Story code: ST-000134
Part 2: I Stopped Carrying His Story
Derek kept his hand beside my manuscript like the pages were already halfway his, and when I didn’t move, he switched tactics right in front of everybody. “You know what? Keep it,” he said, loud enough for the table. “I’m done helping people who act like my sacrifice means nothing.” He said the word sacrifice again, but he didn’t step back from the draft.
That was the part that cleared my head.
If he was really done, he would have let go of the performance and walked away. Instead he stayed planted at my chair, looking at me, then at the stack, then back at me. Maya was still standing close enough to hear us without leaning in. Tessa had gone very still, one hand on her own pages.
I put both palms flat on my manuscript and said, evenly, “Okay. Be done.”
He blinked once. “What?”
“You said you’re done helping me.” I slid the stack into my tote bag while I talked. “So be done. You don’t have to read this. You don’t have to advise me. You don’t have to carry anything.”
A couple people at the far end of the table looked up hard at that. Not because I raised my voice. I didn’t. It was because I took away the role he had just built for himself.
Derek gave a short laugh that didn’t match his face. “That’s not what I mean. Don’t twist this.”
“I’m not twisting it. I’m releasing you.”
He stared at the tote bag as I zipped it shut. His mouth opened, then closed. He shifted his weight and tried another version.
“You don’t get to say release like I was volunteering for fun,” he said. “I covered for you. I made introductions. I spent gas money. I sat up with you while you complained about chapters and deadlines. I invested in you.”
“I didn’t ask you to invest in my draft,” I said.
“That is not how family works.”
Maya spoke before I could answer. “Derek, the group doesn’t require anyone to share printed work. If she said no, that’s the answer.”
He didn’t look at her. He kept looking at me. “Tell them the whole story, then. Tell them who was there when nobody cared. Tell them who put in actual effort.” He spread his hands again, inviting the room to weigh in without directly asking them to.
I could feel eyes moving between us, waiting for me to either explain everything or fold. I did neither.
“I don’t owe this room my family history,” I said. “And I don’t owe you my draft because you keep calling yourself a sacrifice.”
The second I said it, his posture changed. Not dramatic. Just small things. His shoulders pulled tight. His chin lifted. His fingers started tapping the table once, twice, then stopped.
“You make everything sound ugly,” he said. “I was trying to protect you from publishing something unfinished.”
“Then you can say that without trying to take it home.”
“I need time with it to help.”
“No. You need access to it.”
The room went quiet enough that I could hear someone in the front of the store ringing up a purchase. Maya folded the sign-in sheet against her clipboard and tucked it under her arm. Tessa finally spoke, careful and direct.
“She said no,” Tessa said. “That’s pretty clear.”
Derek turned his head toward her fast, then back to me like he didn’t want to spend even two seconds arguing with the wrong witness. “You are making me look like I came here to grab something,” he said.
I looked at his hand, then at my zipped bag, then back at him. “You did reach for it.”
His mouth flattened.
For a second I thought he might push harder, maybe try to bait me into saying more. Instead he leaned in just enough that Maya had to take half a step closer.
“If you freeze me out after everything,” he said, low and clipped, “don’t come back asking for help when this blows up in your face.”
I stood and put the tote strap over my shoulder. “I’m not asking now.”
That should have ended it. By his own story, he was the burdened one. He had just announced he was done. I had accepted it. The clean exit was right there.
He couldn’t leave it alone.
“At least let me see the latest version list,” he said quickly. “Just the changes since last time. If you’ve got nothing to hide, that shouldn’t be a problem.”
I didn’t answer right away. Last time.
That phrase hit harder than everything else he had said, because I had never given him this version, and I had not told him how I was tracking revisions now. The footer on my printed pages had a naming format I started using recently, one I had not shown him.
He must have realized how that sounded, because he straightened and added, “I mean in general. Your usual process.”
But it was too late. Maya was watching his face. Tessa was watching mine. My tote was zipped, my manuscript was still with me, and Derek was suddenly talking like he already knew there had been a last version to compare against.
I left the room with my draft under my arm and one new question pressing harder than the old guilt story: how was he talking about my latest changes like he’d already been close enough to track them?