Chapter Three #2
I want to cup the back of her neck. I want to pull her into my chest and let the world fall away. But this is all I’m allowed.
For now.
The cameras keep clicking, catching the moment for strangers to consume. I wish they’d all disappear. I wish I could wrap her up in my arms and take every ounce of this pain into me instead.
Let her breathe again.
Let her be a girl, not a headline.
Let her forget the fire, the noise, the way people keep looking at her like she’s next.
But I can’t.
So I hold her a second longer than I should and hope she can feel everything I’m not allowed to say.
We take our seats near the front, the six of us moving as one—an instinct more than a plan. The lights dim until the ballroom feels like a chapel, shadows climbing the walls of white flowers. Dot’s knuckles are bone-white where she grips the edge of her chair.
Then the stage lights rise. Cash and Kingsley step into the glow.
They don’t need an introduction. The whole room exhales when they appear—Vegas royalty, the kind of couple whose harmonies have sold out arenas.
But tonight, the usual polish is gone. Kingsley’s hair isn’t quite as styled as if she’s been running her hands through it.
Cash’s tie is missing. They look like people trying to sing through the wreckage of their own hearts.
Kingsley leans into the mic, voice trembling.
“Delilah was my first duet partner. She taught me that being brave isn’t about standing center stage—it’s about standing there even when your hands are shaking.
” Her eyes flick toward Dot. “So we wrote this for her. For the hands that kept shaking, and the soul that never stopped.”
Cash starts to play, a simple acoustic riff—three chords, stripped bare. Kingsley joins in, her voice thin at first, then blooming into something raw.
You danced through the smoke, lit the dark in your wake,
Every spotlight a promise you’d never quite break.
Now the crowd is still listening, the echo remains,
A melody threaded through all of our veins.
So keep singing, my sister, wherever you roam,
We’ll meet you in music, and call it home.
By the second verse, half the room is crying. The other half is praying not to. Dot presses her fist against her mouth, shoulders trembling. I slide my hand over hers, palm to palm, anchor to anchor. She doesn’t look at me, but she doesn’t pull away either.
When the final chord fades, there’s no applause—just a heavy, uncomfortable silence. Kingsley steps off the stage and goes straight to Dot, gathering her into a hug that folds decades of friendship into one moment.
I can’t hear what she whispers, but whatever it is makes Dot’s knees buckle. Kingsley holds her up. Cash stands behind them, eyes red, hand over his heart.
It’s grief made holy—music as confession, love as the only thing left standing.
And I can’t stop thinking that if I could sing, I’d write her something too. Something that told her how the world feels smaller without her mom, how the light in her has to survive for both of them now.
But I’m not a songwriter. I’m the guy sitting beside her, wishing my voice could be enough.
The speeches and eulogies blur together—one long ache of voices, microphones popping, and flowers wilting under the stage lights.
At some point, Dot’s hand finds mine. Her fingers are cold and trembling, but she doesn’t let go.
Every few minutes, I give a small squeeze—enough to remind her she’s not drifting through this alone.
When the final song fades, the crowd rustles to its feet.
The air smells like too many perfumes fighting the same grief.
Kingsley catches Dot’s arm and draws her aside.
I back away to give them space, weaving through clusters of people hugging and crying and pretending they didn’t come here to be seen.
Mom’s eyes are swollen when I reach her. “That was beautiful,” she says, voice breaking on the word. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to spend more time with Delilah. I always thought I’d retire someday and we’d all end up together somewhere—some weird group home for old Venom players and their wives.”
“I should pitch that to Dante as his next business venture.” I try for a smile. “He’d love it. He’s obsessed with keeping the team together.”
Dad groans. “Please don’t encourage him. I haven’t forgiven him for the billboard thing yet.”
“The one with your—”
“Yeah. That one.” He sighs. “The man’s a menace.”
I huff a quiet laugh, but it tapers quickly.
Dad slings an arm around my shoulders, his voice dropping low. “So. You and Dot, huh?”
“What?” I glance around, but everyone’s distracted. “No. I’m just being supportive. She doesn’t… she doesn’t see me that way.”
Dad’s gaze pierces deep. “And you’re still holding out for her.”
I don’t answer. My eyes drift back to the corner where Dot’s talking to Kingsley, her shoulders shaking, Kingsley’s hand stroking her hair.
“Yeah,” I say, mostly to myself. “Still holding out.”
Back in college, I’d had too many beers at a family cookout and made the mistake of getting philosophical. Somewhere between the ribs and my fourth drink, I told Dad I’d never slept with anyone because I was “holding out for The One.”
I thought it sounded mysterious. Noble, even.
He saw right through it.
It took him all of two seconds to put it together—that the girl I’ve been in love with since we were kids is the same one who still makes me forget how to breathe.
That every time I thought about crossing that line with someone else, it felt wrong.
Empty. Like cheating on a promise I hadn’t even made out loud yet.
So yeah. I’m twenty-six. I’ve played hockey on three continents, made more money than I ever dreamed, and I’ve never taken a woman to bed. Not because I’m scared or inexperienced. I’ve done things. More because I’ve never wanted anyone enough to be inside them.
Because no one has ever been Dot. She feels like home.
“Yes, Dad,” I say quietly. “I’m still waiting.”
It’s not that I care what anyone else does behind closed doors. I know Dot had a boyfriend in college, and I don’t hold that against her.
But for me? I can’t fake that kind of connection.
It’s always been different with her.
Even when we were kids—before either of us knew words like neurodivergent or why the world sometimes felt too loud—Dot just…
fit. She never tried to fix me when I went quiet, and I never asked her to smile when she couldn’t.
We understood the static in each other’s heads, the need to disappear and recharge, the way a small touch could mean more than a hundred sentences.
She’s woven into every version of my life—mud on our shoes after Little League, the smell of her mom’s perfume in the hallways at the rink, the look on her face when she talked about saving something broken and making it whole again.
That’s why I can’t be casual with her.
She’s not a crush I never outgrew.
She’s the rhythm underneath every memory.
If I ever get to touch her, it’s going to mean something. It’s going to mean everything.
It won’t be casual. It won’t be a release. It’ll be a homecoming.
Because every time I think of love, it wears her face.
Dad studies me for a long moment, the edges of his eyes crinkling the way they do when he’s proud but doesn’t want to show it. Then he claps a hand to my back—hard enough to make my breath stutter.
“I really admire that,” he says. “Holding out for love in a world that doesn’t believe in it anymore. I hope she knows what that’s worth.”
I give a humorless laugh. “Not the time, Dad. We’re literally at a funeral.”
He smirks. “I’m not telling you to make a move.
I’m telling you to be there. You love her, and you’ve loved her a long time.
That’s rare, Cam. Don’t waste it by standing on the sidelines.
” His voice drops lower, rougher. “And if she needs you—really needs you—you give her everything you can. You don’t expect anything back.
You don’t use her grief to get closer. You protect her, even if it breaks you a little. ”
“I won’t hurt her,” I say. “Not ever.”
Dad’s gaze softens. “Good. Then go.”
He nudges me toward the back of the room where Dot stands with Kingsley, her posture small and fragile beneath the storm of condolences. I go, because I can’t not.
And as I move through the crowd, I realize what I want isn’t complicated at all.
I want to be the arms she collapses into when the world gets too heavy.
I want to be the one who holds her so tight the pieces stop shaking for a while.
And if she never looks at me the way I look at her?
I’ll still be there. That’s what you do when the love you feel isn’t a phase—it’s the only thing that’s ever felt real.