Chapter 32 - How Big I’m Gonna Be
Danny
January
January felt like punishment.
Not the loud kind. Not the kind where something happens and you get mad about it.
The quiet kind. The kind where nothing happens at all.
Rizzo asked me to stay away. Don’t make this harder.
So I tried to listen. I stayed away.
I didn’t argue. Didn’t make a speech. Didn’t try to be clever about it. She didn’t ask because she was confused — she asked because she knew exactly what she needed to survive this, and apparently it wasn’t me.
That part hurt worse than anything else.
I told myself I was being decent about it. Told myself this was me doing the right thing for once. Letting her go. Letting her choose.
But January dragged on, and it didn’t get easier. It got emptier.
I stopped going out as much.
Stopped hanging around the halls after school.
Stopped chasing girls just to prove I could.
The guys noticed.
“Zuko, you sick or something?”
“You dead?”
“Since when do you go straight home?”
I shrugged. Made jokes when I had to. But I wasn’t really there anymore.
I’d sit in my room with the radio low, staring at the ceiling, replaying the last time I saw her.
The kiss.
Eight grade.
The last look she gave me — like she was bracing herself for something she didn’t want to say.
Please don’t make this harder.
So I stayed away from everything.
Burger Palace felt wrong without her.
I went once — just to see if it would help. Same booths. Same smell of grease and sugar and burned coffee. The gang was there, laughing too loud, talking about nothing important.
I slid into a seat, ordered fries I didn’t eat, nodded, said some one liners, the gang laughed but I wasn’t in it anymore.
She wasn’t there.
I told myself that was good. That it meant she was doing okay. That she was somewhere warm and safe and not thinking about me.
But the empty seat across from me felt louder than any jukebox.
I left early.
I walked out of Burger Palace with the smell of grease still clinging to my jacket and the sound of everyone laughing behind me like I’d left something unfinished at the table.
I stood on the sidewalk for a minute, hands in my pockets, cold biting through my sleeves, and realized I didn’t actually want to go home.
I didn’t plan on going there.
But instinctually I turned the other way.
The nurses barely looked up when I came in.
“Hey, Danny,” one of them said softly, already knowing.
My dad was in the common room, same chair by the window, blanket over his legs, TV on low. Something old was playing — a western, maybe. He was staring at it like he always did, eyes open, unblinking, somewhere far away.
I pulled a chair up beside him and sat.
Didn’t say anything at first.
Just breathed.
“Hey, Dad,” I said finally. “It’s cold as hell out.”
Nothing.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees.
“Remember how I told you Rizzo and I kissed last month?”
I let out a low snort, shaking my head.
“Yeah. That kinda blew up in my face.”
I glanced at him, like maybe this time something would change. It didn’t.
“I did what she asked,” I went on. “She told me to stay away. Said it was better that way.”
I swallowed.
“So I did.”
The words sat heavy in the air between us.
“That was the right thing,” I said, slower now. “I know it was.”
I waited a beat, then added, quieter—
“…Right?”
The TV murmured on. Someone laughed somewhere down the hall.
I dragged a hand down my face.
“I don’t really talk to anyone else about it,” I admitted. “You’re the only one I can say this stuff to.”
I huffed a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.
“I trust you not to tell anyone.”
My throat tightened.
“I went to Burger Palace tonight,” I said. “Sat there like an idiot, ordered fries I didn’t eat. Everyone was there.”
I stared at the floor.
“She wasn’t.”
I shifted closer to him, lowering my voice even though no one was listening.
“I keep telling myself that means I’m doing the right thing. That this is what being decent looks like.”
My chest ached.
“But it doesn’t feel decent. It just feels lonely.”
I sat there longer than I meant to. Long enough for the TV to change programs. Long enough for my breathing to steady.
When I finally stood, I smoothed the blanket over his legs, habit and care tangled together.
“I love you, Dad,” I said quietly. “Thanks for listening.”
I hesitated, then added—
“Wish you could tell me what to do.”
I didn’t wait for an answer.
On the way out, one of the nurses caught my eye. She didn’t say anything. Just gave me a look — the kind that says I see you, and I won’t say it out loud.
That somehow made it worse.
January made me restless in ways I didn’t have words for yet. I kept thinking I should do something — but I didn’t know what that was. I didn’t know what I was allowed to do.
So I did nothing.
