Chapter 55 #2
Her small frame pressed against my legs—tentative, but real.
She sniffed once, curious but cautious.
Then, inch by inch, she crept into my lap. One hesitant step at a time. Like she was bracing for the moment I would push her away.
When she finally settled fully against me, something inside me cracked.
It’s like she knows I’m broken, too.
The warmth of her small body seeped into mine like the first rays of sun after a long storm.
I exhaled—slow and shaky, like I’d been holding my breath for months.
She curled in tighter. Settled like she’d made her decision. Like she’d chosen me. And for the first time in months, something cut through the numbness.
Tentatively, I reached out and brushed my fingers over the top of her head.
I hadn’t realized it until now—but this dog, this broken thing, was the first creature to trust me in what felt like forever.
From the doorway, the worker grinned. “Guess you’re taking her.”
I didn’t answer. Just wrapped my arms around Margot’s small body a little bit tighter. She sighed, leaned further into me like she belonged there.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt something stir.
Small. Fragile.
A whisper of hope, maybe.
But it was there.
I sat with her for a while, letting myself feel it.
When I finally spoke, my voice was hoarse. “What’s the paperwork look like?”
She waved me off. “Your friend took care of most of it. Just need your license.”
I stiffened. “What do you mean, he took care of it?”
“I mean you’re good to go. She’s yours.”
Fucking Chase.
My jaw clenched, but I didn’t argue.
She clipped a leash onto Margot’s collar and opened the kennel door—offering a freedom she clearly wasn’t sure what to do with.
When I met Chase at the front, Margot in my arms, he was standing there with both arms full—plush toys, ropes, rubber balls in all sizes and colors. Some almost as big as her.
He held them like it was nothing. Like this whole thing wasn’t ridiculous.
Like he wasn’t waiting for a thank you .
But I couldn’t look at him.
“Let’s go.”
Outside, I knelt and set Margot down. Her small frame stiffened as she sniffed the fresh air, testing the space.
Slowly, she padded forward. Her paws pressed into the grass. She stopped. Stretched. Her tail gave the smallest, barely-there wag.
A new beginning—one I hadn’t asked for, but maybe one we both needed.
It wasn’t fixed. Not even close. But for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel completely broken.
Later that night, I told Chase everything.
We sat on the couch, Margot curled up in my lap, her soft snores filling the space between my words. I spoke quietly—like saying it any louder might make it worse.
But I said it all.
He knew about Willow. Everyone did.
But I told him about Calla. About my dad. About the party. About Jules. About how I’d held it in for so long, I wasn’t sure how to let any of it go.
I told him how I’d kept quiet at first out of loyalty—because of everything they’d done for me, and everything I owed them when I didn’t protect Willow.
How my dad started saying I would go down with him if I spoke up.
How he was probably right—because I knew too much for too long.
And how, eventually, fear took the space where loyalty used to be.
I told him I was glad he reached out to her. That I needed to tell the truth, even if it destroyed me. That I was so fucking angry at my dad for ruining everything—my life, my plans, my chance to be something more than this.
That I was tired of being a fuck-up. That I didn’t know how to fix anything anymore, not even myself.
I told him everything. Even the parts I hadn’t told Calla.
The ones I never got the chance to.
The ones I wasn’t sure I ever would.
And he just listened.
Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t try to fix it.
Just sat there, letting me pour it all out. Nodding when I needed him.
When I finally stopped—when there was nothing else to say—he exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath the whole time.
“Took you long enough,” he muttered, shaking his head.
But after a beat, he reached over and gripped my shoulder.
“It’s a lot, Haiyden. Seriously, a lot,” he said quietly. “But I got you, man, I always have.”
I blink myself out of the memory, but it lingers—clinging like fog. Even as I move through the motions of getting ready, it stays.
Faint but present.
Settling quietly into my routine.
Margot’s tail wags as I clip her leash into her harness, the soft jingle of the metal the only real sound.
Outside, the morning air is crisp, cutting through the last of my sleep as Margot trots beside me. I take the long route around the block—through town, past rows of houses and apartments where warm, golden light glows behind drawn curtains .
Eventually, we reach Maple & Clover.
I used to stop here every morning, trading money for pastries I never ate—pastries that should’ve been hers. Calla’s.
It was a sick ritual.
A quiet kind of self-inflicted pain.
But I don’t need that anymore.
By the time we’re back, the sun’s fully risen, slanting through the windows in soft streaks. Margot jumps back into bed without hesitation, curling into the blankets like she never left.
I scratch behind her ears once more before heading to the bathroom.
The shower is too hot, steam curling around me, but I stay under it anyway—letting the heat work out the stiffness in my muscles.
