Page 103 of For the Plot

I say nothing. Her voice softens. “I left you fatherless. I always worried you’d chase what I couldn’t give you.”

“Don’t,” I whisper.

“Skye—”

“Please don’t make this about that,” I say, blinking fast. “You raised me by yourself. You were everything. I never needed anything more than you.”

She leans back, eyes glassy now. I don’t want her to feel guilt for something that isn’t hers to carry.

“I didn’t fall for Reece because he reminded me of someone I missed,” I say. “I fell for him because he’s strong. And kind. And deeply, deeply broken in a way I understood.”

She nods. “And he ended things?”

“He told me to leave.” My throat tightens. “I stood in his living room, wearing lingerie and a trench coat like I was in some bad rom-com, and then Archer walked in and… yeah, that’s how he found out.”

My mom’s mouth drops open. “Oh my God. You’re kidding.”

“I wish.”

She stares at me, stunned. “That’show he found out?”

“Yep.”

“Skye…”

“I know.”

“Jesus,” she breathes, sitting back like the story just knocked the wind out of her. “No wonder you looked like a haunted doll when you showed up on my doorstep.”

I let out a laugh that’s more of a choked sob. “That’s an accurate summary.”

She shakes her head. “I mean—of all the ways for something like that to come out…”

“I thought he’d stop me,” I whisper. “I thought he’d fight.”

“But he didn’t.”

“No.”

She’s quiet a long moment. Then her hand covers mine, warm and steady.

“And you still love him.”

I don’t answer. I don’t have to. Her fingers squeeze gently. “Then maybe the question isn’t whether you made a mistake falling for him. Maybe the question is, does he regret letting you go?”

My throat aches. “I don’t know.”

She studies me for a long time. Her expression isn’t judgmental. It’s maternal in the fiercest sense, protective and full of grief for me.

“You don’t need to decide anything today,” she says softly. “But don’t let shame make the decision for you.”

I nod, blinking hard. And for the first time in weeks, I feel something crack open in my chest. A little breath of air. A little space.

It’spast midnight when I pull the old notebook out of my suitcase.

The pages are soft at the edges, the spine cracked from too many years of being dragged across state lines and heartbreaks. I haven’t written in it since before I started the job at Blackwood Enterprises. Back when my biggest concern was whether Maya’s cat had peed on my only good blazer.

The pen feels foreign in my hand. But the ache in my chest is familiar.