Chapter Four
Mirabel
I wake up thinking about the wrong man.
Not my family. Not my friends. Not the guy from Accounts I had dinner with a month ago.
Him.
My eyes open to gray morning light, and he’s there—burned into my retinas like I’ve been staring at the sun. Ice-blue eyes that had dropped to my chest for half a second before he’d looked away, jaw working like he was angry at himself for looking at all.
I roll onto my side and press my face into the pillow.
It doesn’t help.
My body remembers things it shouldn’t. The way he’d moved through that room—measured, controlled, like violence wrapped in an expensive suit. The ink crawling up his throat. The absolute certainty in his voice when he’d said no and walked away from everything.
What kind of man does that?
And why does the memory make my stomach drop and my thighs clench?
He’s terrible. Has to be. The kind of man who abandons his pregnant fiancée in front of a hundred witnesses because he doesn’t like surprises. Probably leaves wreckage everywhere he goes and never looks back.
I should be disgusted.
Instead, I’m lying here tangled in sheets that suddenly feel too warm, wondering what his hands would feel like. Whether he’d be gentle or—
Stop.
I throw the covers off and swing out of bed. The floor is cold enough to hurt my bare feet. Good.
I have better things to think about. My father. The visit I promised him. Anything except a stranger I’ll never see again and shouldn’t want to.
The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and Diane’s off-key humming from the kitchen.
She’s at the counter in an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, phone in one hand, coffee mug in the other. Her dark hair is piled on top of her head in a messy knot that defies gravity.
“Morning,” I say, reaching for the coffee pot.
“Survived yesterday, then?” She doesn’t look up from her screen.
“Barely.”
“That bad?”
I pour coffee and watch the steam rise. “The groom said no. At the altar. In front of everyone.”
Her head snaps up. “Wait. What?”
“You heard me.”
“He actually said the words ‘I don’t’?” She sets her phone down, leaning forward. “Like, out loud?”
“Word for word.”
“Holy shit.” She draws the words out, savoring them. “That’s either the coldest thing I’ve ever heard or—I don’t know—kind of incredible?”
“It was a nightmare. The bride was sobbing. Her father was screaming. Half the room looked ready to kill him.”
“Please tell me you at least got hazard pay.”
“I got a wardrobe malfunction and a front-row seat to someone else’s disaster.” I wrap both hands around the mug, letting the heat sink into my palms. “Rich people are exhausting.”
“Wardrobe malfunction?” She tilts her head.
“My dress was too tight. Stupid thing split open halfway through the ceremony, and my boob popped out.”
Diane snorts coffee out of her nose. Literally. “What?” she squawks, wiping her face.
“You heard me.” I take a sip from my mug, trying to forget how mortified I was.
“You mean your girls broke free mid-vow?”
“Hardly. It was just one. And we hadn’t got to the vows yet.” I still die a little when I think about it.
“Maybe that’s why he said no.” She winks at me. “Got a look at your pretty little titties and couldn’t go through with it.”
“I doubt it,” I grumble. “He looked at me like something he’d scraped off his shoe.”
“Was he at least good-looking?”
The question comes out casual, but Diane’s watching me too carefully.
I take a sip. The coffee burns going down. “Why would that matter?”
“Oh my God.” Her grin spreads, slow and wicked. “He was.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Your face did.” She props her elbows on the counter. “Spill.”
“There’s nothing to spill.”
“Mirabel.”
I exhale through my nose. “Fine. He was… intense. Tall. Built like he could break someone in half without trying. Tattoos up his neck.” I stop myself before I say more.
Before I mention the way his eyes had gone cold when he refused his vows, or the feeling I’d had watching him walk out—like I was seeing something dangerous slip its leash.
“Tattoos,” Diane repeats, drawing the word out. “What kind?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does if you’re still thinking about them.”
Shit. Diane knows me too well. I am thinking about them. Black wings and feathers wrapping around his throat, disappearing under his collar. I’d wondered where they ended. What the rest of him looked like under that suit.
“He humiliated his pregnant fiancée in public,” I say instead. “So whatever he looks like is irrelevant.”
