The doctor suggested therapy and a support group. My mom and I went to therapy a few times together, mostly to make sure I knew the best way to take care of her, making sure she got everything she wanted when it came to worst case scenarios.
She wanted to be prepared because that meant it would be easier on me. My mom may have never said it, but that’s how she always was; how she sacrificed for me her whole life.
This place? She made it clear that I was to keep it. Use it. Take the trips. Swim in the lake. Make time for the moments she never got to.
Everything has been so complicated since finding out she was sick. It was all the appointments, therapy, logistics, and then fitting all of it in alongside basketball and my commitment to the team. But one day, she had a setback and never really made it out of it. The end was quick and I was thankful. I never wanted her to suffer.
May left me shortly after, still reeling in a wave of depression and grief. If I was too much for her before the loss, there’s no way she could be there for me at that time. Honestly, it felt like I’d lost her a long time before the day she actually left.
Then it was the injury. Everything with the team. The slimy athletic trainer. It feels like I’ve been punched while I’m down for longer than people should be allowed to.
This morning feels different. Like it’s the lightest I’ve felt in a while. It’s not that things are perfect, or simple, or really even all that clear, but it feels like there’s a bit of hope for me to grab on to.
Sadie starts to stir and when she picks her head up, eyes on me, I can’t help the smile that breaks out over my face.
“Good morning,” I say as she rubs her eyes.
“Morning. But your smile is kind of throwing me off,” she jokes as she sits up, putting a kiss to my lips and then looking out the window.
“You’ve definitely seen me smile.” I roll my eyes in fake exasperation.
“Whatever you say.” She shrugs her shoulders.
Fuck, she’s pretty.
She squints toward the window, sunlight pouring in like it’s making up for lost time. “Looks like the storm finally gave up,” she says, then her smile fades a notch. “I should probably go check on things. Make sure nothing’s… floating away.”
I catch the hesitation underneath it—the way her shoulders tense like she’s bracing for bad news. “Hey,” I say, more gently. “I’ll come with you.”
She looks back at me, surprised, then relieved, like she didn’t realize she wanted the offer until it was there. “You don’t have to.”
“I know,” I reply, already swinging my legs out of bed. “I want to.”
Sadie stands and puts her hands on her hips, weight on one leg like she’s testing me.
I walk towards her. “There isn’t a world where I’m staying here and not going with you, so…”
Her smile returns, smaller but real; when she laces her fingers through mine, it feels easy. Like whatever comes next, we won’t be facing it alone.
twenty-eight
Sadie
IwishIwerestill in bed with Colson. That would be much better than this disaster in front of me. Instead, I stand there with the door dinged up from something crashing into it, keys still clenched in my fist, staring at the wreckage like my brain… refuses to catch up.
The smell hits first—wet drywall and soaked wood, heavy and sour, like the building is already starting to rot from the inside out. Every step sounds wrong. Glass crunches under my shoes, sharp and unforgiving. Somewhere overhead, something drips steadily, a hollowplink… plink… plinkthat echoes through the open space, each drop stinging as a reminder of the water that doesn’t belong in here. Sunlight spills through the broken windows in uneven stripes, lighting up dust and bits of debris still floating lazily in the air.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, the words falling flat in the cavern of the room. I expected it to be bad but this is much worse.
Part of the roof is just… gone. Torn open like a can lid, insulation hanging down in clumps, framing a sky that feels way too cheerful for the mess below it. Dark water stains snake down the walls, bleeding into the paint color I agonized over and was so proud to paint by myself a few months back.
I take a few steps forward and Colson reaches for my hand.
“Careful,” he says.
I look at the court, which I’m hoping is covered with debris and isn’t actually damaged. My chest tightens when I see the cubbies. The wooden ones I had custom built—measured, planned, paid for with money I probably shouldn’t have spent—are swollen and warped at the bottom, the grain split and buckled where the water continues to sit.
I let out a shaky breath. “I don’t even know where to start,” I murmur, more to the room than to him. My throat feels tight, panic buzzing beneath my skin. How am I supposed to fix this? How am I supposed to make this safe, functional,readyagain?
