Page 67 of Romancing in Rot

She groans. “I suck.”

I shake my head immediately and motion for her to reset. Again.

She nocks another arrow, tongue tucked between her teeth, fingers pink from the cold where they grip the string.

This one lands closer, biting into the bottom edge of the trunk and sending a few flakes of bark into the dirt.

She lowers the bow and glares at the cloth strip like it laughed at her. “You make it look easy.”

I huff out a breath and grab the notebook. It’s not. Took time.

She nods, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

A heavy silence settles between us. The kind that comes when a kid has something stuck inside them and no idea how to get it out.

Poppy draws again, but halfway through, her form slips. Her elbow drops. The arrow flies wide and disappears into the brush with a dry hiss.

She stands there with the bow hanging loose in one hand, gaze fixed somewhere past the target. “I saw him.”

I still.

She doesn’t look at me. “I saw him raise the gun. I knew what he was going to do.” Her voice cracks. “I could’ve stopped him. I could’ve yelled or grabbed him or something. I just . . .” Her shoulders curl in. “I froze.”

The bow slips from her hand and hits the ground with a quiet thud.

“I let it happen.”

My hand curls into a fist, then opens. She needs steady, not rage. But God, the rage is there. I step forward, slow so I don’t startle her. She wipes at her face, but the tears are already coming, slipping over cheeks still too young for this much guilt.

“I should’ve done something,” she says, voice breaking. “It’s my fault Mom got shot.”

I shake my head before she even finishes and pull out the notebook. Not your fault. I turn it toward her, but she barely looks.

“That’s not⁠—”

I flip the notebook back and write again, harder this time. The pencil nearly tears through. Your dad pulled the trigger. That’s on him. No one else.

Her eyes finally lift, red and shaky.

I hold her gaze, make sure she sees it, then add one more line. You helped your mom survive. That’s what matters.

Her bottom lip trembles. “I didn’t⁠—”

I point to her, then toward camp, then back to her. I tap the note again.

She stares at the words, and I see the battle in her face. Wanting to believe me, but not knowing how.

Guilt has claws when it gets into a kid. I know because it got into me and stayed.

I crouch in front of her and write again. I thought my parents dying was my fault. For a long time.

Poppy blinks at the page. Then at me.

I keep writing. They were driving me home from a football game. I lived. They didn’t. I thought that meant I did something wrong.

Her face softens.

I add one more line. I was wrong. So are you.