Chapter 30
Denton
Ibarely slept last night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Holly. The shattered look on her face when I told her I was leaving. The way her voice broke when she called me out on my shit.
A soft sound breaks the stillness. The shuffle of small feet on hardwoods. I turn and see Tabby standing in the hall, clutching Mr. Sparklepants, her worn unicorn plushie. Her pajamas are rumpled, her dark hair a tangled cloud around her face.
She’s not her usual bright and curious morning self. Instead, she looks like someone turned out the light inside her.
“Hey, Tabby Cat,” I say, my voice rough with sleep. “You hungry? Want some pancakes?” My mind immediately goes back to the chocolate chip pancakes Holly made for them both last weekend.
Tabby just shakes her head, her gaze fixed on the Christmas tree behind me. She doesn’t come closer. Just stands there, small and impossibly fragile, hugging Mr. Sparklepants like a shield.
She hasn’t said more than three words since I picked her up from my mom’s yesterday afternoon. Mom and I told her together about the move to San Francisco. I tried my best to sell her on all the good things about California, but she started crying and didn’t want to hear anymore.
“Okay,” I manage. “Maybe later.” I take a step towards her, but she shrinks back slightly, pressing herself against the doorframe. The tiny flinch is a dagger to the gut.
She turns without a word and pads silently back down the hall towards her room.
I sink onto the cold leather sofa, dropping my head into my hands. What have I done?
The sharp buzz of the intercom cuts through the silence. I jerk my head up. Who the hell…? I cross to the panel, hitting the button. “Yes?”
“Denton? It’s Mom.”
I buzz her in, bracing myself for what’s to come.
The elevator dings moments later. The doors slide open, and Mom steps out, shedding her wool coat and scarf, her expression carefully neutral.
“Morning,” she says, her voice calm. Too calm. She hangs her coat on the rack. “Where’s my girl?”
“Her room,” I mutter, gesturing down the hall. “She’s… quiet this morning.”
Mom nods, her lips pressing into a thin line. She walks towards Tabby’s room without another word to me.
The soft murmur of her voice, low and soothing, drifts down the hall a moment later, followed by the faintest, hitching sob from Tabby. The sound twists the knife deeper. I lean back against the cool wall, closing my eyes, waiting for the inevitable.
Mom emerges a few minutes later, closing Tabby’s door softly behind her. She walks towards me, her steps measured. She stops a few feet away, folding her arms. The neutral mask is gone. What’s left is unmistakable disappointment which hits harder than anger ever could.
“She drew a picture for you,” she says quietly. “Of the three of you. You, her, and Holly. Baking cookies.” She pauses, her gaze boring into mine. “She asked me why the three of you can’t stay together.”
I can’t hold her gaze. I look away, focusing on the view of the snow-dusted city. My throat is tight. “I did what I had to do, Mom.” The justification sounds weak, I know.
“Did you?” her voice is still quiet, but there’s steel beneath it now. “Or did you do what was easiest for you?” She takes a step closer. “Denton Michael, look at me.”
I force my eyes back to hers. The disappointment is still there, etched deep, but now it’s mixed with something else. A profound sadness.
“Sarah,” she says, the words deliberate and precise, “She loved Christmas. She loved the chaos, the lights, the joy. She loved you, fiercely. And she loved that little girl more than life itself.”
Her voice catches slightly, but she presses on.
“Do you honestly believe, for one single second, that she would have wanted this for you? For Tabby?” She gestures around the apartment, at the sterileness of it, at the silent, oppressive grief that hangs in the air thicker than the scent of pine.
“Living in this… this fortress? Locking your heart away because you’re afraid of getting hurt again? ”
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. The image of Sarah flashes – her bright laugh, the way she’d drag me into the holiday craziness, the absolute joy she took in decorating, in baking, in living. She wouldn’t recognize the man standing here.
Mom continues, her voice dropping to a near whisper, thick with emotion, “She would have wanted you to live, Denton. To find joy again.”
