Chapter Two
Dot
It’s my birthday, and my mom is touring on the road. Again.
A pit opens behind my ribs. Every birthday since I can remember, Mom’s been somewhere else—always promising next time.
I tell myself it doesn’t sting anymore, but it still leaves a bruise.
This year, I told myself I wouldn’t make a wish.
Wishes are for kids who don’t know that the people they love can vanish between one song and the next.
I lie back on my bed, cross my arms over my chest, and close my eyes. “Hey, Mira?”
“Yes, Dot?” My AI companion lights up on the side table. I can see the blue glow through my eyelids.
“Where did the idea of the 27 Club start?”
There’s a slight pause before Mira says, “The term ‘27 Club’ was popularized following the death of Kurt Cobain. Other so-called members include Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Mia Zapata, Jim Morrison, and—”
“Thanks, that’s enough.” I already feel guilty for comparing myself to all these people, real people, who really died, just because I’m upset that my parents don’t care enough to…
what, cancel a tour date just since it falls on my birthday?
What would I rather be doing? Mom and I are always butting heads, so if she were here, we’d probably be arguing, and I’d be wondering why she doesn’t seem to love me that much.
Or, more likely, I’d be complaining about something, and she’d be perfect as always. That’s how it usually goes.
Time to knock it off with the pity party.
I swing my feet over the edge of the bed and reach for my phone.
I’ll buy myself a stack of stories that don’t know how to disappoint me.
Or, better yet, I could drive to The Last Chapter and see if Molly has any new titles in.
She stocks a mixture of new and used books, so there’s always the chance I’ll stumble across a hidden gem while I’m browsing.
The thought of getting some new books cheers me up considerably, even though I already own a ton of books I haven’t read yet. Dad calls me his little book dragon, though I don’t think that’s fair. I don’t just hoard books. I do read them. It’s just nice to have options.
I double-check the hours and gather up my things. I’m on my way to the door when my phone rings. Mom’s photo pops up on the screen.
I brace for impact and accept the call. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”
“Happy birthday, Dot!” Two voices twine together over the speaker. I’m guessing Mom and Dad are on speakerphone in the van.
“Please don’t sing,” I beg, but I’m already smiling.
“But I warmed up just for you!” Mom laughs. It’s so easy to picture her, with her hair down and the wind whipping through it. She’s been finding more grays recently, but she refuses to dye it on the grounds that it makes her look distinguished.
The thing about my mom’s singing is that, even when she’s singing to me, music is about her. Growing up with a celebrity parent means being constantly compared to her. In our case, the comparison is not a flattering one.
Still, I don’t want to be awful, so I adopt a posh, royal tone and say, “Very well. You may proceed.”
Even as I joke, there’s a twist under my ribs—the quiet wish that she’d just say something normal. Something that wasn’t for a crowd.
The pair of them break into song. Mom sings the main words, while Dad riffs and harmonizes. Badly. Their two ancient dogs, Mitzi and Moppet, start yapping along. It’s a mess, but it’s also hilarious. I wish I was recording this. The internet would have a field day with this one.
The internet doesn’t get to share in this moment, though. It’s just for me.
“We love you, baby!” Mom trills at the end. “And we have a surprise for you! We’ll be coming home early to celebrate with you. We should get in tomorrow.”
My smile fades. “That’s not necessary. I’m all grown up now.”
She doesn’t hear the wobble in my voice, but I do. It’s the sound of a kid still hoping her mom might show up just once without the spotlight.
“Nonsense,” Dad says. “You’re never too old to celebrate your birthday.”
This was probably his idea. Or, more likely, a show got canceled and they’d be headed home anyway. I stifle a sigh. “Don’t rush on my account.”
Mom tuts at me. “Fine. You don’t want to celebrate your birthday, we’ll celebrate the day I wrecked my vagina.”
Aaaaand now I’m thinking about my mom’s vagina.
Again. It’s been a while since anyone has brought up my mom’s old career as a stripper, at least to my face, but I spent so much of middle and high school being taunted with her naked body that I doubt I’ll ever get over it.
This is another area of comparison in which I’ll never measure up.
She’s still got a killer figure, whereas I was called “Dumpy Dot” for most of eighth grade, and the nickname has lingered on like a bad smell.
On the flipside, I’ve had no less than three guys tell me that my mom was a stripper, so I must be easy, too. Like mother, like daughter, I guess?