I watched winter crawl over the city. Watched snow pile up and melt into gray slush and freeze again. Watched couples walk too close together for warmth. Watched the world as it kept moving.
At night, I’d catch myself wondering stupid things.
Was she warm enough?
Was she eating?
I shut those thoughts down fast.
She told me to stay away.
I respected that.
But respect didn’t stop my chest from aching every time I thought about how quiet the world felt without her in it.
January didn’t give me answers.
It just took things away.
And somewhere between the cold nights and the empty booths and the silence I kept choosing —
I started to change.
Not into something better yet.
Just into something quieter.
February
February didn’t bring relief.
It just confirmed that January wasn’t a phase.
I stopped pretending I was fine with it. Stopped forcing myself into places where she used to exist like nothing had changed. Burger Palace felt wrong without her — too loud, too bright, like a joke that didn’t land. So I stayed away.
I didn’t chase girls. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t feel like proving anything anymore.
It wasn’t dramatic. I just… withdrew.
School blurred. I showed up. I passed things. I didn’t care.
The only thing that really registered was absence.
Then I saw her.
I hadn’t planned to. That was the worst part.
It was a weekday — my mom asked me to grab eggs from the grocery store. And there she was halfway down the aisle, one hand on the cart, the other drifting instinctively toward her stomach like she needed to anchor herself.
She looked different.
Not just bigger.
Tired.
Careful.
Like every movement required thought.
For a second, I didn’t move. I didn’t want to startle her. Didn’t want to be the reason she froze.
She looked up anyway.
Our eyes locked and everything else in the store dropped away.
I smiled first. Small. Careful. Like she might bolt if I wasn’t.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.”
Her heart jumped — I saw it. The way she steadied herself on the cart, like her body reacted before she could stop it.
“You alright?” I asked immediately.
She nodded. “Yeah.”
I believed her about as much as she wanted me to.
My eyes flicked to her stomach. Not staring. Just… registering.
It was impossible not to.
“You’re… uh—” I stopped myself, suddenly aware of how many ways I could screw this up. “You look good. I mean— healthy.”
She smiled — small, fragile — and I hated how much that meant.
“Thanks.”
There were a hundred things I wanted to say.
I missed you.
I’m still here.
I never stopped being.
But she’d asked me to stay away.
So I did.
“How are you holding up?” I asked instead.
She hesitated. Just long enough to tell me the truth without saying it.
“I’m managing.”
I nodded. Slow. “Yeah. You always do.”
She pretended to look for things on the shelves on either side of us but I couldn’t take my eyes off her. The space between us felt loaded — like one wrong sentence would crack everything open.
“I won’t keep you,” I said finally, stepping back before I could change my mind. Giving her room before she had to ask for it.
“Okay.”
I started to walk away. Stopped.
“I’m… glad you’re okay.”
She nodded, throat tight. “Me too.”
I didn’t look back when I left.
If I did, I wouldn’t have kept walking.
I sat in my moms car afterward longer than I meant to, hands on the steering wheel, chest tight like I’d just run a mile without moving.
She wasn’t okay.
She was surviving.
And that was worse.
I went home after that.
Didn’t say much when I walked in. Dropped her keys harder than I meant to. Sat at the table without taking my jacket off.
My mom noticed immediately.
She always did.
“What’s going on kiddo?” she asked, she could always tell when something was bothering me, or maybe I let her see it.
I didn’t answer. Just stared at the wood grain like it might tell me what to say.
She moved around the kitchen quietly for a moment, then stopped. “I’ve got a couple hours before my shift,” she said. “We could bring your dad lunch.”
I looked up too fast.
“I—” I swallowed. Tried again. “Yeah. Okay.”
The ride there was quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Snow lined the sidewalks in tired gray piles, like winter was lingering out of spite.
She let me drive. She knows I like driving. Makes me feel in control.
At the home, the nurses smiled when they saw us.
“Hi Danny.”
“Hi Maggie.”
They led us to the same spot by the window.
My dad was in his room today. Sitting by the window. The radio was on.
I stood in the doorway for a second too long.
My mom set the bag down in the room and squeezed my arm. “I’m gonna step over there,” she said gently. “You talk to your dad. I won’t listen.”
She moved to the hallway.
I sat.
For a moment, I said nothing.
Then—
“I saw her today.”
My voice came out rougher than I expected.
