Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MIA
The first thing I notice when I wake up is the weight in my chest.
Not the kind that makes you gasp. The other kind, the quieter, heavier one that hums beneath your ribs like a secret. It’s not anxiety, exactly. But it’s close. That weird feeling of knowing something’s shifted, and you’re still not sure whether it’s for better or worse.
The second thing I notice is my phone buzzing on the nightstand.
Sunlight filters through the blinds, painting stripes across my duvet. I blink blearily at the screen, and swipe it up without checking the sender. I’m still not fully awake. Still floating somewhere between the warmth of sleep and the memory of his leg pressed against mine under the table.
Mum: Can you call when you have a moment? Your dad had another episode. We’re waiting on more tests, but I think it’s time we talk properly. Love you.
I sit up fast, the breath catching in my throat. Another episode. Another vague, clinical way of saying something’s wrong.
I reread the message twice, as if the wording might change. Hoping “episode” might become “nothing” and “more tests” might transform into “false alarm.” But it doesn’t. It just stares back at me, quiet and final.
I don’t call right away. Instead, I press the phone to my chest and close my eyes. Just for a second. But instead of calm, I’m met with memories of last night.
The pub. The laughter. The look in Dylan’s eyes when he said I made it feel like more than just a job.
The heat of his leg brushing against mine and the fact that neither of us moved.
Not for the entire hour we sat there, half-listening to Murphy’s ridiculous stories and pretending like we weren’t acutely aware of every inch of contact between us.
I don’t know what it means, and I hate that I’m even trying to figure it out.
Because I’m supposed to be smarter than this.
I’ve built my career on being the voice of reason in rooms full of adrenaline and ego.
I don’t let my heart make decisions for me.
And yet, here I am. Fully clad in doubt, lying in bed and retracing the way he looked at me like he wanted to say something more. Like maybe he already had.
My phone buzzes again. I expect it to be Mum.
It’s not.
Dylan: Morning, Clarke. You sleep okay?
I stare at it for longer than I should. He doesn’t do morning texts. Or he didn’t. Our messages, when they happened, used to orbit the schedule; rehab reminders, check-ins, injury updates. The last couple of weeks, they’ve shifted. This one is different.
I type out three different responses before settling on something that feels safe.
Mia: Decently. You?
The three dots pop up almost immediately, dancing along the bottom of my phone screen excitedly.
Dylan: Didn’t sleep much. Brain wouldn’t shut off.
Mia: Too much adrenaline from the game?
There’s another pause before another message lands on my screen.
Dylan: Something like that.
I drop the phone on my duvet and let my head fall back onto the pillow.
He’s doing that thing again. Letting me see just enough to wonder what’s beneath.
Not flirting, not really. Raw around the edges, like there’s more to him than the Diesel persona and he’s trying to offer it in pieces, hoping I’ll take them.
And I want to. God, I do, but it’s terrifying. Because if I start taking the little pieces of him on offer, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop. And right now, there’s already too much I can’t control.
I drag myself out of bed and shuffle into the kitchen, barefoot and still wrapped in the too-soft hoodie I wear when I need to feel like the world’s a little smaller. My coffee machine groans to life, filling the silence with something warm and familiar.
I scroll through my messages again while it brews. Mum’s still marked unread, even though I’ve already read it. I just haven’t decided what to do with it yet. She’s been hinting for a while now that something’s wrong with Dad.
Forgetfulness. Confusion. Things that, on their own, didn’t seem like much. But together, they paint a picture I don’t want to look at too closely. A man who used to be decisive. Difficult but brilliant in his own abrasive way.
Now he forgets where he’s put his keys. Sometimes, Mum says, he forgets what day it is.
They thought it was stress. Then age. But the episodes are getting worse.
I clutch my coffee mug a little tighter.
I should call her. I should’ve called yesterday.
Or the day before. But something keeps stopping me.
Some part of me that still wants to pretend that everything’s fine.
That if I don’t look too hard, the pieces won’t fall apart.
My phone buzzes again with yet another text from Dylan.
Dylan: I keep thinking about last night.
Just that. Six words. But they land in the centre of my chest like a stone in a still lake.
I don’t know how to answer. So, I don’t, not yet.
Instead, I sit at the kitchen table, phone face-down, and try to find focus in the swirl of caffeine and nerves.
I open my laptop, and bring up my schedule.
Admin tasks. Rehab notes. Ankle strengthening routines for two of the younger guys.
I start typing, hoping that muscle memory will take over.
But it’s no use. My fingers freeze halfway through Jacko’s file, still remembering how Dylan looked at me across the booth.
Like he was scared. Like he wanted to say, I don’t know how to stop trying to be enough.
God, I get that. I’ve spent years doing the same.
Just in different clothes. Trying to be the best. To be essential and somehow irreplaceable, because I learned early on that sometimes, when people don’t know what to do with their own mess, they project it onto you.
Dad did that. Made me feel like being strong meant being quiet and efficient.
But now I don’t know if that version of me is going to survive what’s coming. And I’m not sure I want her to.
I pick up my phone again. This time, I hit the call button. Mum answers on the second ring. “Mia. Hi, love.”
Her voice is already thick with exhaustion, the kind that lingers at the end of sleepless nights and too many unanswered questions.
“I got your text,” I say quietly.
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“You texted me that Dad had an episode and used the words more tests,” I reply, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. “You knew I’d worry.”
There’s a long pause on the other end. I can hear the clink of a teaspoon against a mug. Maybe she’s in the kitchen, still in her robe, like I am. Maybe she hasn’t slept at all.
“I know,” she says eventually. “I just wasn’t ready to say it out loud yet.”
“What happened?”
“He got lost yesterday. He went to the corner shop for milk and forgot how to get home. Ended up sitting on the curb, confused. A neighbour found him.”
I press a hand to my chest, as if I can physically stop the ache blooming there. “Is he okay now?” We may have had our differences, and he might not have been the perfect father figure, but he’s still my dad.
“He’s fine. A bit embarrassed, but he doesn’t remember being scared. Which almost makes it worse.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. “What did the doctor say?”
“They’re running more neurological tests. Brain scans. They mentioned early-onset dementia. But it’s not confirmed yet. They won’t say anything for sure.”
I close my eyes. “Okay.”
“That’s it?” she asks softly.
“No,” I whisper. “But I don’t know what else to say.”
She sighs. “I know it’s a lot. I know you’ve got your job and your own things. I just… I need you to know we might need help soon.”
Help. As if there’s a version of me that knows how to be helpful when my dad starts forgetting who I am.
“I’m here,” I say. “You know I’ll be there.”
“I know.”
We talk for a few more minutes about logistics, appointments and possibilities. But it all feels like scaffolding around something too unstable to build on. By the time we hang up, my coffee’s cold and the sunlight’s moved halfway across the floor.
I stare at Dylan’s last message again.
I keep thinking about last night.
I type out a response slowly, carefully.
Mia: Yeah. Me too.
He doesn’t reply right away. I don’t expect him to. Maybe he’s on the ice. Or at the gym. Or doing that thing he does when he feels too much and doesn’t know what to do with it.
Same, Diesel. Same.
I set my phone down and head for the shower. My hands are trembling a little, but I don’t let myself fall apart. Not yet. Because today’s another day. Another round of taping, stretching, steady hands and measured words. And maybe, at some point, I’ll see him again.
And if the timing’s right, I’ll tell him that last night wasn’t just a moment.
It was the start of something I’m still scared to name.