Cameron reaches across the table and slides the toast closer to me. “Bite,” he says softly. “One bite.”
I want to tell him to stop.
I want to tell him he’s not my dad.
Then the thought hits like a slap.
No one is.
My eyes burn.
I tear off a small piece—barely anything—and put it in my mouth. I chew. I swallow.
It tastes like cardboard and effort.
Cameron’s shoulders loosen an inch, like I handed him something he can use.
“Good,” he says. “See? You’re alive.”
The words land wrong. Not cruel. Just wrong. Like being alive is the problem.
I don’t answer.
The silence stretches again.
Outside, the wind moves through the trees like it’s practicing being gentle.
Cameron fidgets. He drags a hand over his face, knuckles brushing his mouth. He’s been doing that a lot—chewing on the inside of his cheek until his jaw looks sore. Like anger is the only thing he can use to prop himself up.
He stares at the table.
Then he says, “Logan’s at rehab, right?”
My stomach drops.
“Yeah,” I answer too quickly.
Cameron nods slowly.
He looks away.
Then back.
Then away again.
I can feel it—the thing he wants to say circling, hovering, refusing to land.
My fingers tighten around the edge of the plate.
“What?” I whisper. “Just say it.”
Cameron blows out a breath like he’s been holding it since the graveside.
“This probably isn’t the best time,” he starts, voice careful.
My chest gets tight. “Cam.”
He closes his eyes for a second. Opens them again.
