behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter Thirty-Seven

HARPER

My mom dies on March 3rd at 2:47 a.m., which is—coincidentally, cruelly—the exact hour I was born. 53 years old, she passed away in her sleep.

I wasn't with her when it happened.

I was asleep.

But something in me knew. I swear to God, something in me just knew. I sat bolt upright in the dark, heart pounding like it was trying to outrun a truth I hadn't heard yet. My breath caught in my throat and I stared into the shadowy corners of the hotel room, waiting for the reason to hit me.

Ten minutes later, the hospital called.

I think I already knew before I answered. Maybe I knew the second she exhaled for the last time. Maybe I felt it. Maybe there's a string between us that snapped—quietly, in the dark—and woke me up with the sound of its breaking.

The rest is a blur. I remember Millie waking up, her hand on my back, her voice whispering my name. I remember pressing the phone to my ear and nodding, nodding, nodding, because what else could I do? I remember dropping it, the receiver dangling off the edge of the bed, the words still coming through, the nurse still talking.

"She passed peacefully," they said.
"She wasn't in pain."
"She went in her sleep."

Peacefully. I hate that word now. Because peaceful doesn't mean painless. It doesn't mean fair. It doesn't mean ready. I wasn't ready. She wasn't ready. There's no such thing as peaceful when you're fifty-three years old and leaving behind a daughter you still call your baby.

I think Millie said my name again. I think I told her. I don't know how. I don't remember how the words left my mouth, or how I said my mom is dead without shattering into pieces that couldn't be gathered again.

I don't know how I'm still breathing. Maybe I'm not.

The morning light in Florida is too warm. It feels offensive. There's no snow. No rain. Just sun rising over the Gulf like nothing happened. Like the world isn't quieter now. Like my mom didn't die in a hospital bed just a few miles away from where I'm lying in a hotel room I didn't choose, beside a girl who's pretending not to be breaking too.

Because Millie is breaking. I can see it. She tries to hold it together for me—she always does—but I've seen the way she keeps touching her phone, the way she stares at the ceiling when she thinks I'm not watching. I think she's imagining what it would be like to lose her moms. To get a call in the middle of the night that her world is over.

She hasn't said it, but I know.
She's scared too. She's hurting. And she's still here.

Millie hasn't let go of me since the moment that call came in. Not when I collapsed on the floor. Not when I tried to stand and couldn't. Not when I sobbed into the hollow of her throat and whispered, "She's gone, she's gone, she's gone," until my voice was raw.

She held me through it all.

She's still holding me now. I don't know how to say thank you when the words feel so small. I don't know how to say I don't deserve this without sounding like I'm pushing her away. Because I don't want her to go. I want her here. I want her so badly it hurts.

But I also want my mom. I want one more day. One more hour. One more phone call where she tells me to eat something and that she's proud of me even when I mess up. I want her to brush my hair. I want her to tell me everything's going to be okay, even if it's a lie.

I want her back.

God, I want her back. Please.

It was always just me and her. There's no big family flying in. No cousins bringing casseroles. No long-lost aunts booking flights to say goodbye. No one to sit in a church pew and cry for her but me.