The ferry from Manhattan to Staten Island cut through the choppy waters of New York Harbor like a blunt knife, its engines rumbling low under the gray sky of February 15, 2025.
Britney stood at the railing, her leather jacket flapping in the wind, her dark hair whipping across her face as she stared at the approaching shoreline.
The air was damp, bitter, laced with salt and the faint rot of low tide, and her boots were still crusted with snow from Harlem, where she'd left Alton that morning.
Her sketchbook was tucked under her arm, its edges curling from use, and her green eyes were shadowed, sleepless, fixed on the squat silhouette of St. George Terminal.
She hadn't wanted to come back—not today, not ever—but her mother's slurred voicemail last night had dragged her here: "Where the fuck are you, Britney? I need you home. Now."
She'd been avoiding the apartment for weeks, crashing with Alton in his Bronx sanctuary or bouncing between friends when he needed space to breathe—literally, his cough a constant now, a rasp that cut through their songs and silences.
The vow they'd made on that Harlem rooftop held, fierce and reckless, but it was fraying, stretched thin by reality.
He was weaker, paler, his grin a mask she saw through, and she'd been pouring herself into sketches—pages of him, of them, of a world that wouldn't break.
But her mother's voice, thick with vodka and venom, had pierced that bubble, and now she was here, the ferry horn blaring as it docked, her stomach a knot of dread.
The walk from the terminal to the apartment was a blur—past the bodega with its flickering Open sign, the playground where rusted swings creaked in the wind, the corner where she'd once smoked her first cigarette at fourteen.
The building was a crumbling five-story walk-up on Bay Street, its brick stained with years of neglect, windows patched with duct tape.
She climbed the stairs, the air thick with mildew and stale cooking oil, her boots thudding against the worn linoleum.
The apartment—3C—was at the end of the hall, its door scratched and peeling, and she hesitated, her hand hovering over the knob.
She could hear the TV inside, a muffled game show buzz, and the clink of glass—her mother, already deep in the bottle.
She pushed the door open, the hinges groaning, and stepped into the chaos.
The living room was a wreckage of memory and ruin—sagging couch with cigarette burns, coffee table littered with empty bottles and crumpled takeout bags, walls yellowed from smoke and time.
The TV blared, a contestant shouting about a prize she'd never win, and there, sprawled on the couch, was Linda Germanotta—Britney's mother.
She was forty-two but looked sixty, her bleach-blonde hair matted, her face bloated and slack, a half-empty bottle of Smirnoff dangling from her fingers.
She wore a stained nightgown, her bare feet propped on a stack of magazines, and when she saw Britney, her eyes narrowed, a sneer curling her lips.
"Well, look who decided to show up," Linda slurred, sitting up, the bottle sloshing. "My precious fucking daughter. Where you been, huh? Out whoring around?"
Britney's jaw tightened, her bag dropping to the floor with a thud.
"I was busy," she said, her voice flat, stepping over a pile of laundry to shut the door. "What do you want?"
"What do I want?" Linda laughed, a harsh, wet sound that turned into a cough—not unlike Alton's, but uglier, self-inflicted. "I want my kid to give a shit. You've been gone weeks—don't even call. I'm drowning here, Britney."
"You're always drowning," Britney shot back, crossing her arms. "That's not new."
Linda's face twisted, and she lurched to her feet, swaying, the bottle clutched like a weapon.
"Don't you talk to me like that, you little bitch. I raised you—fed you, kept a roof over your head. And you run off with some boy, leave me to rot?"
Britney flinched, the words slicing too close. She'd told her mother about Alton once, months ago, a slip during a rare sober moment—"He's a musician, Mom. He gets me."
Linda had laughed then, called him a loser, and Britney had regretted it ever since. Now, with him sick, with their vow burning in her chest, the mention stung worse.
"Leave him out of this," she said, low, dangerous.
"Oh, I bet he's a real prince," Linda sneered, staggering closer, her breath sour with booze. "What's he do, huh? Play guitar while you draw your stupid pictures? You think that's a life?"
"Better than this," Britney snapped, gesturing at the mess—the bottles, the filth, the woman crumbling in front of her. "You don't know him. You don't know shit."
"I know enough," Linda said, her voice rising, shrill. "You're just like your father—running off, chasing dreams, leaving me with nothing."
She stumbled, catching herself on the table, and her eyes landed on Britney's bag, half-open, papers spilling out—Alton's medical forms, snatched from the hospital in a panic, tucked there for safekeeping.
Before Britney could stop her, Linda grabbed them, squinting at the print.
"What's this?" she muttered, then laughed, a cruel, guttural sound. "Oh, this is rich. 'Pulmonary fibrosis'? Your boyfriend's dying, Britney. Your little doomed romance—how fucking poetic."