Chase switched me to mornings after we talked.
I know he’s easing me back into it, and I’m grateful.
The first few weeks were brutal—dragging myself out of bed before sunrise, stepping out into a world that felt indifferent to whether I existed at all.
But now, it’s easier.
Or at least, it’s not as hard.
Work is uneventful—the best kind of shift I could hope for. I spend the morning keeping busy, letting the monotony ground me.
When it’s time to swap, Chase claps me lightly on the shoulder and steps behind the bar. No questions. No expectations. Just understanding.
Back home, I take Margot for another walk. The air is thick with humidity and damp summer earth.
My body and brain ache for sleep, but instead of giving in, I absently flip through channels on the TV. The images blur together, barely registering.
I’m better than I’ve been, but exhaustion has settled deep in me.
Not the kind that once felt unsolvable.
This time, it just feels like healing.
Cooking has become a part of my routine. My therapist suggested it—something tactile, something productive. Something that connected me to Willow.
I figured it was worth a shot.
And it was.
I started small. Simple meals. But tonight, I pulled out the big guns—a braised short rib recipe I saw on some late-night cooking show. The kind that takes hours to get right.
I lay the ingredients out in neat rows. Fresh herbs, garlic, onion, a thick cut of meat that takes time and patience to tenderize.
My hands move on autopilot, chopping rosemary and thyme with practiced precision, the beat of the knife quieting my brain for the first time today.
I sear the meat, the scent of sizzling fat wafting through the air.
There’s a pattern to it now. A steady flow as I dance between the stove and the counter, reaching for the wine to deglaze the pan, only to pause—
My eyes land on a bottle at the far-end of the counter, half-hidden in shadow.
Calla’s wine. Her favorite.
Just in case one day I can pour her a glass. Offer it with some semblance of normalcy. A quiet understanding that I still love her in all the small, invisible ways.
I blow out a breath as the memory takes over, gripping the counter before I even realize I need the support.
It had been one of those drives.
The kind we loved.
No destination.
Just the two of us.
Calla played DJ, scrolling through playlists with the same quiet intensity she approached everything else with. She never said it outright, but I knew—music was how she let me in.
I never asked to play anything. I never needed to.
I learned her moods through the songs. Felt the shifts when she played something soft and aching. When she reached for my hand on certain lyrics.
What I never told her—never got the chance to—was that I made playlists too.
For when she was ready.
I never asked. I would never take that from her. I wanted it to be hers—something she gave me freely.
But still, I made them.
Just in case.
Just in case one day, she wanted to hear from me the same way I had listened to her.
From the driver’s seat, I always traced my fingers over her thigh. I saw her trying to figure it out—the loops, the swirls, the start and end.
But I never admitted the truth.
That every time, my fingers wrote the same words.
I love you.
That was the first time I said it.
The first time I told her .
Traced it into her skin.
That last drive, I was reckless. My hand tangled lazily in her hair, kissing her at every stop sign, every red light.
Sealing my fate.
Making promises she didn’t even know I’d made.
And once, when there wasn’t even a stop sign at all.
I knew it was dangerous. But in that moment, kissing her felt more important than being alive.
She laughed breathlessly, swatting my arm. “There wasn’t even a stop sign!”
I just tightened my grip in her hair, pulling her closer.
“Didn’t need one,” I muttered, breath warm against her lips—then kissed her again, like I couldn’t bear to let her go.
When I finally pulled over on a quiet stretch of road with no streetlights, I kissed her harder. Deeper. One hand still tangled in her hair, the other gripping her waist like she was the only thing tethering me to this world.
Like she was the sun, and I was just a planet in her orbit.
Like loving her was the only real thing I’d ever known.
She climbed over the console without hesitation, pressing into me. The air between us filled with the kind of longing that always felt inevitable.
She made it so easy to love her. It was effortless.
The stove timer beeps, yanking me back into the present.
Turning toward the stove, I force myself to focus, suddenly hyper-aware of every motion—the way I stir, the way I plate the food, the way I shove the memory back into the quiet corner of my mind where I keep all the things I’m not sure I’ll ever get to say out loud .
Dinner is fine—nothing more, nothing less.
I eat in silence, feed Margot, and take her out for her final walk.
When I get back, Chase is still at work. I sink into the couch, Margot nestles against me. I rub her ears, scratching up and down her back until she sighs, nuzzling in closer.
I tell myself we’re waiting up because she won’t settle until Chase walks through the door.
But that’s not the truth.
The truth is, I still hate being alone.
It’s been five months.
Life is better now, but it isn’t complete.
Maybe there’s a way to fix it, though. Maybe it’s time to stop writing words on skin—and finally make them mean something.