Page 127 of The Pucking Arrangement

The space around me tilts.

The words I’d planned—stay with us, build a life here, be mine—die in my throat. The speech I rehearsed about telling Ris? Gone.

Because while I’ve been picturing a future with her, she’s already set hers in motion.

And I can’t stop her. I won’t. Not just for myself—though fuck, it’s already too late for me—but for Ris.

My daughter. Who curls into Erin’s side like she belongs there. Who asks for her at bedtime. Who lights up when she walks into a room. Who has already started picturing a forever I have no right to promise.

I can’t let her get hurt.

I can’t let her get even more attached.

So, I do the only thing I can.

I let Erin go.

“When?”

“The festival starts July fifteenth.” She shifts, like she’s bracing herself. “I’ll leave at the end of June. I might come back in August or just stay in Europe. Luka invited me to Zagreb. He has a rehearsal space. Then the tour starts in September.” Her voice drops, quieter now. “It runs through December.”

Five months.

The number lands like a punch to the ribs.

Five months of her gone. Five months of no Erin, no stolen mornings, no music drifting through my house, no warmth pressed against me at night.

Five months of Ris asking when she’s coming back.

“It’s an incredible opportunity,” she continues quickly, words rushing together now. “The exposure, the connections, the chance to play these historic venues?—”

“Erin.” I cut her off, gentler than I feel. “It sounds incredible.”

She blinks, surprised. “It…does?”

“Yeah.” I reach for the wine bottle, not because I want it, but because it gives my hands something to do. Something to stop them from reaching for her. From pulling her into me and asking her to stay.

“You’re talented. You work hard.” The words scrape my throat like gravel, but I force them out. “You deserve this.”

“Oh.” She looks…lost. Like this isn’t the reaction she expected.

Like she was expecting me to fight.

“I thought…” She chews her lip. “With Galina coming next week, I should probably move back to the city anyway, and?—”

“Yes.” The word comes out like a scrape. “That makes sense.”

She freezes. Tears flicker in her eyes. She was expecting something else. She was expecting me to ask her to stay.

I force myself to meet her gaze and hold it.

“You should move back.” My throat is tight. The words taste like acid. “Having you here was—helpful.” Her breath hitches, and I exhale, steadying myself. “But it’s time to go back to our lives.”

“I…” She swallows hard, blinking too fast. “I don’t know what I want anymore.”

I do. I want her here, with us.

But I can’t say that. Not when she’s finally getting everything she’s worked for. Not when keeping her here would mean taking something from her.

---