes flick to my face. “You’re doing the spiral thing.”
“I’m not,” I lie automatically.
He hums like he doesn’t believe me, then keeps his mouth shut because he’s learned. He’s learned what happens when he pushes.
The television murmurs quietly. Sports commentators. Crowd noise. A world where bodies are strong and futures are simple.
I move toward the kitchen, pulling my ponytail out as I go. My scalp aches the way it always does when I’ve been holding myself together too tightly.
The sink is full of dishes I don’t remember leaving there.
That used to bother me.
Now it just makes my throat tighten, because it means Pops wasn’t up for cleaning. Or Cameron wasn’t here. Or I was too distracted.
I start rinsing the plates, trying to turn my brain off.
Behind me, the hallway floorboard creaks.
I freeze.
Then the creak comes again, slower this time, paired with the soft scrape of a walker.
I turn.
Pops is in the doorway.
He’s wearing sweats and one of his old coach pullovers, but it’s looser than it used to be. His shoulders aren’t as broad under it anymore. His cheeks look a little more hollow, his skin a little thinner, like the light goes through him more than it should.
He smiles when he sees me. It’s still Pops, still warm—but it costs him.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says.
My chest tightens. “Hey.”
He steps forward slowly, walker leading the way. His hands grip the handles a little tighter than they did last month.
I hate the walker.
I hate what it represents.
I hate that my brain keeps trying to measure time by equipment.
Pops stops near the kitchen island, breathing a little heavier than he should be from the short walk.
He catches me watching and lifts his brows. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting,” I say quickly.
Pops gives me a look like he knows I’m lying.
Logan shifts on the couch, already moving like he’s going to stand.