She steps up next to me, placing a hand on my arm. Her touch is warm, but her eyes are relentless. “She wouldn’t have wanted you to choose this… lonely misery. She would have wanted you to be brave. For Tabby. For yourself.”
It’s the undeniable truth. A bright spotlight onto the cowardice I’ve been dressing up as responsibility. I wasn’t protecting Tabby with my decisions. I was protecting myself from the terrifying vulnerability of loving Holly, of needing her, of risking that loss.
I chose the guaranteed shutout of emotional isolation over the glorious, high-risk game of loving someone. And in doing so, I lost everything that mattered.
The realization crashes over me, cold and horrifying. The carefully constructed wall of logic, the justification for the trade, for leaving… it crumbles to dust. Leaving nothing but the hollow, aching truth of what I’ve done.
Mom squeezes my arm. “Talk to her, Denton. It’s not too late to fix it.” She gives my arm a final pat, then turns and walks back towards Tabby’s room.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out numbly. Evan’s name flashes on the screen.
I swipe to answer, bringing the phone to my ear. “Ev.”
“D.” His voice is uncharacteristically flat. No teasing, no hockey banter. “Heard about the trade.”
Of course he did. The Blades’ rumor mill operates at warp speed.
“Yeah,” I rasp, bracing for the fallout.
Silence stretches on the line. Long enough for the tension to coil tight in my shoulders. Then Evan speaks, his voice low. “So, you’re gonna do it?”
There’s no judgment in his tone. Just a desperate hope that he’s heard wrong.
I close my eyes. The image of Holly’s devastated face fills the darkness behind my lids. “It’s not bullshit,” I admit. “I… I took the trade. It makes sense.”
Another beat of silence. “Does this have anything to do with Holly James?” He doesn’t give me time to answer before he continues.
“Because let me tell you what that looks like from the bleachers, buddy. It looks like you saw a hard check coming – the risk of getting hurt, really hurt – and you turtled. You abandoned the play, left your teammate wide open, and skated straight for the fucking bench.”
I don’t know what to say to him. Can’t think of any words to defend what I’ve done.
“Listen, man, I’ve got to go. I’m here for you if you need to talk.”
And the line goes dead, leaving me feeling even worse than I did before I talked to him.
Evan’s words, Mom’s words, Holly’s words – they merge into a deafening roar inside my head.
Fix this. Before it’s too late. Mom’s plea echoes.
Is it too late? Holly looked absolutely shattered, broken. And I did that. The thought is unbearable.
Suddenly, a desperate, wild energy surges through me, burning away the paralysis. It’s not over. It can’t be over.
I pace the length of the living room like a caged animal. My mind races, scrambling for a play. Any play.
Could I hire enough expensive lawyers to make this go away? Maybe but Taviani has deep pockets and city hall connections.
How about buying the building? Impossible. Taviani Holdings wouldn’t sell, and even if they did, the price would be astronomical, way beyond anything I could swing.
I need a plan. Hell, I need a miracle. I’ve got to make a move, I just don’t know what.
I stride towards the hall, towards Tabby’s room. Mom is sitting on the edge of Tabby’s bed, reading softly to her. Tabby is curled beside her, Mr. Sparklepants tucked under her chin, but her eyes are open, staring blankly at the ceiling.
The sight stops me cold in the doorway. Mom looks up, her expression unreadable. Tabby doesn’t even turn her head.
“I’m going out,” I say. “I need to… fix something.”
Mom nods quickly, a flicker of something – hope? – in her eyes. She doesn’t ask any questions, but she flashes me a small encouraging smile.
Tabby still doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. She just keeps staring at the ceiling, lost in her own thoughts.
The knife twists again. I caused this emptiness in my daughter’s eyes. I turn away, the weight of it almost crushing.
As I head out the door, I have no idea where I’m going. But I know I need to fix this. And I need to do it fast.