Chapter Twenty-Two
Dot
The front door clicks shut behind Camden, and I sag against it, arms trembling like I just ran a mile in cement shoes. My ears are ringing from the silence he left behind—clean, final, echoing with everything I didn’t let myself say.
I turn around to head upstairs and stop short.
Dad’s parked just inside the entryway, seated in his scooter. He’s facing the door, hands resting on the console like he’s been there a while.
Listening.
My throat closes. “How much did you hear?”
“Enough,” he says quietly.
I expect a lecture, or disappointment. Maybe that soft sigh he does when I’ve let him down. Instead, he just gestures toward a chair in the living room. “Sit with me a sec?”
I do. Slowly. I perch on the armrest with my legs tucked up. He doesn’t say anything at first, just holds space for me like he used to when I’d get overwhelmed after school.
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he says. “But you were both raising your voices. And I was nosy.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I know you like Camden. I-I tried to let him go gently.”
Dad hums. “Wasn’t gentle. Was kind. There’s a difference.”
We sit there in silence for a beat.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit, voice cracking. “Mom is gone. You almost died. And I’m still here, trying to be everything for everyone, and I think I just broke the one good thing that made it feel okay.”
He nods, slow and solemn. “You’ve had to hold too much. I see that.”
A breath catches in my chest.
He turns toward me. “You’re not your mother, Dot. You don’t have to light up a stage or pretend you’re okay. You don’t have to earn your place in the world with performance. You already have it.”
“I just—” I bite my lip. “She was bigger than life, and I’m… quieter. Smaller.”
“You’re not small,” he says, fierce now. “You’re steady. You stayed. You loved her, even when it hurt. You love me, even when it’s hard. That’s not small, sweetheart. That’s everything.”
Tears hit before I can stop them.
“I think,” he adds, “Camden sees that. I think that boy would carry the whole damn world if you asked. But he doesn’t want the world. He just wants you.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know if I can give him that. Not with everything else.”
Dad sighs and wraps his arm around me the best he can. “Then don’t rush. Grief’s not a schedule. But don’t shut the door too tight either, okay? Some love’s worth the mess.”
I nod against his shoulder, eyes stinging. “Thanks, Dad.”
He squeezes me once. “Anytime.”
After a few minutes, he pats my knee. “Think I’ll shuffle back to the den and try for a nap before physical therapy.
” He backs up his scooter with a practiced turn, giving Skinbad just enough time to slink out of the way with an indignant huff.
“Don’t forget to eat something, okay?” he adds over his shoulder.
“I won’t.” I rise and watch him go, heart thudding in the quiet he leaves behind.
I head for the kitchen, but instead of grabbing food, I lean against the counter and just..
. stand there. Thinking. Everything he said is still circling in my head.
That I don’t have to earn my place. That I’m not small.
That some love is worth the mess. I never thought of myself as steady—only scared.
Only trying not to let anyone down. But maybe that’s what steadiness is.
Maybe staying, even when it hurts, is a kind of courage too.
* * *
The tribute concert comes together faster than I can process. Dante must’ve had most of the pieces already waiting in the wings, because there’s no way something this big should come together in two weeks.
Maybe that’s how grief works—you put off the feeling part by drowning yourself in logistics.
Dad’s been busy too. He moves around the house with quiet determination, doing his physical therapy, pretending not to notice me watching him. We don’t talk about the conflict. Not the friction between him and Sergio, and definitely not between me and Camden.
I’ve been avoiding my phone since that night. Every vibration feels like guilt rattling in my pocket. Camden hasn’t texted again, which means he’s either angry or done—or he’s giving me the space I asked for. I can’t decide which is worse.
“Do you need help getting dressed?” I ask.
He stands next to the bed, examining his good suit laid out like a ghost of his old self. “I think I can handle it.”
“Even the shoes?”
“I’m wearing the Italian loafers. No laces.” He winks, and it almost looks like the old Ranger Shaw. Almost.
The burn scars pull when he smiles, and my chest squeezes tight. I’ve learned not to look away, even when he does. Scars mean he made it back. Scars mean he’s still here.
I leave him to get ready and head upstairs. Skinbad and Bo follow close, their claws clicking on the wood floors, their bodies twin shadows that won’t leave me alone. They curl up on my bed as I throw open my closet.
I have nothing to wear. Nothing that feels right. The memorial dress is too somber—black satin and guilt. This is supposed to be a celebration. I want color. Hope. Anything that doesn’t feel like mourning.
