behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter Forty-Four

HARPER

The air smells like sea salt and oranges.

I'm barefoot on the old tile of our kitchen in Florida, the one with the sun-bleached grout and that tiny chip by the sink from where I dropped a mug when I was twelve. There's a breeze pushing in through the open window above the counter, rustling the pale yellow curtains. Outside, I hear the distant cry of gulls and the soft hush of waves from just down the road, like the ocean is breathing in sync with me.

It feels so familiar it aches.

The light is golden and low, late afternoon, filtering through the blinds in long warm stripes. I look down and realize I'm wearing my old cut-off shorts, the ones I outgrew in high school, and a faded T-shirt with a cracked camera graphic on it. I lift my fingers to my face—they're smaller, softer. My nails are painted the same chipped coral pink my mom used to paint for me. I look twelve. Maybe thirteen.

But I don't feel like I'm thirteen.

Everything is vivid, too bright around the edges. The silence hums. There's a strange clarity to it, like when you wake up after crying and everything feels raw, but clean.

"Hey, baby girl."

My body freezes.

My mother stands in the doorway, barefoot like me, in an old cotton sundress with tiny blue flowers on it. Her curls are pinned up off her neck, loose pieces falling around her face, and she looks young. Not like how she looked near the end, frail and faded, her skin paper-thin, her bones too sharp for her body.
No, this is her before—before the hospitals and the oxygen machines. This is her how I want to remember her. Strong. Glowing. Beautiful.

She's holding a lemon in one hand and a paring knife in the other, like she's about to make something—tea or maybe that lemon sugar she used to put on toast. She smiles at me like she's been waiting for me. Like this moment is normal.

"Mom?"

"Yeah, honey." Her voice is soft, exactly as I remember it. She sets the lemon down and walks toward me, the sunlight catching on the silver in her earrings, her bare arms warm and familiar. "You okay?"

I stare at her. My chest aches. My eyes burn. "Mom. Mom. I didn't get to say goodbye."

The words rip right out of me, sudden and uninvited.
I don't even know if I mean to say them, but once they're out, I can't stop.

"I didn't get to say it," I whisper. "You were there, and then you weren't. And I was so angry. At you. At everything. I was supposed to be there, and I wasn't. I never said goodbye."

My voice breaks. My hands are shaking. And before I even realize I've moved, I'm in her arms. She wraps me up without hesitation, one hand cupping the back of my head, the other rubbing gentle circles across my back, like she used to when I had stomach aches or bad dreams. Her body is solid and warm and real. So real it scares me.
I can smell her skin—sunblock and that peach-scented lotion she kept on her nightstand. I breathe her in like I'm drowning.

"I know, baby," she says into my hair. "I know you didn't get the chance. But I knew. I always knew how much you loved me. You don't have to carry that anymore. Please– don't feel guilty. I felt your love, I wasn't alone. I never was."

I shake my head, still clinging to her. "I thought I had more time. I thought—"

"I know." She pulls back enough to cup my face in her hands. Her eyes are damp, but clear. "You were doing your best. And it's okay. I promise, it's okay. I don't blame you, you shouldn't blame yourself because I love you, Harper. You were the best thing that happened to me. I want you to live your life, be happy, laugh, and be free. Be loved."