Chapter 18 #2
I tugged on the gloves, then put on the glasses and mask.
The kitchen was a wreck.
Cabinet doors sagged, warped and split where water had soaked in. The tile backsplash bowed, almost falling off the wall. But the biggest problem was the mildew smell clinging to the back of my throat.
Nothing in this room could be saved. Too damaged. Too far gone.
Was I the first person to empathize with a cabinet? Maybe.
Ty disappeared down the hall and came back a moment later with a hammer. He tipped his chin toward a cabinet hanging crooked on the wall. “Start there.”
Something in my chest snapped.
I took the hammer and glared at the cabinet as if it had offended me. When I swung, a scream ripped out of my throat, but the hammer barely left a dent, bouncing off with a dull, useless thunk.
I swung again. Harder.
Still standing.
“Of course,” I growled, bringing it down a third time. Wood finally cracked, a splinter flying loose across the floor. “Of course I’d fuck this up, too.”
The cabinet groaned but didn’t fall.
I laughed, sharp and bitter. “Doesn’t that just figure.”
Ty’s voice came from behind me, low and maddeningly calm. “You’re pulling up when you hit.”
“I don’t need you,” I muttered through gritted teeth, drawing the hammer back again.
“Well aware, sweetheart.”
Before I could tell him where to shove his sweetheart, he stepped in behind me—close enough that his heat brushed my back.
“Here,” he said, his voice rougher now.
His hand slid over mine, guiding my grip on the handle. “Keep your wrist straight. Let your shoulder do the work.”
My breath hitched. He wasn’t gentle, but he wasn’t condescending either. He met my fury head-on—steady, grounded, and unafraid of it.
“Now,” he said, pulling my hair away from my face, “swing through.”
I did.
The cabinet split with a sharp crack, wood splintering clean down the middle.
“Good,” he murmured, stepping back just enough to give me space. “Again.”
So I swung harder this time. Then again. Each hit landed deeper, shaking something loose in my chest—grief, rage, all of it tearing free in jagged pieces.
When the cabinet gave way, my gaze snapped to the backsplash. Rows of chipped tile glinted under the light, crooked and smug, and I hated them.
Without thinking, I brought the hammer down.
Ceramic shattered. Sharp fragments flew, clattering across the counter and skidding over the floor. The sound rang through the house, violent and echoing.
I didn’t stop.
The crash of tile against plaster filled the room, rhythm and chaos blurring together until it didn’t matter what I hit anymore. Only that I kept swinging.
By the time I slowed, my arms trembled with effort. Sweat dampened my hairline. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, then gradually gave way to music.
I frowned, turning toward the sound.
A stereo sat on the rickety table near the door, some angry rock song blasting loud enough to make the surface vibrate.
Ty leaned against the wall next to it, arms crossed. There was no pity on his face, no attempt to soften the moment—just quiet approval in his hazel eyes, like he saw every ugly piece of me and hadn’t flinched.
That did more for me than any comforting words ever could.
I straightened, chest still heaving. “That felt good.”
“I bet,” he said. “You needed it.”
As the last of the anger drained out of me, I took in the damage. Cabinets demolished. Tiles shattered across the counter. Wood crunching under my boots.
The kitchen was a disaster, and so was I. My hoodie was dusted white, hanging low over my hips. Only then did I realize I was wearing… not much else.
Heat crawled up the back of my neck when I remembered I’d thrown it on over a sports bra and boy shorts to answer the door. In the middle of my rage, I’d stopped being a person and become pure motion.
Now I was very much a person again.
I lifted my gaze to Ty, realizing how close he’d been and how exposed I was.
But he looked almost as undone as me.
Gone were his typical jeans and work boots. Instead, he wore black athletic shorts, running shoes, and a backward cap. His faded gray Mayhem Hockey Club tee had the sleeves ripped off, showcasing broad shoulders and corded muscle I didn’t have language for.
And then—
The tattoos.
Holy hell.
Black ink wrapped his right shoulder in bold geometric lines, curving down his bicep before disappearing beneath the cotton. Another snaked along his thigh—a compass surrounded by mountain peaks and what looked like Norse runes, stark against sun-warmed skin.
I swallowed. “You have tattoos.”
He lifted a brow, his mustache doing a terrible job of hiding his smile. “Sharp observation.”
“I just—wow. Okay. That’s new information.”
He tilted his head. “Didn’t fit the flannel-and-boots version of me you had in your head?”
“No,” I admitted, heat blooming higher on my face. “Not even a little.”
His chuckle was low and warm.
Before I could find something resembling composure, the song changed, and I looked over at the stereo. It sat on one of Aunt Maggie’s old side tables, rocking with the bass. With each vibration, a sliver of white edged farther out until a piece of paper slipped free and fluttered to the floor.
My chest tightened.
I set the hammer down and crossed the room on unsteady legs.
Just like last time, the envelope had a simple daisy drawn on the front.
Tears blurred my vision as I bent to pick it up, my hands shaking so badly I almost dropped it again.
Oh, good. You stopped avoiding me.
My knees gave out. I sank to the floor, the letter clutched against my chest.
“Dammit, Vi,” I said through a watery laugh, surprised yet again by my sister’s antics, even now.
I can’t cash in on bets anymore, but I’m going to say it’s been at least a week, and my ashes are sitting in some facility waiting for you to call and pick them up. That’s fine. I deserve to wait, because fuck me, right?
I laughed again, swiping at my cheeks with my sleeve.
Today my doctor told me I’m dying. Not in a might-die kind of way. It’s inevitable. And I’m angry.
I’m outraged at my body for betraying me. Furious at how much I’m leaving behind. Livid that I’ll never see Junie’s awkward teenage years or teach her how to drive or watch her fall in love with the wrong person and have to sit there silently while she makes her own mistakes.
But most of all, I’m angry that she doesn’t have a parent who was supposed to love her. Her dad couldn’t be bothered to stay. And now I’m about to check out too.
The only reason I can breathe through that is you.
You, Daisy Winslow, my human hurricane, are the one thing that makes this whole thing feel not so unbearable. You’ve always been the fighter. The one who keeps everyone else afloat even when you’re drowning.
You’re probably reading this with your jaw set and your fists clenched, pretending you’re fine.
But you’re not fine. I’m not fine. And that’s okay.
So let’s be mad. We should be.
Yell at the sky. Scream at me. Curse the universe. Let it out.
But let’s not let it change us, okay? I need my Daisy girl, now more than ever. Not the fake version you’ve been clinging to in Chicago, but my precious, obnoxious baby sister who can find good in any situation, for better or worse.
Tears slipped free, hitting the paper in fat droplets, but I kept reading, not wanting to let go yet.
But do you know what I’m not mad about?
I’m not mad that you’re in Linwood, back where we were always happiest.
And I’m not mad that the cute neighbor with the dog and the savior complex thinks Junie hung the moon.
When I look for the good in this fucking terrible story, I hope maybe this—coming home, cleaning up my chaos, loving my kid—helps you find yourself again.
You’re probably crying right now and pretending it’s just dust. Maybe you’re mad this letter isn’t full of some profound acceptance garbage.
That will come later.
Today, we’ll be angry. Messy. Break things.
And when we’re done breaking… build.
Build me a new home, a new life. Fill in the gaps and make it yours. Knowing you, it’ll be better than I ever could’ve imagined.
Now go take care of my girl.
And yourself.
And maybe let the hot neighbor help with both.
To the moon,
V
P.S. If you find the wallpaper I bought for the hallway—burn it. It looks like an old-lady couch. I was on pain meds, and I deeply regret it.