“Should I call Knova?” I ask the dogs. “She’ll make me over in thirty seconds flat.”
Bo thumps her tail once. Skinbad sneezes. Neither vote helps.
“Fine. New dress it is.”
But the idea of going out into a store, being recognized as Delilah Shaw’s daughter again? My stomach turns. No thanks.
My eyes drift toward the hall. Toward her room.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I walk there barefoot. The doorknob is cold in my palm. When I open it, a soft puff of lilac and stage perfume drifts out—powder, leather, and some note that’s uniquely her. My throat closes.
Mom’s closet is a time capsule of a life too big for this small house. Sequins. Silk. Suede boots lined up like trophies. I run my fingers along the hangers, whispering memories into the quiet.
The gold gown from the Grammys—the one that broke the internet. The boys at school used to pull up pictures and snicker, asking if she’d worn underwear that night. I’d laugh along and die inside.
The silver pantsuit from Madison Square Garden with a cropped top and glittering midriff. I hated that outfit. I thought it made her look like someone’s fantasy instead of my mother.
And then—
My hand pauses on something softer. Cream lace. A white liner. Modest. Elegant. A dress I don’t recognize.
“Did you ever wear this, Mom?” I whisper. “Did I miss it?”
I slip it off the hanger and carry it to the bed.
The fabric’s delicate but strong. I pull it on carefully, mindful of seams that have waited decades to breathe again.
The zipper sticks halfway up. My boobs protest, so I grab a wrap to hide the gap.
When I look in the mirror, I don’t see Delilah the superstar. I see… me, if I’d been loved out loud.
I whisper goodbye to the girl who never thought she was wanted. Only one word, barely spoken. “Goodbye.” Then I blink, and she’s gone—replaced by someone who’s ready to believe differently.
And suddenly, the tears I’ve been avoiding all week punch through.
I shouldn’t have said those things to Camden. I shouldn’t have told him I was broken. I just—
I was scared. Still am. When he said he loved me, I felt it in my bones, and all I could think about was how love always ends in ashes. I saw my parents’ wreckage, not their devotion. I saw the fire, not the way Dad crawled out alive.
Swiping at my eyes, I dig through a jewelry box on the dresser.
Her perfume bottles are dusty, half-empty, but when I open one the scent punches straight through my chest—rose and musk and memory.
I find a pair of garnet studs and slip them in.
They flash red in the light, like heartbeats. Mine. Hers. Maybe both.
Downstairs, Dad calls, “Dottie? You about ready?”
“Coming!” My voice cracks. I blow my nose, fix my eyeliner, and step into my sparkly silver heels—the ones I borrowed on my birthday. The ones Camden said made me look like moonlight.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, Dad looks up—and his eyes fill.
“Dottie, you look lovely, sweetheart.” His voice trembles. “Was that your mother’s?”
“It was in her closet,” I admit. “But I don’t remember ever seeing her wear it.”
He smiles, faintly crooked. “You wouldn’t have. She wore it to the party where she announced her pregnancy.”
The air leaves my lungs. “Wait. So this is… a maternity dress?”
“Barely. She was only a few months along. She loved this one. Said it felt lucky.”
My fingers trace the lace over my stomach. “Why did she keep it?”
“Because she wanted the reminder,” he says simply. “We worked so hard to have you.”
It takes me a second to understand what he means. “Wait—what?”
He nods. “Fertility treatments. Two years’ worth. I used to give her the shots. She’d bruise, but she never complained.”
The room tilts. “You never told me that.”
He chuckles faintly. “Of course, we did. You must’ve forgotten.”
Forgotten.
Or blocked it out because it didn’t fit the narrative I’d built—that she hadn’t wanted me. That I was the accident that got in the way of her spotlight.
But if she fought this hard… if she wanted me…
My throat burns. “She wanted me,” I whisper.
Dad’s eyes glisten. “More than anything.”
A car horn beeps out front, snapping the moment like a brittle twig. The dogs erupt in barks, tails thumping against the walls. I kneel to soothe them, whispering nonsense just to have something to do with my hands.
But my mind won’t stop spinning. If Mom loved me, really loved me, then maybe all those years weren’t about rejection. Maybe they were about fear. Pressure. Being too much woman and not enough mother. Maybe I’ve been carrying a grudge against a ghost that didn’t deserve it.
And then I think of Camden—of the look on his face when I told him I couldn’t love him right because I’m terrified of being an inadequate mother. Maybe I just became her. Maybe I pushed him away for the same reason she pushed me.
The horn blares again.