As she tucks the tickets into her bag, her phone buzzes. She opens it, scanning the new message. “Okay, we need to get Mom a tutorial on how to type on phones. The formatting on this email she sent me is criminal.”
I chuckle. “What now? She still have the Caps Lock stuck? Random ellipses or line breaks?”
“All of the above,” Zoe mutters, scrolling through what I imagine looks like a ransom note written by someone who just discovered keyboards exist.
Then she stops. Her breath catches.
“What?” I push off the counter. “Is Mom okay?”
“Yeah, it’s not her…” she trails off, gripping her phone tightly, clearly debating whether to share whatever just rearranged her face.
“Jesus, Zoe, you can’t be all dramatic and then not tell me. What is it?”
She turns the phone screen toward me.
My stomach drops.
The social media post gleams with professional polish:December 15th marks the debut of Petra Montgomery as SugarPlum Fairy in her first performance asprincipal dancer.
I stare at it, experiencing that specific sensation of feeling nothing and everything simultaneously, like emotional channels changing too fast to process individual programs.
Principal. She did it.
Pride arrives first, pure and uncomplicated. Then comes everything else: the nostalgia, the pain shaped by her absence, the knowledge I should have known about her promotion but didn’t because we don’t share news anymore, because we don’t share anything anymore.
I swallow it all down, storing it in the vault where I keep things too difficult to examine.
“Wow,” I manage, voice steady. “It’ll be one to remember.”
Zoe studies me with intensity but mercifully doesn’t push. She closes the post, tucks her phone away, then shifts the conversation to safer ground.
“Alright, Lila and I are heading out for the day—lunch at Patsy’s, frozen hot chocolates at Serendipity, and then some Madison Avenue Christmas shopping.”
I smirk, grateful for the redirect. “So, what I’m hearing is…your credit card will be worn out.”
“Who uses a credit card still, you neanderthal? Tap to pay, Liam. Get with the program.”
She squeezes my shoulder then she’s gone, leaving me alone.
My phone mocks me from its position on the counter. I pick it up, open messages, and type:Congrats on the promotion andyour debut. Youdeserve it.
I stare at the cursor blinking after ‘it,’ waiting for me to either send or delete this attempt at communication. Delete wins.
Second attempt:Congrats on the promotion. Wishing you allthe best.
This one survives three seconds before joining its predecessor in the digital graveyard of unsent messages.
I lock my phone and toss it onto the couch. Now isn’t the time for personal archaeology, digging through the ruins of our relationship looking for something salvageable.
I have a game to focus on. A playoff berth on the line. A team depending on me to be present, focused, lethal.
Now is not the time for distractions, for dwelling on a path that could have been but ultimately isn’t.
I have a game to win and a career to maintain. The fact Petra is achieving her dreams on the same night I’m chasing mine? The universe’s poetry remains unsubtle as ever. But I don’t have to read it. I don’t have to analyze the metaphors or appreciate the parallel narratives.
I just have to make sure the Sentinels score more goals than Detroit. Everything else—the feelings, the what-ifs—can wait because right now, they’re as useful to me as decorative pillows.
Chapter Forty-One
