Page 104 of Lighting the Lamp
Ramona reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Call him. Again. Text him. Again. Show up at his front door and demand answers, or don’t, but whatever you decide, do it because it feels right, not because you’re scared of losing something that won’t fight to stay.”
The words land in my chest like stones dropped into water. Heavy. Spreading ripples through everything I’ve been trying to hold still. I bite the inside of my cheek, hard enough to sting, but it doesn’t ground me like I want it to. I want to believe he’d fight. That he’d hear the silence between us and claw his way back through it. That this—whatever this distance is—is just a bump,a momentary lapse in something real. But right now, it feels like I’m the only one still reaching. And the silence on the other end? It’s sounding an awful lot like goodbye.
The silence hangs heavy over us, the air thick with tension, and we are all too polite to say that we’re choking on it. And then Darius lurches up like he’s been electrocuted, knocking his soda can sideways.
“OH, SHIT!”
“Language!” Ramona shrieks and fumbles the RSVP cards she was sorting. “Darius, what the actual?—?”
“TV! Turn it up. Turn it up!” He dives for the remote like a linebacker, jabbing the buttons like they wronged him until the volume blasts.
“A shocking mid-season decision from the Portland Timberwolves today, as the organization confirms the immediate termination of head coach Graham Mercer. Taking his place? None other than veteran center Cooper Hendrix, who will retire from play following this weekend’s home game and officially step into the head coach role.”
My brain can’t process the words fast enough.
“What!” Ramona’s jaw goes slack, her hands hovering mid-air like she’s still holding something.
Michele turns her head slowly, too slowly, like she’s afraid of what she’ll see. Her expression is blank at first, but then it buckles slightly. “No way.”
“My timbers have been shivered.” Darius gasps like someone revealed a secret twin on a soap opera.
He clutches his chest like he’s about to laugh, but the sound never comes. None of ours do either.
“Cooper didn’t tell me.” Ramona’s voice is brittle and thin. “He—he mentioned coaching when Mercer stepped down, but I thought he meant next year. After—” She shakes her head. “Not now. Not… like this.”
Her eyes glaze over, like she’s lookingthroughthe TV, searching for the version of him who might’ve told her the truth. I can’t think straight because Beau had to know. There’s no way he didn’t. He’s probably known for a while. The thought sits like lead in my stomach because this has to be why he’s been avoiding me. The thing behind every clipped message and forced smile. The reason he’s been slipping through my fingers like fog every time I reach for him.
Michele’s phone vibrates across the table, rattling against a coaster. She glances down—and freezes.
“Who is it?” Ramona asks gently.
Michele doesn’t answer right away. She just stares at the screen; her throat bobs as she swallows hard. Her fingers twitch as if they might reach for the phone, but don’t. “It’s my dad.”
Ramona doesn’t speak. Neither do I. We don’t need to. We already know.
“I didn’t know.” Michele’s voice cracks as she blinks hard, her lashes fluttering like maybe she’s holding back tears. “I didn’t know, but then again, why would I? I haven’t talked to him since he made me choose.”
Her voice trembles, but her hand doesn’t as she flips the phone over, silencing the call. The sound cuts off mid-buzz, and just like that, something in me breaks.
It’s not a loud shatter, dramatic with sharp edges and noise, but something quieter. It’s like a thread snapping inside a favorite sweater. A soft unraveling and something delicate giving way. And suddenly, I can’t sit still. The need to move rises so fast it leaves me breathless. I shove my chair back, and it screeches against the floor like a scream.
“I have to go.”
“Wait—what?” Ramona jerks her gaze up.
“I need to talk to him.” My pulse pounds like a war drum. “Beau knew. He’s known this whole time and hasn’t said a damnword. And I’ve been up here obsessing overcenterpieceswhile he’s been pretending I don’t exist.”
Michele’s eyes widen, her voice almost pleading. “You’re going now?”
“Yes,” I say, already reaching for my phone. “He lives four floors down. I’ve spent two weeks talking myself off the ledge while he’s been living in emotional solitary confinement.”
Ramona rises halfway out of her seat, her concern etched into every line of her face. “Do you want one of us to come with?—?”
“No. This is between him and me.”
Darius pops up, still holding a pizza slice. “Do you want me to burst through the door in ten minutes with an air horn and a boom box playing sad Taylor Swift?”
Despite everything, I laugh—a frayed, ragged sound that tastes like panic.