"Give me that," Britney snarled, lunging, but Linda jerked the papers away, waving them like a taunt.
"No wonder you're clingin' to him," Linda went on, relentless. "Poor baby's got a death sentence. What's the plan, huh? Play house till he croaks? You're pathetic."
The room tilted, rage exploding in Britney's chest, white-hot and blinding.
"Shut up!" she screamed, her voice raw, shattering the air.
She grabbed Linda's wrist, wrenching the papers free, and shoved her back, hard.
Linda stumbled, crashing into the couch, the bottle slipping from her hand to smash on the floor, glass and vodka spraying across the linoleum.
"You don't touch that!" Britney yelled, clutching the papers to her chest, tears streaming now, unstoppable. "You don't talk about him—you don't get to ruin this too!"
Linda stared up at her, sprawled in the wreckage, shock flickering through her haze. Then her face hardened, and she laughed again, colder.
"Ruin? Honey, I didn't ruin shit. You're the one chasing a ghost. He's already gone—you're just too dumb to see it."
Britney froze, her breath hitching, the words a blade between her ribs.
She wanted to hit her—wanted to scream until the walls caved—but the fight drained out, leaving her hollow.
She turned, grabbing her bag, the papers crumpling in her fist, and stormed to the door, her boots crunching glass.
"Run away again!" Linda shouted after her, voice slurring. "That's all you're good for!"
Britney slammed the door, the sound echoing down the hall, and ran—down the stairs, out into the night, the cold slapping her face.
She didn't stop until she hit the ferry terminal, collapsing onto a bench, sobbing into her hands, the papers soaked with tears.
Her mother's words looped, vicious and true—He's already gone—and she hated her, hated herself, hated the world that let this happen.
She didn't know how long she sat there, the wind howling, the ferry horns distant, when her phone buzzed—Alton, a text: Where you at? Miss you.
She stared at it, her chest aching, and typed back: Coming. Stay put.
She boarded the next ferry, the ride a blur, her mind a storm of guilt and fury, and took the subway up to the Bronx, her boots pounding the platform as she ran to his apartment.
He was there, on the mattress, guitar in his lap, strumming softly when she burst in, the window cracked open despite the cold.
He looked up, his grin faltering at her tear-streaked face, her shaking hands. "Brit? What—"
She dropped her bag, crossing the room in three strides, and threw herself into his arms, knocking the guitar aside.
He caught her, startled, his arms wrapping tight as she buried her face in his neck, sobbing again, harder now.
"She found your papers," she choked out, her voice muffled. "She said—she said you're dying, that it's pathetic, that I'm—"
"Hey, hey," he cut in, fierce, pulling back to cup her face, his thumbs brushing her tears. "Fuck her. She doesn't know me—doesn't know us." He coughed, a dry rasp, but kept his eyes on hers, steady, burning. "I'm here, Brit. Right here."
She shook her head, her hands clutching his hoodie. "She's right, though. You're—you're sick, and I can't stop it, and I—"
"No," he said, sharp, shaking her gently. "You don't get to do that. We made a vow, remember? We live—together. She doesn't get to take that."
Her sobs slowed, his words anchoring her, and she nodded, fragile but real.
He pulled her down onto the mattress, holding her close, his heartbeat a drum under her ear.
They stayed like that, tangled, the muraled walls watching, until her breathing steadied, her tears drying on his shirt.
"I'm done with her," she whispered, her voice raw but firm. "No more. She's not my family—you are."
He kissed her forehead, soft, lingering. "Good. You've got me. Always."
They lay there, the city humming beyond the window, and she felt the break—sharp, final, a cord snapping between her and the woman who'd raised her.
It hurt, a deep, jagged ache, but it freed her too, tethering her to Alton, to their vow.
He coughed again, weaker now, and she tightened her grip, fear clawing back, but he hummed, soft and steady, a song to keep it at bay.
Hours later, he collapsed—mid-sentence, talking about a gig he'd never play, his body folding into hers, breath shallow, blood flecking his lips again.
She screamed his name, dialed 911, and the ambulance came, lights flashing, sirens piercing the night.
They took him back to Queens, her following in a daze, her sketchbook forgotten on the floor, the vow trembling under the weight of reality.
In the hospital, she sat by his bed again, his hand in hers, the monitors beeping a fragile rhythm.
He woke, groggy, grinning faintly through the oxygen mask, and she leaned close, whispering, "You're not leaving me yet. We've got more to burn."
He nodded, weak but there, and she held on, the breaking point behind her, the fight ahead.
The shadow loomed, closer now, but they'd face it—together, for as long as they could.