Chapter 6 #2
Inside, the quiet is too loud to be empty. He’s here. Not physically—his boots aren’t by the door, his coat isn’t on a chair—but Wayne is in the way the fridge hums like a throat clearing, in the way the coffee maker steams like a warning flare.
He sits at the table, mug in hand, posture perfect because posture is what men like him control when they can’t control the people they love.
“You’re up early,” I say, keeping my voice level.
“So are you,” he says without emphasis.
I set my keys in the ceramic bowl like I always do. The clink is indecent. I pour coffee. It sloshes. My hand shakes less than expected. I sit across from him, the table between us a neutral zone I have no illusions about keeping neutral.
“Gala’s in three days,” he says, conversational. “Your final list looked good.”
“It is good,” I say. “We’ll break records.”
“I know,” he says, and it’s not mockery. It’s a fact and a strange sort of compliment: I trust you with my team because I know you like breaking hard things without hurting people. His eyes track my face, though, not my file folder. “You didn’t sleep here.”
“I didn’t.”
He looks at his mug like it might help him pick a tone. When he finds one, it’s not rage. It’s not even edge. It’s the careful voice he uses when he’s telling a kid that what happened on the ice wasn’t their fault and also absolutely was. “I’m not your warden, Samantha.”
“I know,” I say, and my throat burns because he is also not the man I want to accuse of being my jailer.
“I’m your father,” he says. “Which means I’m obligated to be the fool who stands between you and the train even when you tell me you like the noise.”
“It’s not a train,” I say quietly. “It’s a man.”
He doesn’t flinch at my refusal to pretend, and I love and hate him for it. “A man who works for me. A man I care about in a way that has nothing to do with this and entirely too much.”
“Then you know he’s decent,” I say, too fast.
“I know he can be,” he says. “I also know what men look like when desire makes them misread decency as absolution. And what girls look like when being seen feels like salvation.”
I stare at my coffee because if I look at him I will spill tears and confessions that belong to last night, not this kitchen. “I’m not a girl.”
“I know,” he says, with a grief that has nothing to do with disapproval. “That’s the problem and the point.”
We sit there and let the appliance orchestra sing to us. The clock ticks. My heart tries to match it and fails.
“What do you want from me?” I ask, when I can trust my voice again.
“To be careful,” he says. “To remember you’re not immune to harm just because you consent to the risk.”
“I know the difference,” I say. “Between harm and danger.”
“Do you?” he asks, no softness. “Most people don’t until after.”
“I do,” I insist, and I lift my eyes to his. “Because of you.”
That lands exactly where I intended. He nods once, jaw working. “Then hear me say this like a coach and a father both. If he hurts you, I will make sure he never works in this league again.”
“He won’t,” I say, and I say it like a vow because it is one. “And if he does, I’ll help you carry the match to the gasoline.”
He exhales a breath that might be a laugh in another universe. “You’re your mother’s daughter.”
“I hope so,” I whisper.
He stands. He doesn’t kiss my head because we aren’t that version of ourselves in this moment. He taps the table twice with two fingers—the signal we used when I was a kid that meant I’m leaving the room but not you. He heads for the door. Pauses. Looks back.
“If you’re going to do this,” he says, voice rougher now, “don’t make me your enemy to make it easier on yourself.”
It spears me cleanly because I have been setting him up for that in my head, turning him into an obstacle so I could pretend I was righteous, not frightened. “I won’t.”
He nods and leaves. The door shuts. The house resets. My breath staggers like it’s learning to walk.
My phone buzzes where I left it by the keys. Two messages. One from Unknown. One from a name I never changed in my contacts: Dad.
Dad: Text me when you’re at the rink. We’ll run through the program one more time.
Unknown: Near. Not on you. Unless you ask.
Below the text, a photo. Not of me. Of the ballroom from last night, taken from the mezzanine. The dance floor glows under the lights; you can’t pick out faces. In the lower right corner, a sliver of blue and the edge of a navy tie. It could be anyone. It’s us.
A second message follows.
Unknown: If you need me to sit at the end of the table and be good, I will. If you want me on your right, touch your wrist before dessert.
I stare at the screen until the words stop swimming. Then I text back two things because two things can be true.
Me → Dad: At the rink by ten. I’ll bring the updated seating chart.
Me → Unknown: On my right.
Three dots blink. Then:
Unknown: Copy. Captain obeys.
I sag back against the counter and let the smallest, least strategic smile live on my face. It’s not defiance. It’s not victory. It’s the expression of a woman who chose the weather and is ready to stand under it, soaked and shining and unafraid to be seen.
I shower. I dress in navy, because I’m not done with honesty. I loop the ribbon under my cuff, the knot loose, the tails soft against my skin. I don’t hide it. I don’t flaunt it. I just wear it the way you wear a thing that taught you your body is yours.
Before I leave, I write the catering note I forgot in the scramble of last night and this morning: Hot cocoa bar after speeches—add cinnamon sticks. I tape it to the fridge like a normal person doing normal things, then grab my bag and my keys and step into the cold that knows my name.
At the rink, the Zamboni hum tells me the day has started without me, which is a relief and a dare.
The lobby still smells like pine and popcorn, December pretending to be a warm hug.
I find Dad in his office with the whiteboard and the schedule and more love than he knows how to spend.
I hand him the chart. He scans it. Grunts approval.
We talk logistics like two professionals who don’t have a war tucked into their ribs.
When I leave his office, my phone buzzes.
Unknown: North corridor. Don’t come. Just look down the line and breathe.
I step to the mouth of the hallway and do what I’m told: I do not go.
I breathe, like he asked. Far down, a shadow shifts and becomes a man leaning against cinderblock, tie straight, posture relaxed, eyes all gravity.
He doesn’t wave. He just stands there being near, and somehow the day is less sharp-edged for it.
I turn back toward the lobby, the seating chart under my arm and three days of good work ahead.
I can feel my father at my back and Triston down the hall, and for once the war inside me looks less like a battlefield and more like a map—routes in every direction, some deadly, some kind, all mine to choose.
“Let’s work,” I tell myself, and the woman who stopped running smiles without apology and gets to it.