Diane’s smile fades. “Pregnant?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I heard them fighting before the ceremony. She told him, and he—” I shake my head. “He was furious.”
“Jesus.”
“Exactly.” I drain the rest of my coffee and set the mug in the sink. “Which is why I need to stop thinking about him and focus on literally anything else.”
“Like your dad?”
The shift in her voice—playful to careful—makes something in my chest constrict.
“Yeah.” I rinse the mug, watching the last swirl of coffee disappear down the drain. “Like my dad.” It hurts to remember that I’m all he has left now.
She reaches across the counter and squeezes my wrist. “Give him my love.”
“I will.” I turn off the water. Then head to get dressed before leaving the apartment.
Of course, traffic is a mess.
I sit in stop-and-go gridlock on the highway, fingers drumming against the steering wheel, trying not to look at the time. Trying not to think about how long it’s been since my last visit. It wasn’t all that long ago, but I always feel guilty about not spending enough time with him.
The car in front of me has a bumper sticker: Twins are twice the blessing.
My breath catches.
I look away. Focus on the license plate. The rust spot near the bumper. Anything else.
But my right hand moves on its own, reaching for the bare spot on my left wrist. There used to be a bracelet there—cheap silver with a tiny heart charm. Debra had the matching one. We’d bought them at a craft fair when we were sixteen, giggling over how cheesy they were, how we’d wear them forever.
I took mine off the day she disappeared.
Haven’t been able to put it back on.
The traffic clears. I press the accelerator too hard, and the car lurches forward.
Don’t think about her, Mirabel.
Not today.
But she’s always there. A shadow at the edge of everything. The empty chair at holidays. The phone number I still can’t delete. The face I see every time I look in the mirror.
My throat tightens. I blink hard, focus on the road, count the exits until mine.
One. Two. Three.
By the time I pull into my father’s driveway, I’ve almost convinced myself I’m fine.
But the house looks wrong.
I cut the engine and sit there, staring. The paint is peeling near the roofline. The garden—Mom’s garden, the one she used to tend every weekend when Debra and I were kids—is overgrown, weeds choking what used to be rose bushes.
When did that happen?
Dad was always fastidious about maintaining it after she died.
I climb out of the car and head up the walk. The doorbell doesn’t work. Hasn’t for years. I knock instead.
He takes too long to answer.
When the door finally opens, I forget how to breathe.
“Mirabel!” His smile is too big. Too bright. “You’re early. Come in, come in.”
I step inside because my legs are moving, but my brain has stalled out.
He’s thin. Not the kind of thing that comes from deliberate weight loss or skipped meals. This is something else.
His shirt hangs off his shoulders. The collar gapes around his neck. His face is all sharp angles and shadows—cheekbones jutting, eyes sunk too deep, skin stretched tight.
“Dad—”
“Coffee?” He’s already heading toward the kitchen, moving with careful, deliberate steps. Like his body hurts. “I just made a fresh pot.”
I follow him. The house smells the same—old books and coffee and the lavender soap Mom loved—but everything looks smaller. Darker.
There’s a pill bottle on the kitchen counter.
Five of them, actually. Lined up next to the coffee maker like soldiers.
I recognize one of the labels. Ondansetron. Anti-nausea medication.
The kind they give to chemo patients.
My vision tunnels.
“Dad.” My voice comes out strangled. “What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” He pours coffee with shaking hands. Doesn’t look at me.
“You’ve lost weight.”
“Have I?” He sets the pot down. “That’s good. I’ve been trying to—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
He freezes.
“Your eyes are sunken. Your hands are shaking. And you have ondansetron on your counter.” I point at the bottles. “That’s for nausea. For people on chemotherapy.”
The silence stretches.
He sets down the coffee mug. Braces both hands on the counter. His shoulders curve inward.
“How long?” I ask.
“Mirabel—”
“How. Long.”
He exhales. The sound is broken. Defeated.
“Two months since the diagnosis.” His voice is low. “Stage three tumor. I’ve been seeing Dr. Rahman. He’s one of the best, but—”
The floor tilts.
