Page 95 of No Contest
His eyelids twitched. Maybe a response. Perhaps just the morphine.
Mom moved around behind me—straightening things that were already straight, adjusting the curtains by half an inch, making small, precise movements that gave her hands something to do besides shake.
"Sloane says hi," I continued. "The kids are good. Mae's reading above grade level now. Liam made the travel team."
The oxygen concentrator cycled. Somewhere down the hall, the furnace kicked on with a metallic groan.
I was running out of safe topics.
"I met someone," I said quietly.
Mom's movements stopped.
"His name's Connor. Everyone calls him Hog—he plays for the Storm. Right wing, enforcer." I watched Dad's face for any flicker of recognition. Nothing. "You'd probably say he's too loud. Takes up too much space. Has opinions about things that don't matter."
The words flowed now that I'd started.
"But he's—" I stopped. Tried again. "He teaches kids to knit. Makes these tiny animals out of yarn and gives them away. And he fights guys twice his size to protect his teammates, then bakes them banana bread the next morning. He's all of it at once and doesn't apologize for any of it."
I reached out and touched Dad's hand. The skin was cool, papery thin.
"I told him I wanted to marry him. Well—his niece asked, and I said yes without thinking, and then I realized I meant it." My throat tightened. "I'm making my own choices now. About the business, about where I live, about who I—" I swallowed hard. "About who I love."
Dad's eyelids twitched again. Or didn't. It was impossible to tell.
"You never asked what I wanted," I said, and my voice was steadier than I expected. "You just told me what I was supposed to do. Stay in Thunder Bay. Take over the business. Build the kind of life you built." I looked at his face—slack now, emptied of the opinions and expectations that had filled it. "And I'm doing some of that. But I'm doing it my way. For myself."
The oxygen hissed.
"I wish you'd asked," I said quietly. "Even once."
Nothing. Of course, nothing. He was dying, or already mostly gone, and I was sitting here having a conversation with someone who couldn't respond. Who may not have even heard.
The talk wasn't for him. It was for me.
I gently squeezed his hand once—because it felt like it might break—and let go.
"I'm gonna step outside for a minute," I told Mom.
She nodded without looking at me, her attention fixed on the rise and fall of Dad's chest like she could keep him breathing through sheer force of will.
I walked out to the porch, pulled the door shut behind me, and stood in the cold January air while my breath fogged and my hands finally stopped shaking.
Behind me, through the window, I saw the shape of the hospital bed and my mother's silhouette in the recliner.
I pulled out my phone and texted Hog.
Rhett:Still here. Don't know when I'm leaving. Just needed you to know I'm thinking about you.
The response came fast.
Hog:I'm here whenever you need me—however you need me
I read it twice, put the phone away, and went back inside to sit with a man who'd never learned how to ask what anyone wanted.
By evening, Sloane had come and gone, taking the kids with her after Mae asked too many questions about why Grandpa wouldn't wake up. Mom had sat with Dad through dinner—soup she didn't eat, crackers she picked into crumbs on a paper napkin.
I'd offered to stay the night. She'd said no, then asked if I wanted tea.
