19. Daphne

Chapter nineteen

Daphne

T oday is Alex’s last football game, the final chapter in a story that has defined him. I feel privileged to witness this a bittersweet end to a new beginning.

The icy metal bleachers bite into my skin, adding to the evening chill. In my hand, I hold an unopened letter. Its edges are sharp and unforgiving. It’s just paper, but its weight feels crushing, a burden I’m not ready to face alone in my dorm room.

Here, I’m with thousands of other people, though they don’t know the struggle I’m about to embark upon. Because I’m finally reading the letter mom sent me weeks ago. Well, the one I didn’t throw away.

The crowd roars around me. The game’s frenzy catches everyone except for Eden, who is in class with her private cello lesson.

I glance at the field. Alex is out there for his last college play. He’s all focus and fire, the way he always is on game days. I’m just another face in the general audience, but my heart’s down there with him on the turf .

I’m glad it gave him the confidence needed, but I’m excited to see what he makes of his life. Like how his eyes gleam when he’s cooking. Sometimes he pokes the corner of his tongue against his lip, all adorable-like.

Victoria’s sitting in the VIP section. Her dark hair and smug satisfaction makes her easy to spot. Even from here, I can see her perfect posture, the kind that says she owns the place. Which, in a way, she does.

Then there’s Celeste, with the other cheerleaders on the sidelines. She is expected to rally the crowd, but her eyes are fixed on Alex, as if waiting for something.

Alex jogs to the bench for a break and grabs a bottle of Gatorade. He’s breathing hard with sweat glistening on his forehead. Celeste seizes her chance by slinking over. She sits close—too close—and starts talking to him.

Aren’t cheerleaders supposed to be waving pom-poms and, I don’t know, cheering? She’s so comfortable with him that she has no problem just waltzing right up in the middle of a game.

They laugh together, and it looks intimate. Everybody already knows they’ve broken up, but seeing them now feels like a punch in the gut. I hate how it makes me feel.

Betrayed. Small. Invisible .

Shifting my focus back to the letter in my hand, I will myself to block out the sight of Alex and Celeste. I take a deep breath, steel myself, and tear open the envelope.

It’ll be the only thing keeping my mind off my boyfriend and his ex.

I rip at the corner of the envelope but don’t pull out the letter. I’m unable to focus with the group in front of me, whispering.

“Look at Celeste and Alex,” one girl gossips.

“Totally back on,” her friend chimes in, pointing with a manicured nail. “They’re inseparable.”

Their words sting. I glance up. The cheerleaders are peppering the air with their chants, except for Celeste. She’s planted next to Alex, so close it’s like she’s trying to merge with him.

“Isn’t she supposed to be cheering?” Another student snickers.

My hands tremble, making the unopened letter crinkle between my fingers. Worse, hot, traitorous tears well up, making me out to be a loser.

Furious with myself, I blink them away. Stop it, Daphne. You’re being a baby.

I look at Alex’s sharp profile again as he’s lit up in the stadium lights. He’s here, not with Celeste, but with me—just secretly. It’s a thought that should comfort me, but it’s a thin blanket. At least now he’s back on the field .

This isn’t forever. Now that everyone knows they’re broken up, he’ll start properly dating me. Tomorrow, even. We’ve given Celeste time to move on. If I tell him how I’m feeling, I’m sure he’ll listen.

I force a smile, though there’s no one around who cares to see it. I have to believe things will change. That tomorrow, he’ll look at me the way I need him to. The way I look at him.

Everything will be fine. I love him, and I know he loves me, too. It’s a mantra. If I just hold on to those words, I’ll make it through this night.

Resuming the awful letter staining my hands, I peel the envelope open with now steady fingers. I pull out the single sheet. The handwriting is familiar and jagged. Each pen stroke blurs as I read. Each sentence is a punch to the gut.

“ Oh my darling ,“ it starts.

Drip. Drip.

I.

Can’t.

Breathe.

Still, I read, hoping beyond hope that the letter isn’t what I think. That it’s all a joke. Yet, it’s not a joke, and each word I read from her letter steals the breath from my lungs .

“Light she was and like a fairy

And her shoes were number nine

Herring boxes, without topses

Sandals were for Clementine”

-

I pause my reading.

As if transported back to nine years ago, I can almost hear mom sing this to me as I wake up confused.

Without my conscious decision, mom’s voice haunts my memory, and I continue reading.

