Page 58 of Lighting the Lamp
Silence falls like a weight between us until Michele, quiet but steady, says, “Don’t punish him away because you’re afraid of your reflection.”
I wince as if she slapped me, and honestly, maybe she did. Only emotionally and with precision.
“I know how this ends.” I shake my head. “I get in my head and spiral. I push too hard, but then pull too far, and the person who was trying to love me tires of trying. I carry way too much baggage. I know myself. I ruin things.”
Ramona sighs and stands, stretching like she’s about to wind up for another emotional roundhouse, but she stops in front of me. “I love you, but you’re making the wrong call.”
Michele hums in agreement as she stands, peeling a string off the hem of her hoodie. “Super wrong. Like ‘ordering gas station sushi at midnight’ wrong.”
Ramona nods solemnly. “Like ‘giving Darius a blowtorch with no adult supervision’ wrong.”
“That was one time!” I groan, burying my face in my hands.
“And yet, unforgettable,” Michele says, sipping her smoothie again. “As are most catastrophic choices, but I like this one.”
“Listen. We won’t force it right now,” Ramona continues, “because clearly, you’re in ‘burn-it-down-before-it-can-leave-you’ mode.”
“Trademark pending,” Michele adds with a soft smirk.
“So make your dramatic declarations. Refuse your joy. But when you change your mind—and you will—we’ll be here. With snacks and possibly shovels, depending on how far you dig yourself a hole.”
“I don’t—” I start.
“Don’t,” Ramona says, cutting me off. “It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay not to be ready. But don’t lie to yourself about what you’re walking away from because we saw your face this morning, and girl, you were glowing. Darius is probably still blinking like he saw the sun through a magnifying glass.”
“That poor boy is going to need holy water and eye drops,” Michele adds.
I snort despite myself, even as I press my hand flat against my chest like I can physically hold myself together, like maybe if I press hard enough, I can stop the ache from spreading.
“I just don’t want to hurt him.”
“Then stop hurting yourself,” Michele says. Her voice is quieter now, gentle in a way that cuts even deeper.
A sound slips from me—guttural, raw. Not quite a sob, not quite a scream, but pure grief because this isn’t what I want. It’s what I have to do. I’ve spent my whole life being the girl who needs too much, who is too much. And Beau? He deserves someone who won’t shatter every time the ground shifts beneath her. Someone who won’t flinch when love comes barreling toward her like a freight train.
I curl forward, arms wrapped around my middle like I can hold in everything I’m trying not to feel.
“You’d better be hungry. I’m making waffles,” Ramona says, giving me her best side-eye as she steps around me, heading toward the kitchen.
“Cole is going to be so jealous.” Michele winks at me, tucking her smoothie under her arm like a football. “And if youdon’t hurry, we’ll assume you’re wallowing and come back with whipped cream and an intervention playlist.”
“And I know your planner is in there,” Ramona calls over her shoulder. “You love accountability. It’s time to get your life together, queen.”
Michele pauses as she walks past and looks me right in the eyes. “You’re allowed to say no, Alise, but don’t lie to yourself about what you’re saying no to.”
And then she’s gone, leaving me standing in the entryway, wrapped in one of Beau’s shirts, surrounded by the ghosts of what I almost had, with a throat gone raw and a heart cracking clean down the middle because I said no. Not so much with words, but with my actions.
And even though I meant it, it still feels like I just ripped out the best part of me and left it on the floor at his feet.
Chapter Nineteen
Beau
The rink’s alive with movement. Players’ shouts echo off the walls along with the sound of pucks pinging off the glass and the sharp slice of skates tearing into fresh ice like it’s nothing. Normally, I’d be out there, chirping with my teammates while getting ready for the big game this weekend, but I’m not. Instead, I’m sitting on the goddamn bench again, watching like I’m nothing. No pads, just a pair of sweats, a hoodie, and the invisible stamp ofinjured reservethat they might as well tattoo on my forehead. The weight of the CAM tucked under my shirt presses faintly against my ribs, the adhesive edges tugging every time I shift. Another reminder I’m benched in more ways than one.
Officially, I’m here to “stay involved with the team.” Staying connected and keeping things positive, like proximity to the ice is some kind of cure for the way my chest aches every time a whistle blows and I’m not the one chasing it.
Unofficially? I’m here because the silence in my condo is deafening. Because every time I walk through the door, it feels colder. Quieter, like the walls are closing in around me and the floor’s been hollowed out beneath me. My body’s already breaking down, but it’s the stillness and emptiness that’s guttingme. And when I peel off my hoodie at night, the monitor stares back at me from my reflection in the mirror, a constant, silent witness.
