Chapter 15
RILEY
That night, I dream of Pixel.
He’s sitting on my lap, and his purring vibrates through my entire body like an engine at exactly the right frequency to tune everything else out.
His fur is soft under my fingers. His eyes—amber, round, absurdly large for his tiny head—look at me with an unconditional love I’ve never experienced with any human being.
In my dream, I’m thirteen, sitting on my bed in the room my father decorated for me—pink walls I hated, white curtains that blocked the light, a desk too large for a child, and shelves containing too few toys. Pixel lies on my lap, purring, and I tell him things I tell no one else.
That I ate alone on the school grounds today.
Again. Not because the other kids didn't like me—they didn't know me well enough to dislike me.
But because I was dropped off and picked up every day in a black limousine, and because the other kids eventually stopped inviting a girl who was never allowed to come to birthdays, never to sleepovers, never to anything that didn't take place within the walls of Richard Blackstone’s estate.
Pixel was my only friend. At least for seven days.
I’d found him in an alley behind the school building. A scrawny, trembling bundle with frayed fur and a nick in his ear, cowering under a dumpster. I’d tucked him into my school bag—between my math books and my lunch—and smuggled him home.
Seven days. Seven nights where I had a warm, purring body beside me. Seven mornings waking up to amber eyes watching me from the foot of my bed.
On the eighth day, my father discovered him.
He didn't scream; he almost never did. He sat on the edge of the bed, Pixel in his arms, and said in his calm, controlled voice: Riley, honey, you know I’m allergic. The cat has to go. I’ve already organized someone to take care of him. It’s better this way.
I cried for hours. Not just for Pixel, but for everything Pixel meant—a week where I wasn't alone. A week where something existed in my life that wasn't approved, controlled, or monitored by my father.
I don't know if my father was actually allergic. I only know that, back then, I was alone again.
Just as I am now.
I wake up. The desert night lies black behind the window that won't open. No purring, no soft fur. Only the silence of this house and the dull ache of a memory that feels like someone tore open an old wound.
I sit up and pull my knees to my chest, and for a moment, I’m not in the desert; I’m in my childhood bedroom, thirteen years old, with empty arms and a father teaching me that love comes with conditions.
I get up, go to the door, and open it. The glass of water is there, like every night. I take it and drink while standing, the cool liquid sliding down my throat and slowly dissolving the lump there.
I could go back to bed, close the door, lie down, and try to make it until morning. That’s what the old Riley would do. The Riley who functions. The Riley who shows no weakness, because weakness wasn't an option in Richard Blackstone’s house.
Instead, I go into the kitchen.
Vaughn is sitting at the table, apparently working on something.
He looks at me as I walk in. No comment. No question. Just a look that says: I see you.
I sit in the chair opposite him.
“I had a cat,” I say.
I don't know why I say it. I already told him this story, on the Ferris wheel, the short version. But now, at three in the morning in a kitchen in the desert, the long version comes out. The version I’ve never told anyone because there was never anyone to tell.
“Pixel,” Vaughn says. He remembers.
“Pixel. I found him when I was thirteen. Behind the school, under a dumpster. He was so small he fit in one hand. Red fur, like mine. I told him we belonged together because we’re both redheads and because nobody wants us.”
My voice trembles. Not much, but enough for Vaughn to hear. He says nothing. He waits.
“Seven days,” I say. “I hid him for seven days. I stole tuna from the kitchen and carried milk up in a cup. He slept beside me every night, right against my neck, and his purring let me fall asleep. It was the first time in my life I didn't go to bed alone.”
I swallow.
“On the eighth day, my father found him. He said he was allergic. He sent a man who put Pixel in a carrier, and I watched them take him away. I screamed and cried, and my father held me and said: It’s better this way, honey. I’m protecting you.”
Vaughn sits motionless in his chair. His face is hard to read in the half-light of the kitchen, but his hands—his hands have clenched into fists.
“I never asked for a pet again,” I say. “I never asked for anything outside of his plan again. No sleepovers, no parties, no friends. I learned that anything I love can be taken away if it doesn't suit him.”
My eyes burn. I blink hard.
“Until now,” I say.
And then I cry. Not loudly, not ugly like that first day by the front door.
But silently, mouth closed, the tears just running as if someone turned on a tap I can no longer close.
I cry for Pixel, whom I haven't mourned in fourteen years.
For the thirteen-year-old girl who learned to stop wanting things.
For twenty-seven years in a cage that I only now, in a different cage, recognize as such.
Vaughn stands up. I hear his steps on the tiles. Then I feel something warm draped over my shoulders—a blanket from the sofa in the living room. He spreads it over me without touching me. Then he places a fresh cup of coffee in front of me. Black. No sugar. No questions.
He doesn't sit back in his chair, but in the chair next to me. Not opposite, but beside. So close I feel the heat from his body without him touching me. He doesn't say a word. He offers no comfort, no hug, no empty phrases. He just sits there and lets me cry.
And somehow—in a way I can't explain, and that makes me both angry and grateful—it’s exactly what I need.
We sit like that, side by side in the dark kitchen, until the tears stop and my breath settles and the coffee turns lukewarm. Outside, the edges of the sky grow brighter. The first birds—if there are birds in this desert—begin to chirp.
“Vaughn,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“When this is over. Whatever this is. When it’s over, I’m getting a cat. And this time, nobody is taking it away.”
He is silent for a moment. Then he says, so softly I almost don't hear it:
“Nobody.”