Chapter 15
fifteen
SOPHIE
As the Professor’s voice dissolves into white noise, my pen hovers over blank notebook paper while my mind replays Thursday night on repeat—specifically, the moment Mike’s lips touched my cheek, just a brush of warmth against skin, a goodbye that meant everything.
We’re both fighting not to cross the line you set. And I want to make sure if we do, it’s because you really want to.
Those words have been bouncing around my head for days, and right now, I’m ignoring Advanced Physiological Concepts in favor of daydreaming. About Mike’s voice breaking on that stage, the solid warmth of him as we danced, how he held me while I shattered.
Any other guy would have tried for more after a night like that.
But Mike just smiled, pressed his lips to my cheek, and walked away.
I’d like more of it… whatever that looks like.
My phone weighs down my pocket. Not that I’m keeping count (I totally am), but I’ve pulled it out to text him forty-seven times. That makes forty-seven times I’ve chickened out, because what exactly would I say?
The girl beside me—Tara? Tina?—slides her notebook closer, tapping her pen against something she’s underlined twice. Important enough to risk the professor’s wrath, apparently.
Glad she’s noticed I’m distracted and kind enough to help me out, I nod my thanks and copy down what looks like cellular respiration mechanisms, though the words blur into meaningless shapes.
Focus, Sophie. You’re supposed to be the responsible one.
But then my pocket vibrates. My hand flies to my phone—that familiar spike of adrenaline that comes with having a sick parent—and when Dad’s name appears on the screen, my chest tightens.
Need you to stop by the rink on your way home.
I stare at the message, willing it to sprout actual information. Six words. No context. No explanation. Classic Dad. Enough detail to summon me across campus, but not enough to prevent my spine from tensing.
I type back:
Why? What’s wrong?
His response arrives within seconds:
Just come by my office after class. Thanks kiddo.
The endearment doesn’t soften my irritation. One day, he’ll understand the concept of including relevant details in text messages. Something like “Hey Sophie, nothing’s wrong with Mom or Hazel, but I need to see you” would be nice.
Unless something is wrong.
Unless this is about Mom’s medication not working.
Or Hazel getting hurt at gymnastics. Or?—
Mike .
The thought arrives uninvited and immediately takes root. What if Dad found out? Not that there’s anything to find out about, because a few nights don’t constitute a relationship. So why does my pulse jump at the possibility?
I force my attention back to the professor, who’s gesturing at a PowerPoint slide with the enthusiasm of someone who definitely owns mitochondria-themed merchandise. The information slides past me, meaningless, and I lie to myself that I’ll catch up on the class notes later.
When he finally dismisses us, I shove my unused notebook into my bag and bolt before Tina-or-Tara can ask about the study group I’ve been dodging since the semester started. But I shunt that from my mind for now, focusing on power-walking to the rink.
By the time I push through the heavy doors, I’ve convinced myself that:
I’ve never paid attention to the team photos lining the hallway before, but today my feet slow without permission. Row after row of young men in Devils jerseys, decades of cocky grins and crossed arms. My eyes find last year’s photo immediately.
Mike stands front and center. But this isn’t the Mike I know. His smile looks painted on, and something hollow behind his eyes makes my chest ache. This is the Mike from before—the one who lived for hockey and nothing else, who couldn’t name a single other thing that made him happy.
The Mike who might understand why I catalogue Mom’s symptoms obsessively.
My sneakers squeak against the polished floor as I reach Dad’s office. The door hangs slightly open, revealing him hunched over his laptop, an ancient Michigan sticker peeling at the corners. Game footage flickers on the screen, with players racing across ice in an endless loop.
I knock and push inside without waiting for permission. “You summoned me?”
“Fee!” His face brightens. “How are you, kiddo?”
My bag drops onto the chair with a thud that matches my mood. “Dad…”
“Right, that.” He waves vaguely at the air. “Hazel couldn’t find her iPad charger.”
The words settle between us while I wait for the rest. When nothing comes, I lean forward. “You couldn’t text about that?”
“Yeah, I suppose I could have.” He closes the laptop with exaggerated care, avoiding my eyes.
“Dad—”
Something flickers across his face—guilt mixed with determination. “I miss you, Fee. It feels like I barely see you lately.”
The Dad Guilt Special lands exactly where he aimed it. I haven’t been avoiding him, not exactly. But between my course load, practicum hours, and the chaos currently residing in my head shaped vaguely hockey-player-sized, family dinners have taken a hit.
“School’s been intense,” I offer, which is true if incomplete. “How’s Mom? The new medication working?”
Dad’s hand moves to his face, rubbing his jaw in that way that I know always precedes difficult conversations. My body goes rigid. This is it. Something’s wrong. Mom’s getting worse. The medication isn’t working. She had another episode and?—
“Your mom’s fine,” he says finally. “The medication seems to be helping. No major side effects.”
“Oh.” The word escapes on a rush of air I didn’t know I was holding. “That’s… good.”
“But we need to talk about you.”
Fresh panic floods my system. “Me?”
“Your hovering, Sophie.”
“I’m what ?”
“Around your mom.” He ticks items off on his fingers. “Texts about her medication. Calls to check if she’s resting. Worry about every tiny symptom.”
My arms cross automatically, defensive. “Since when is caring about my sick mother a crime?”
