Chapter 29-Bit
It’s late. The kind of late where the house feels too big and too quiet, like the walls are holding their breath.
And I miss him.
Way too much for just a couple of days. But I’m sure looking forward to when he comes back. Heck yes, I am.
Meanwhile, I’ve got my sketchbook and a beat-up spiral notebook spread across the coffee table, a mug of lukewarm tea sitting dangerously close to a handful of charcoal sticks.
There’s a smudge of graphite on my thumb, another on my cheek, and I don’t even care because my heart’s buzzing.
I just got the email.
Accepted.
I read it three times, out loud, because I needed to hear it to believe it.
Congratulations! You’ve been selected for a table at the Barren County Halloween Flea Market and Artist Alley.
I’m in.
I’m in.
For the first time in a long time, something I dreamed up actually worked out.
I’ve already started sketching out booth layouts—how to display my handmade pieces, what fabrics I want to bring, signage ideas, even a banner design.
Pillows, curtains, aprons, little fall-themed decor.
It’s all coming together in my head, and I can’t wait to tell Sawyer when he gets back.
He’ll probably grin that crooked grin, call me Lil Bit in that low rumble that makes my chest flutter, and tell me how proud he is.
Because he would be.
Just thinking about it makes me smile as I scribble a note—tablecloths in plaid, orange tones. maybe stitched leaves, one with pumpkins and bats.
The clock ticks past midnight, and I’m still riding that creative high when my phone buzzes against the table.
Mom.
I stare at the name glowing on the screen for a second, my excitement flickering.
We haven’t talked in weeks—not since I told her I was coming back to New Jersey, taking some time to figure things out.
She’s still down in Atlantic City, still working the cocktail circuit, still chasing tips and trouble in equal measure.
When she texts this late, it’s never good news.
Mom
You up, girl?
I hesitate, thumb hovering, then type back:
Me
Yeah. Everything ok?
The reply comes fast.
Mom
Need a favor. Can u loan me some cash?
My stomach tightens. Of course.
It’s always a favor. Always temporary. Always some “emergency” that mysteriously turns into a blackjack table, or a new boyfriend, or both.
I sigh, pinch the bridge of my nose, and try to be the kind of daughter she can’t accuse of being heartless.
Me
I’m between jobs right now, Mom. I can send you $100, but that’s it.
I barely hit send before the phone starts ringing.
Of course it does.
I debate letting it go to voicemail, but that’s the kind of guilt that eats at me, so I answer.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Well, it’s about damn time,” she slurs, voice sharp with that familiar rasp that tells me she’s smoking again. “You too busy playing house to pick up for your mother now?”
I close my eyes. “I said I’d send a hundred. That’s all I can do.”
“A hundred? Jesus, Bit. You think that does anything?” she snaps. “What are you doing with your money, huh? You living rent-free with your cousin, right?”
“No, I’m not with Kristie, Mom—”
“I see. Got yourself a new man, then. Don’t lie to me.
You’ve always been too trusting. Probably already let him move you in, tell you he loves you, and now you’re what?
Playing little housewife?” She laughs then—a sharp, bitter sound that cuts deep.
“Guess the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree, huh? ”
The words hit like a slap. I grip the phone tighter.
“That’s not true, Mom. Sawyer is different. He’s—he’s special.”
“Yeah, Honey,” she says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “They’re all special. Till they’re not. Be smart and get what you can while you’re still young, because when you’re my age, no one gives a damn about special.”
“Mom—”
“Look, do what you want with your life, but send me that hundred quick. I gotta go,” she snaps before hanging up.
The line goes dead.
I stare at my reflection in the black screen, throat tight, eyes stinging.
For a long moment, I just sit there, letting the silence swallow the room again. The crickets outside, the soft hum of the fridge, the faint creak of the house—all of it feels too loud now.
The excitement that had me glowing minutes ago dims to embers.
I take a deep breath, open the Venmo app and send her the money.
Next, I swipe the smudge of charcoal off my hand, and turn back to my sketchbook.
Because no matter what she says, no matter how much she tries to drag me back into her chaos—
I’m not her.
And Sawyer isn’t like anyone she’s ever known.
He’s not a mistake waiting to happen.
He’s a chance.
And I’m not wasting it.
Still, my hand trembles when I pick up the pencil again. I draw a heart in the margin, shade it in until it’s dark and solid. Then, just beneath it, I write his name.
Sawyer.
Because he’s the only thing tonight that makes me feel safe—and for the first time in a long time, that feels like something worth believing in.