Chapter 43
Chapter Forty-Three
Lot
Walking the path beside him and watching out for the cracks.
Dice is out for a run. Moving is his outlet. After letting me in, I understood he needed space to process it all without anyone watching.
Queenie leaps onto the couch and nudges my hand. I rub her head and scratch behind her ears, letting the soft rumble of her purr fill the quiet. I don’t know if she needed the contact or just sensed that I did.
After weeks of fighting it, I’ve finally accepted that I’m a cat mom. Maybe Queenie feels that too, me settling in instead of resisting. Could be why she’s been doing better all around, with crate training and not acting like a holy terror.
Dreya thinks she has abandonment issues. Suspects her previous owner probably ditched her, which might explain why no one ever came looking. And why she latched onto me so hard.
Abandonment leaves long-lasting scars. I see it in my cat. I see it in my man.
In the way Dice pulls back when emotions cut too deep. In how fast he shuts the blinds on his pain before I can peek inside. It’s in how he carries the weight solo rather than leaning. Because leaning requires trust. Vulnerability. The belief that someone will catch you.
The armor Dice wears didn’t come out of nowhere. He developed it piece by piece. Learned survival early, reinforced by parents who were never there. And by me.
I left him once, hurting him deeply. Then I threatened to do it again.
I didn’t mean to. But I did.
…if neither of us is willing to move…
The implication was clear. What he heard was that my love came with conditions. What he heard was that I might bail.
Fuck me and my careless mouth. I put that fear in his chest. Dressed up my own insecurities as self-protection. Just like the last time. I’m not ever going to do that to him again.
The distance won’t be easy. But there’s no ultimatum. I assured him of that in words. Now I need to show him that he can count on me to stick.
I stroke Queenie’s back. She’s asleep when I reach for my phone and call Mom.
She answers on the first ring. “Hi, sweet girl.”
Her voice feels like a mug of hot cocoa on a cold day. “Hey, Ma.”
“You okay?” she asks, Mom Intuition on instant alert.
“Yeah. I just… needed to hear you.”
“It’s always good to hear you. How’s the visit with Dice?”
I tell her about what we’ve been up to, how he crushed it at the club. “I love having him here. I want him to stay. But I said it in the worst possible way.” I repeat the conversation.
“That’s part of learning together,” she says gently. “You’re both going to make mistakes. But it sounds like you’re willing to hear each other out. That’s grown-up love, sweetie.”
I tuck my feet beneath me, still petting Queenie. “Dice found out this morning he might have a brother.”
Silence falls on the other end. I can picture her sitting straighter, confusion creasing her brow. “What do you mean might?”
“I mean this kid called, claiming to be his little brother. No DNA proof. No paperwork. Just his word. He resembles him, though. And the story… it adds up. Dice believes him. But you know me, I stay skeptical. I need more information.”
“I would too. When did Jasinder supposedly have this child? She was serving an eight-year sentence.”
“He’s not Jasinder’s. He says they have the same father.”
“Father,” she says on a gasp. “Poor Dice must be reeling.”
“He is. Damon—that’s the kid’s name—lives in Philly, a student at UPenn. He asked to meet. At first, Dice was conflicted. It’s such a big decision. I tried to be that sounding board, gave him room to talk, to vent. And he decided to do it. We’re going tomorrow morning.”
“Whew.” She lets out a long exhale.
“Yeah.” I feel the steady rise and fall of Queenie’s little body beneath my hand.
“Dice went for a jog, trying to outrun the weight of it. Damon’s already emotionally invested, but Dice isn’t in the same place.
He’s curious, though. He’s never really had family—not by blood.
And I think part of him wants to know what that could feel like. I just hope it’s not a total letdown.”
“Remember when I told you it’s okay to be soft?” Mom says. “That I wanted you to let love in?”
“Feels like forever ago, but I remember.”
“I’m proud of you, Lot. You’ve tried to find some middle ground with your father. You’ve embraced Queenie. You’re loving Dice and letting him love you back. You’re both bending. Softening for each other. Whatever tomorrow brings, you have that to see you through.”
Her words crest over me like a gentle wave.
I used to think being soft meant being defenseless—meant handing over control or losing myself in someone else. But I’m starting to understand that softness isn’t weakness. It’s courage. It’s being strong enough to be vulnerable.