I reach for the counter, fingers scrabbling for purchase. “Two months. You’ve known for two months, and you didn’t—” I can’t finish. Can’t breathe.
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Didn’t want to—?” The laugh that comes out of me is sharp. Jagged. “I’m your daughter. You don’t get to protect me from this.”
“After everything we’ve lost—” His voice breaks. “After your mother, after Debra… I didn’t want to put more on you.”
“What’s the treatment?” I force the words out. “Surgery? More chemo? What did the doctors say?”
He won’t look at me.
That’s when I know.
“Dad.”
“I’ve used up my savings on the first two rounds of treatment, Mirabel. The scans, the consultations, Dr. Rahman’s fees.” He finally turns, and the defeat in his eyes nearly drops me. “My insurance covers some of it, but not enough. I need another twenty thousand for the next phase.”
The number lands like a fist.
“Twenty thousand,” I repeat.
He nods.
“So what happens if you don’t get it?”
He doesn’t answer.
The silence is answer enough.
“No.” The word tears out of me. “No. I have savings—not much, but I can—”
“Your savings won’t even cover a quarter of it, sweetheart.”
“Then I’ll get a loan. A second job. I’ll figure something out—”
“Mirabel.” He crosses the kitchen and pulls me into his arms. They’re thinner than they should be. Weaker. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d try to fix it. But some things can’t be fixed.”
“Don’t say that.” My voice is muffled against his shoulder. “Please don’t say that.”
“I’m not giving up,” he says quietly. “But I need you to be realistic.”
Realistic.
Realistic means he could die.
Realistic means I might lose the last person I have left.
“I can’t—” My throat closes. “I can’t lose you, too. Not after Mom. Not after Debra.”
“I know.”
We stand there in his kitchen, holding each other, and I try not to think about numbers. About the three thousand dollars I have saved. About rent and student loans and credit card bills. About the fact that I might not be enough to fix this.
That I’m never enough.
The hours we spend together feel too short, and before long, I have to go.
I pull Dad into yet another hug. “We’re going to figure this out, okay?” I tell him.
“Sure, sweetheart,” he responds. But his smile is sad as I head out the door.
I make it two blocks before I have to pull over.
My hands are shaking too hard. The steering wheel blurs. I yank the car onto the shoulder and throw it into park just as the first sob rips through me.
It’s ugly. Raw. The kind of crying that comes from somewhere deep and primal, tearing up through my chest and out of my throat.
I fold over the wheel. My ribs ache. My lungs won’t fill properly. Everything hurts.
No.
Not Dad.
I can’t lose him.
The thought loops, relentless.
Mom died when Debra and I were eight. Also cancer. I remember pieces—her perfume, the way she’d braid our hair, her laugh—but mostly I remember the hole she left. The way Dad tried to fill it, but couldn’t. The way he held us at night when we cried and pretended he wasn’t crying too.
Then Debra.
God, Debra.
Six years of searching. Six years of wondering if she’s alive, if she’s scared, if she thinks about me. Six years of guilt eating me from the inside because the last words I said to her were: Then leave.
And now… Dad.
At twenty-four, I’ll have no one.
The sobs come harder. I can’t catch my breath. Can’t think. My chest heaves and my throat burns and I taste salt and snot and I don’t care.
My hand moves without permission, reaching for my phone. I scroll to the D’s. Find her name.
Debra - Mobile
I stare at it. My thumb hovers over the call button.
I do this sometimes. When things get too heavy. When I need to hear her voice, even if it’s just the voicemail message she recorded six years ago. Hey, it’s Debra. Leave a message or don’t. Whatever.
I never leave messages.
But I listen. Just to remember what she sounded like.
Today I can’t do it.
I lock the phone and press my forehead to the steering wheel.
The tears keep coming.
I don’t know how long I sit there. Could be five minutes. Could be thirty. Time stops meaning anything when you’re breaking apart.
Eventually, the sobs slow. My breathing evens out. My hands stop shaking.
I straighten up, wiping my face with my sleeve. I have to pull myself together, be strong for him. This isn’t a time for hysterics.
My father needs me.