“She was at the store.” I cleared my throat. “She looks… different. Tired. Like everything hurts.”
I stared at the floor.
“She said she’s managing.”
A pause.
“She always says that.”
I let out a breath through my nose. Something close to a laugh, but not really.
“She asked me to stay away,” I said quietly. “So I am. I am.”
I shifted in my seat.
“Why does it feel so wrong?”
Silence.
I rubbed my hands together, restless.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” I admitted. “I don’t want to mess it up. I don’t want to make it worse.”
My voice dropped.
“I don’t want her to disappear.”
I stopped talking after that. Just sat there, chest tight, staring at my dad like he might blink if I waited long enough.
After a while, I felt my mom beside me.
She didn’t say anything. Just rested her hand on my shoulder — solid, steady.
When it was time to go, I stood and leaned down, pressing my forehead lightly against my dad’s temple.
“Love you pops,” I murmured.
In the car, my mom didn’t push.
She just said, “You don’t have to carry all of this by yourself.”
I didn’t answer.
But for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel completely alone.
That night, I walked past the garage without stopping. Drove past Burger Palace. Drove until the streets thinned out and the houses blurred.
She’d asked me to stay away.
I was trying.
But February made something clear that January hadn’t yet:
Staying away didn’t mean I stopped caring.
It just meant I had to find another way to be close enough to make sure she didn’t disappear.
And by the end of the month, I knew exactly where to go.
March
I found out about the book at the garage.
Kenickie was closing, shoulders tight, jaw working like he was chewing on something he didn’t want to swallow. I leaned against the doorway, watching him fight with the lock.
“You look like hell,” I said.
“Feel worse.”
“Not sleeping?”
“She’s not sleeping,” he admitted.
That made something cold slide down my spine.
“No?”
“She lost something. She’s driving herself nuts looking for it.”
My heart started racing before I even knew why.
“What’d she lose?”
“A book.”
I frowned. “A book?”
“For the baby.”
That did it.
Something clicked — sharp and immediate — like my body understood before my brain caught up.
“And that’s got her like this?”
Anxiety coursed through me.
“She won’t let it go,” he said. “I bought her new ones. She read them.”
“But?”
“But it’s not the same,” he snapped. “I don’t know what she wants from me.”
I didn’t answer right away.
A baby book.
My book.
“She sleeping at all?” I asked.
“No.”
“That’s the problem,” I said quietly.
He scoffed. “Real helpful.”
I didn’t push. Just nodded like I was filing it away.
“She’s lucky you’re working this hard,” I said before leaving.
He didn’t answer.
But my chest felt too tight to breathe by the time I got outside.
She lost my book.
And she was driving herself nuts over it.
That night, I went to see my dad. I had to tell him.
Same place. Same TV too loud. Same nurses nodding like they’d already clocked the look on my face.
I pulled the chair close and sat eagerly.
“She lost something,” I said immediately. “A baby book.” I spoke quickly. “The one you and mom used to read to me.”
Nothing from him. Just the steady hum of the room.
“She hasn’t been sleeping,” I went on, barely breathing. “Kenickie says she’s tearing the house apart looking for it.”
My hands curled into fists without me noticing.
“Why would she care that much?” I asked him, voice dropping, finally taking a breath. “Why would losing my book wreck her like that?”
I laughed once, breathless and stunned.
“She still means something to me,” I said. “But—”
I swallowed.
“I think I still mean something to her.”
The hope scared the hell out of me.
“She asked me to stay away,” I reminded him. “So I am. I am staying away.”
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees.
“But if that book matters that much… I can’t just let her break over it.”
I stood up slower than usual.
“I won’t tell her,” I said. “I won’t even let her know.”
I squeezed his hand.
“I just… need to fix one thing.”
It took hours.
I stayed outside the house, pacing, watching lights flick on and off through the curtains. Waiting for doors to open. Close. I waited until I saw everyone leave the house.
When I finally slipped inside it was quiet, I didn’t rush.
I checked everywhere she would’ve checked.
Shelves. Bags. Under the bed. Between folded clothes.
Nothing.
Then I went to the dresser.
I pulled out the drawers and searched through each one.
I tried closing the last one.
It stuck.
Just barely.
Not enough that someone would notice — but enough that I did.
I pulled it out slowly.
Reached behind it.
My fingers brushed something soft.
My heart slammed into my ribs.
I couldn’t grab it.
