His shoulders shake, and I have to fight every instinct not to rush to him.
“I wanted to hate you,” he says, softer now. “God, I wanted to hate you so much. It would have been easier. But... but you’re still my dad. And I... I don’t know how to reconcile that with everything you’ve done.”
I hold my breath, half expecting—hoping? dreading?—some kind of response. But there’s nothing. Jim remains still, lost in a place we can’t reach and retreating further by the minute. There will be no Hollywood closure here. No grand apology or explanation. Whatever answers Jim holds, whatever words might have bridged the gap between him and his children, they’re lost now, trapped in the labyrinth of his unresponsive mind.
Gale turns to me, his eyes red-rimmed and turbulent. “What am I supposed to do?” he asks, his voice raw. “How am I supposed to feel?”
I wish I had an answer, wish I could tell him how to navigate this impossible situation. But all I can offer is my presence and my honesty.
“I don’t know,” I say softly, moving to his side and taking his hand. “But whatever you feel—be mad, be sad, or even confused, all of it—it’s valid. You don’t have to have it all figured out right now. There’s no statute of limitations with this.”
He nods, squeezing my hand like it’s a lifeline. “Yeah,” he says, sounding exhausted. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
We stand there in silence, hand in hand, watching the shallow rise and fall of Jim’s chest, listening to the rhythmic beeping of the machines. I don’t know how long we stay like that, but as the sun begins to set, painting the room in soft oranges and pinks, I feel some of the tension leave his body.
“Thank you,” he says quietly, turning to me. “For being here. For... for everything.”
I meet his gaze, seeing the vulnerability there, the gratitude. “Always,” I reply simply.
As we leave the room, Gale casts one last look at his father. I can’t decipher the expression on his face—it’s too complex, too layered with years of hurt and anger and love. His grip on my hand tightens, and I squeeze back. There’s so much between us we still need to figure out, and explain to Brooke about why her brother and I just... fit. But for now, as we walk out of the care center, his hand still anchored in mine, I feel like maybe, just maybe, he’s taken the first step toward something like healing.
Whatever comes next, whatever he needs to face, I know one thing for certain: he won’t be facing it alone. And sometimes the bravest thing a person can do is walk away from an unfinished story. To accept that not every question gets an answer, not every wound gets a neat bandage.
The future stretches out before us, uncertain and unscripted. It’s time to start writing a new chapter, even if it means leaving this one frustratingly incomplete.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Gale’s phone buzzed in his pocket as he strode through the player’s entrance at the arena. He fished it out and saw it was his dad’s care center.
A cold dread settled in his gut as he swiped to answer. “Yeah?”
“Am I speaking to Mr. Gale Knight?”
Something in the woman’s tone made his steps falter. “Yeah, how can I help you?”
A pause. Then: “My name is Rocio Perea and I’m a nurse practitioner over at Bluebonnet. I’m very sorry to inform you that your father passed away around ten minutes ago.”
The world tilted on its axis. Gale’s vision tunneled, the corridor stretching into infinity. He vaguely registered his bag slipping from his shoulder, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
“Mr. Knight? Are you there?”
Was he? He wasn’t sure. His body felt distant, disconnected. Like he was floating above himself, watching some poor schmuck get the news that the father who’d walked out on him years ago had finally managed to make his disappearing act permanent.
“Did he suffer?” The word scraped out of his throat.
“No. He went peacefully in his sleep.”
Peacefully. Right. Because Jim Knight deserved peace after all the chaos he’d left in his wake.
“Mr. Knight, I know this is difficult, but there are some arrangements we need to discuss—”
“No,” Gale interrupted sharply. “I’ve done enough. Do what you need and send me the bill.”
He ended the call before she could respond, staring at the blank screen. The urge to hurl the phone against the wall, to watch it shatter into a million pieces, was nearly overwhelming. Instead, he shoved it back into his pocket, bending to retrieve his fallen bag.
As he straightened, he caught sight of his reflection in a nearby trophy case. For a heart-stopping moment, he saw his father staring back at him. That fucking ghostly image that had been haunting him for months. The same sharp jaw, the same storm-cloud eyes. Gale’s hands clenched into fists. He’d spent the last few years trying to be the dutiful son, handling his father’s care when Brooke balked. And for what? So his dad could die anyway, with no closure in sight?
“Yo, Knight! You planning on joining us anytime soon?”