Soon after our call ends, the front door opens, creaking at the hinges. Dice walks in. Damp shirt clinging to his chest, sweat beading along his brow. His eyes are still shadowed, but when he sees me, he smiles.
My heart sighs. And I know that’s the kind of soft love I want.
With him.
No distance could ever be far enough to keep me from this man.
The next morning moves with an undercurrent of anticipation as we get ready. Dice is usually the one to see about me and Queenie. He tries to, but I assure him I’ve got this. Today is about taking care of him.
I make coffee, and when he says he’s not hungry, I still urge him to eat a piece of toast. Something to coat his stomach for the drive.
Queenie follows me like a little shadow, tail twitching, eyes sharp. She knows something’s up. Always does. I pop open her favorite food pouch and replicate Dice’s scrambled eggs as topping. She meows, weaving between my ankles, impatient and chatty.
While she eats, I grab her water bowl, Spider-Man, and a clean litter pan and carry everything into the bathroom.
We’ll be gone too long to leave her crated.
This is the only room with a door, and one where she’ll be safe and cause the least amount of havoc.
No wires to chew, no couch to shred, or shoes to maul.
In time, with training, I hope to leave her to roam freely. But we’re not there yet.
I lay down her bed where she loves to nap and toss in a couple of toys. Then call her in with the sound of the treat bag. She struts in, cool as ever. I give her a chicken pellet, kiss her head, and feel a pang in my chest as I close the door behind me.
“Queenie okay?” Dice asks, sitting on the edge of the bed in dark jeans and a Temple hoodie, pulling on his socks.
“She’s occupied for now, but I’ve never left her alone this long. Hope I won’t come back to an eviction notice,” I say, half joking.
“I’d understand if you need to stay.”
“I’m going, Dice. Queenie will be fine. I’ll give her lots of love when I get back. Right now, my focus is on you.” I run a hand over his shoulder, feeling the bunched muscles. “You still want to do this?”
“No. But I need to. Let’s just get it over with.”
We pick up the rental car. It’s a compact sedan. I offer to drive, but Dice says he’d prefer to take the wheel. Grabbing control where he can, since he’s about to walk into something there’s no playbook for.
I adjust the seat and buckle in. There’s a bagel in my hand, but I’m not really eating it. My stomach isn’t on board today. I’m worried for him. Can’t imagine the anxiety he must be feeling.
By nine, we’re on the highway, heading to Philly.
The ride is mostly music, interspersed with the sound of tires on asphalt and the occasional check-in from the GPS woman who has no idea the emotional heft that’s riding in this car.
I glance at Dice every so often. He’s concentrating on the road, jaw tight, sunglasses hiding whatever’s happening behind them.
His hands stay at ten and two the whole way.
I don’t press him or offer small talk. Dice and I both prefer silence over meaningless chatter. He knows I’m here. Walking the path beside him and watching out for the cracks.
Nearing West Philly, traffic thickens. We wind through narrow streets around the campus, the buzz of student life spilling onto the sidewalks. Dice finds a parking spot, tight but manageable, outside the coffee shop Damon picked.
We get there ten minutes early. It’s one of those off-campus joints where the staff are students, and tats and piercings are as plentiful as the drink options. Chalkboard menus. Worn couches.
Dice’s eyes scan the room before we’re even fully inside, already on edge. Thinking he doesn’t need more caffeine, I order him a black decaf and me a mint tea. Something warm we probably won’t finish. Then find a table toward the back, tucked away for privacy.
He doesn’t say much. Just sips and watches the door.
What if Damon doesn’t show? What if this is some cruel prank? I swallow those terrible thoughts without speaking them aloud.
But at eleven thirty sharp, he walks in.
I recognize him immediately. Dice’s face, but different.
More boyish, less angles. He’s taller. Lanky.
Curly top afro with shaved sides. No facial hair, which makes him appear even younger.
Nervous energy ripples off him in waves I can feel across the room.
His eyes sweep the café… land on Dice. He stops. Their gazes lock.
It’s a moment when time skips a breath and just holds.
I reach for Dice’s hand and squeeze, bracing for whatever comes next.