I swore under my breath, pushed harder — felt the back panel bend.
Then crack.
I froze.
Listened.
Nothing.
My heart raced.
I widened the break just enough to slide my hand in and pulled it free.
The book.
Bent. Creased. But intact.
I stared at it for a second, stunned it hadn’t been torn apart completely.
I fixed the drawer as best I could — pushed the panel back into place, wedged it tight — but I knew it wasn’t perfect. There were marks. Damage. Evidence.
I hoped the clothes in the drawer would hide it.
I looked around. Where do I put it? The bed?
No, too obvious.
I wanted it somewhere she’d find it.
Somewhere she’d think she found it on her own.
I straightened out the bend in the book and then slid it back inside the drawer.
Not exactly where it had been — but close enough that it would feel right to her. Familiar. Like she’d just missed it somehow.
I closed it.
Stood there a moment.
Then I left.
A few days later, Kenickie said it like it was nothing.
“She found it,” he said. “Slept all night.”
“Good,” I said.
And I meant it.
March taught me something I didn’t want to learn.
Hope didn’t always look like getting the girl.
Sometimes it looked like fixing the thing that mattered to her —
and letting her believe it happened on its own.
April
April was when I stopped pretending Kenickie was just tired.
He stayed late more nights than not. Not working late — just being there late. Sitting on toolboxes. Leaning against cars that were already fixed. Drinking beers that didn’t taste like anything anymore.
I stayed too.
At first, it was easy to justify. Closing up. One more thing to finish. One more cigarette before heading out. But eventually the shop got quiet enough that there was nowhere left to hide.
The engine in bay three ticked as it cooled. Someone had left the radio on low, static humming between stations.
Kenickie wiped his hands on a rag that was already filthy and tossed it onto the bench like it offended him.
“You gonna head home?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. Then didn’t move.
I waited.
He cracked another beer instead.
I leaned back against the car beside him. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t make it a thing.
“She doing any better?” I asked eventually.
He huffed a laugh. “Depends what you mean by better.”
That wasn’t an answer.
“She still hurting?” I tried.
He didn’t respond right away. Took a long pull from the bottle instead.
“She’s always hurting,” he said finally. “Back. Hips. Can’t sleep. Can’t get comfortable. Cries outta nowhere like it snuck up on her. I don’t know what to say to her,”
Not angry. Not defensive.
Just… flat.
I looked over.
“She’s hurting all the time,” he went on, words coming out too fast now. “And I just— I freeze. I stand there like an idiot and my brain goes blank.”
He laughed once, sharp and miserable. “I don’t wanna say the wrong thing. I don’t wanna make it worse.”
I didn’t interrupt.
“I don’t know what she needs from me,” he said. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
That was the truth of it. Bare and unguarded.
I stepped closer, leaning back against the car beside him.
“You don’t gotta fix it,” I said.
He scoffed weakly. “That’s all I know how to do.”
“I know,” I said. “So stop trying.”
He looked at me then — eyes tired, almost frantic.
“Then what do I say?” he asked.
There it was.
Not what should I do.
What do I say.
I took a breath.
“Tell her she’s almost there,” I said.
“Tell her she’s doing good.”
“Tell her you see how hard this is.”
He listened like I was giving him directions in the dark.
“And then,” I added, “stay.”
“When she cries,” I added, “Don’t panic. Just be there.”
He swallowed.
“Just sit with her,” I said. “Even if it feels useless.”
He shook his head slightly. “What if it doesn’t help?”
“It might not,” I said honestly. “But it helps her know she’s not alone in it.”
The radio crackled. The engine in bay three ticked as it cooled.
Kenickie stared at the floor.
“I hate that I don’t know how to do this,” he said. “I hate that I feel like I’m screwing it up.”
I nodded. “That means you care.”
He let out a breath like he’d been holding it for weeks.
A few minutes later, he grabbed his jacket.
“I should go,” he said.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
He hesitated at the door, hand on the knob.
“Hey,” he said, not looking at me. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
He shrugged. “For not making me feel like shit.”
I didn’t tell him the truth.
That I was scared.
Not for him — but for her.
He left.
I stayed a while longer, staring at the empty space he’d been standing in.
I wondered how long someone could tread water before they went under.
And how much damage that did to the person watching from the shore.
I didn’t want him to fail.
I just couldn’t let her be the one who paid for it if he did.