“We can have Layla whip up a vagina balloon animal,” I deadpan. “A really big one.”
Mom and Dad both laugh. “I’ll see if she’s available,” Mom says. “We gotta go, baby, we’re about to hop on the highway. I love you.”
“See you tomorrow!” Dad adds.
“See you, I guess. Drive safe.” I hang up and stuff my phone back into my pocket.
The house feels too big when the call ends, the silence too clean—like the air right before a storm decides where to break.
I never moved out. Why bother when my mom’s rarely here?
Besides, my dad needs me during hockey season, and they both insisted it made them feel better to know the house wasn’t empty all the time.
I should postpone my bookshop adventure until tomorrow. It’ll give us all something to do together that lines up with my interests. On the other hand, whenever I go out with Mom in public, someone recognizes her, and it turns into a whole thing.
I’m too old to be jealous about how my mom spends her attention and her time. Just like I’m too old to care about my birthdays. Sometimes, though, I wish she could just be my mom and not the Delilah Shaw.
Stop whining. Your life is great. You’re spoiled, Dot. You should be grateful. I should just order DoorDash and call it a night.
No, screw it. I’m going out. I need to get out of my own head. Maybe I’ll run into Cam. It’s been too long since I’ve seen him off the ice. Too long since someone looked at me like I was a person, not a press release.
I head toward the door, but I’m stopped again, this time by the sound of whispers in the front vestibule. By the sounds of it, there are at least two women out there. I check the ring camera and shake my head when I see who it is.
Knova and Sofia stop talking and shoot each other guilty looks when I open the door.
“Dammit,” Knova complains, “you weren’t supposed to come out yet. Violet’s stuck in traffic, and she’s got your shoes.”
“My… shoes?” I stare at them. Knova and Sofia are a few years older than me, but we’ve been friends forever.
Our dads all played hockey for the Vegas Venom a hundred years ago.
Now, the four of them are engaged to or married to current players.
My dad, Ranger, even works on the team staff now as an assistant coach.
I don’t know what it is about the Venom that keeps us locked in its orbit, but at least I’ve broken free of the hockey cycle.
“Your birthday shoes!” Knova invites herself in and immediately kicks off her heels. “Also, surprise. We’re taking you out.”
“Sorry for stalking your front door,” Sofia adds as she, too, steps inside.
The last of my sulky mood from earlier melts away. “I can’t believe you remembered my birthday.”
Knova drops into my loveseat. “Pfft, as if Camden would ever let us forget. Now, hurry up and get dressed. The guys are meeting us at the Puck Drop in an hour, and we insisted that you’d enjoy your surprise party more if you got a chance to get ready first. So, off you go.”
She and Sofia start to hum the Jeopardy! theme song. I shake my head at their nonsense and head back up to my bedroom to get dressed.
* * *
An hour later, wearing the cute wedges that Violet brought for me to borrow, I walk into the Puck Drop.
It’s the off-season for hockey, but that hasn’t stopped the players from taking over the area of the restaurant that’s usually reserved for the Venom after home games.
They cheer when we approach, especially Viktor Abbott, who wolf-whistles at the sight of his wife.
Knight is more restrained, though he pulls Sofia aside for a kiss.
Camden gets up and comes over to greet me. “Happy birthday,” he says with a dip of his head. “I hope this is a small consolation for not getting to spend your birthday with your family.”
I’m surprised that he knows about that, though, to be fair, Mom’s tour info is public. I give him a brief hug. “This is better. Trust me.”
Even after we’ve let go of each other, he hovers next to me. “Better than spending time with your family?” He sounds incredulous. His parents are always traveling, so visits with them are few and far between unless someone feels like flying halfway across the globe to meet up.
“You know how Mom is.” I shrug. “Going out in public with her can be exhausting.”
“Still?” Camden’s probably remembering that surprise concert in Disneyland from when we were kids. Mom couldn’t even let me go on a class trip without dropping in to be the star of the show. Our relationship changed after that, and it never went back to the way it was before.
“Always. It’s like she can’t help herself. It’s always a show with her, you know?” I bite my tongue. I didn’t mean to word vomit all over Cam, but he’s known me forever. He gets it. “Anyway, this is great. Thanks for coming out tonight. Knova said this was your idea?”