“Oh my darling, oh my darling

Oh my darling, Clementine

You are lost and gone forever

Dreadful sorry, Clementin e.

-

Drove she ducklings to the water

Ev’ry morning just at nine

Hit her foot against a splinter

Fell into the foaming brine

-

Oh my darling, oh my darling

Oh my darling, Clementine

You are lost and gone forever

Dreadful sorry, Clementine

-

Ruby lips above the water

Blowing bubbles, soft and fine

But, alas, I was no swimmer

So I lost my Clementin”

I’m underwater again, unable to hear or breathe. My lungs burn. My eyes sting. My head hurts.

Make it stop! Please, mommy!

Why must she sing as she hurts me?

There’s more.

“I haven’t forgotten that you’ve stolen from me. As punishment, you’ll drown.

I just hope you don’t drown the Whitmores with you. I hear you’re manipulating them just how you manipulated my mother.

Remember what I said, Daphne. He’ll never love you. No one will.

Signed,

Your mother. ”

At this point, I can barely keep myself together. I’m back to that day, drowning as I struggle to get gasps of breath in, all the while mom stops singing to taunt me.

I’m alone. Even when I’m not, even with a hundred people around me, I’m alone.

I bite my lip in an effort to remind myself that I can still feel pain; and if I can still feel pain, that means I’m alive.

She can’t hurt me.

So, in an effort to keep myself grounded, I touch the cold metal of the bench beneath my thighs. I inhale the breeze in the air while simultaneously inhaling the surrounding excitement. Most importantly, I remember that Lynn is in prison, far away from me.

I am not twelve years old anymore. I’ve paved the way for my own opportunities by accepting Grandma’s generosity. I have a best friend, Eden, and my boyfriend is the man I’ve been in love with since we first met.

Yes, just like everyone else, I have negative traits, but I wouldn’t say manipulation is one of them. I’m also kind, and patient, and loyal with a mix of independent.

Nine years ago, I survived, and I’ll continue to do so. If I tell anyone about my mother, they'll think I'm a victim trying to win affection. Or, they'll think I'm trying to manipulate my boyfriend into loving me.

I refuse to prove mom right. I am not a manipulator. In fact, I’ll do anything to prove it, even if it means I battle the demons of my mother alone.

It’s who I am.

Besides, I’m already going to expose a vulnerable part of me tomorrow when I ask Alex to put Celeste in the past and move forward with me. Finally. I want him to care about me, because he does. When I tell him the truth about my mother, it’ll be because we’re closer than ever and he cares. No matter what, it sure as hell won’t smother his attention. I mean, can you imagine if I said: Help me, Alex, mommy’s trying to kill me. I mean, fuck! Last time I tried to tell him, I never got the chance because he ended up harming himself first.

I fold the letter back up and tuck it away like a dirty secret.

I’m overreacting. Mom’s in prison. She can’t hurt me anymore. Next time, I won’t read the letter. I’ll just let the warden and courts know that she’s been contacting me. Maybe I can get her more prison time for breaking the PPO.

But that’s a problem for the future Daphne. Right now, I have a game to pretend to enjoy and a boyfriend to support in secret.

One crisis at a time .

In a sea of noise, the crowd roars. I focus on the field. Alex, number twenty-seven, moves like he owns the turf until he’s hit hard. My breath catches inside my tight chest.

“Come on, Alex,” I whisper to myself. He gets up slower each time, and it’s killing me. Should I go check on him?

No, Daphne, stay put. That’s not your place. I can almost feel the bruises forming on his skin, the wince that must be hiding behind his helmet.

Then, another tackle, and he doesn’t get up right away. Sharp panic flares in me. I’m half out of my seat, ready to vault over people if I have to. But the coach is already there, bending over him. Alex nods at whatever he says and then walks off the field.

Benched.

I sit back, biting my lip, staring at the sidelined figure of Alex. The coach checks him over, and it seems okay? Maybe? God, I hate this feeling of helplessness. Half-time can’t come soon enough.

My phone feels heavy in my hand as I tap out a message, something to bridge the gap between us.

Me:

Wanna hang after your game? * Heart emoji *

I grip the phone tightly, willing it to vibrate with his reply. I crave that connection, even if it's only through a screen.

The game blurs as I wait. Every tackle, cheer, and whistle is just background noise. Just me and my worry for Alex, hanging heavily in the stands