I press a hand to my forehead, the weight of his words threatening to crack something inside me. “Why didn’t you tell me all this before?” My voice is barely above a whisper now, the anger ebbing into something much harder to face—doubt.
Keane leans back in the recliner, his voice casual, almost too casual. “So now that I’m better, remember most things, and I’m almost walking again, can I go back to Seattle?”
His words hit me like a slap. “Seattle?” I repeat, staring at him as if he just suggested something absurd.
“Yeah, that’s where my home is. I do remember that. And my dog,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact, as though this is just another conversation.
“Samsung was your dog?” Haydn chimes in, his brow furrowing.
Keane nods. “Where is he?” His question hangs in the air, simple yet somehow heavier than anything else he’s said today. “Where is old Sam?”
I let out a bitter snort, unable to help myself. “He remembers the dog,” I say, my voice tight, “but not me. Did you ever care?” I glare at him, the accusation clear in my voice, daring him to deny it.
Keane doesn’t flinch. He shrugs, his expression almost indifferent. “Probably,” he answers. “But not enough. Where is Samsung?”
I feel the words sink deep, cutting through me in ways I didn’t think possible. My throat tightens, and I fight to keep my composure, my nails digging into my palms as I cling to the last threads of my dignity. He doesn’t remember. He never cared. I never meant anything to him. The thoughts swirl, loud and relentless, but I force myself to respond.
“He died last year,” I manage to say, my voice quieter now, softer. “He was a great dog.”
“The best,” Haydn adds quickly, his tone warm and sincere, as if he’s trying to fill the silence, to cushion the blow that just landed squarely on me.
I nod, swallowing back the lump rising in my throat, refusing to let the tears win. I won’t cry in front of him. Not for him.
And that’s when it hits me—this isn’t just about the memories he’s lost. This is about who he’s choosing to be nowthat he’s finding himself again. And it’s clear, painfully clear, that I’m not a part of the picture he’s rebuilding.
Was I expecting us to somehow go back to what we were? To pick up the pieces and glue them into some version of the life we once had? I don’t know. And now, staring at him, at the person he is now, I’m more confused than ever. Maybe I never really let go when he died. Maybe I clung to what we were because it was easier than facing the hollow ache of losing him. I never truly got closure—just an empty space where we used to exist.
I glance at Haydn. His eyes meet mine, filled with love and worry, and it twists something deep inside me. I don’t deserve him. Not when I’m still standing here, holding pieces of a past that don’t fit anymore, not when I don’t even know who I am without Keane’s shadow looming in the background.
This is it, isn’t it? That feeling I had when I moved in with Haydn. That quiet unease that sat in my chest like a warning. It was a sign and I ignored it. I knew something would happen, something would shatter, but I didn’t know it would be on this scale. My life feels like it’s imploding, the aftershocks rippling through everything I thought I’d built.
And forever? The word feels like a cruel joke now. A promise that was never real, just a shiny lie wrapped in hope.
Forever isn’t unbreakable.
Forever is fragile, full of cracks that promises and love can’t always mend.
Forever failed me once before, and now it’s failing me again—reminding me that nothing, no matter how much you want it, is guaranteed.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Haydn
The arena is electric,the roar of the crowd reverberating through my helmet and down to my core. Fans are on their feet, a sea of jerseys and signs, their voices rising in unison as the puck drops at center ice. The cold air bites at my face, but it barely registers. The ice beneath me feels like solid ground in a world that’s always shifting.
I skate backward into the crease, the space where everything clicks into place, tracing the same well-worn steps I’ve taken a thousand times. I tap the goalposts—right, left, top, and then the ice—before crouching low, my stick lightly brushing the surface, eyes locked on the play unfolding at center. The crowd chants, 'Wes the Wall! Wes the Wall!' Their voices echo through the arena, a pulse of energy that ignites something fierce inside me, a reminder of who I am and why I’m here.
This keeps the ritual vivid and adds depth to the scene.
Johnson picks up the puck, barreling down the ice like a freight train, his stick weaving with precision as he fakes out our defense. The boards rattle as one of our guys slams into him, but he shrugs it off, his focus unshakable. His eyes flick toward the wing, selling the pass, but I see it—the hesitation, the subtle shift in his body. He’s going for the shot.
I crouch lower, tracking the play. His stick strikes, sending the puck hurtling toward me with brutal force. Time stretches, every detail coming into focus—the puck spinning through the air, the scrape of my blade as I slide into position, the resounding crack as it meets my pad. The puck deflects away, skidding harmlessly into the corner.
The arena erupts, a deafening wave of cheers and chants. Sticks bang against the boards, the guys yelling, “Fuck, yes, Wes!” and “That’s the Wall!” My heart pounds as I skate to the edge of the crease, clearing the snow with a swift kick of my blade. This is what I live for—this rush, this moment.
The play resets, and I roll my shoulders, shaking off the tension. My rituals take over, bringing me back to the moment. Tap the posts. Trace a line with my skate. Scan the ice. The puck shifts to the far end, but I stay ready, hyper-focused, every muscle coiled, ready for the next attack.
The chants rise again, the crowd’s energy rippling through the arena like a living thing. “Wes the Wall!” they roar, louder,fiercer, riding the wave of momentum. It surges through me, setting my nerves alight. I glance at the camera hovering above the rink, knowing every move is being recorded, dissected, replayed. But none of that matters right now. It’s just me, the net, and the puck.