“It’s not about caring, Sophie. It’s about how you’re showing it.” His voice stays gentle, which somehow makes it worse. “But multiple texts every day asking how she feels. Phone calls to verify she’s taken her pills. Even that spreadsheet, Sophie.”
Heat floods my face. “Spreadsheets help me track patterns?—”
“In a medical condition you’re not treating.” Each word lands with precision. “Your mother is an adult. A nurse. She’s managed her own health for decades.”
“That’s not—I’m not—” The protests tangle on my tongue because somewhere beneath the indignation, I know he’s right.
Mom’s eye-rolls have gotten more frequent.
Her responses to my check-ins are ever shorter.
“She feels smothered,” Dad continues, each word carefully measured. “She asked me to talk to you because she loves you too much to hurt your feelings.”
“I’m trying to help.” My voice comes out smaller than intended.
“By micromanaging her illness?” He shakes his head. “Your mom wants to live her life, Sophie. Not feel under constant surveillance for signs of decline.”
Decline.
The word I think about every night. The future I’m trying to prevent through sheer force of will and color-coded medication charts. The horrific nightmare I sometimes wake to.
“Remember Mr. Bubbles?” Dad’s expression softens. “You sat by that goldfish bowl for three days straight, taking the water temperature every hour. Made a chart of his swimming patterns.”
Despite everything, I laugh. “You tried to replace him while I was at school.”
“Nearly got away with it too, until you noticed the new one’s fins were slightly different.” His smile is sad. “You’ve always needed to fix things, Fee. But some things can’t be fixed. We can only do our best to live with them.”
The parallel hits hard. Mom’s MS isn’t going away, no matter how many spreadsheets I create or symptoms I catalogue. The knowledge sits heavy in my chest. I’m smart enough to know it—hell, I’m a nurse—but it’s harder to accept it.
“Sometimes it feels like no one else remembers she’s sick.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “You never ask how she’s feeling. Hazel acts like nothing’s changed. I’m the only one who cares she has a degenerative disease.”
Dad straightens, humor vanishing from his face. “That’s not fair, Sophie.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.” His coach voice emerges—the one that makes grown men sprint until they puke. “But we’ve chosen not to let MS become the center of our lives. Your mother, especially, doesn’t want to be defined by her diagnosis.”
“But—”
“No buts.” He holds up a hand. “If something important happens with your mom’s health, we’ll tell you. Otherwise, treat her like you did before. Like your mother, not a patient you’re monitoring.”
The logic of it burns. They’re right. I know they’re right. But accepting it means acknowledging that I can’t control this, can’t ward off the future through vigilant observation. The helplessness tastes bitter.
“Fee.” Dad notices the moisture gathering in my eyes. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not upset.” The lie wobbles as the first tear escapes. I swipe at it angrily. “Message received. I’ll back off.”
“That’s not what I meant?—”
“I have to go.” I grab my bag, needing to escape before I completely fall apart. “I’m late for… something.”
I’m out the door before he can respond, walking fast enough that the hockey players lingering by the locker room blur into meaningless shapes.
Heavy footsteps follow me into the hallway, but I don’t slow down.
Can’t slow down. If I stop moving, I’ll start sobbing in the middle of the athletics complex.
The exit doors loom ahead. Just need to make it outside and get home, where I can ugly-cry in peace?—
Oof.
The sound punches out of me as I collide with something solid and warm.
Strong hands steady me as I stumble backward.
“Whoa there.” Mike’s voice washes over me as my eyes travel up to his face. His expression shifts when he takes in my wet cheeks. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I try to sidestep him, desperate to escape. “Sorry. Wasn’t watching where I was going.”
He moves with me, blocking my escape without making it obvious. “Right. And I’m trying out for the Ice Capades.”
A laugh bubbles up despite everything, wet and slightly hysterical. “Your triple axel needs work.”
“Harsh but fair.” He adjusts the hockey bag sliding off his shoulder. “Look, whatever made you cry, I’m not gonna force you to talk about it. But I was heading to the batting cages to hit things very hard with metal sticks, which is highly therapeutic.”
“Batting cages?” My brain struggles to switch gears. “Baseball?”
“Actually, it’s for my sports medicine paper on repetitive stress injuries. Gotta experience the shoulder rotation firsthand.”
“Another new thing?”
“Exactly. Though I’m starting to think I need a spreadsheet to track them all.” He pauses. “Too soon for spreadsheet jokes?”
My eyes narrow. “How did you?—”
“Lucky guess.” He studies my face. “So, do you want to come hit things? Maybe you can pretend the ball is whoever made you cry?”
“I wasn’t crying.”
“Course not.” He shrugs. “Just aggressive face-watering.”
I should go home and process the emotional pile-up of Dad’s confrontation in private, maybe eat ice cream directly from the container. Instead, I study Mike’s face—the genuine concern, the patience, the way he’s letting me decide.
“Do you ever actually do homework?” I ask.
He winks. “This technically counts as research.”
“Pretty sure that’s not how research works.”
“It is when you’re creatively interpreting assignment requirements, and nobody really cares if you graduate.” He extends his hand, palm up. “What do you say, Pearson? Wanna help me collect some extremely questionable data?”
Every rational part of my brain screams that this is a bad idea. I’m emotionally raw, confused about everything, and spending time with Mike will only complicate the mess in my head.
But I take his hand anyway.