He nods. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he asks the question I've been dreading: "Daddy, why doesn't Reese come anymore? Is she mad at me?"
I feel like I’m going to throw up. In the chaos of trying to protect everyone, I never considered that Tyler would think he was somehow at fault.
"No, buddy." My voice roughens despite my best efforts. "She's not mad at you. Not at all. It's... complicated."
The word sounds as hollow as it feels. Tyler's brow furrows, not satisfied with my non-answer.
"But she's not there when I come over anymore," he persists. "And I asked Mommy, and she said sometimes grown-ups stop being friends."
Of course Jessica would frame it that way. I swallow hard, fighting the urge to say something I'll regret. "Reese and I are still friends, T-Rex. She's just... she can't be with us right now. It's a grown-up thing."
Tyler wipes his nose with his sleeve. "I miss her playing with us. And her hugs." His eyes shine with unshed tears. "She gives the best hugs."
"I know, buddy." I struggle to keep my voice steady. "I miss her too."
"Can you tell her I said hi?" he asks, hope brightening his features. "And that I miss her? And that I can’t wait to see her again soon?"
I nod. I can't speak—my voice would crack and Tyler would know. "I'll tell her." I manage.
We talk a little longer—about his day at daycare, about a new dinosaur book Jessica bought him, about nothing and everything. When his eyelids start drooping, I tell him it's time for sleep.
"Love you, Daddy," he says through a yawn.
"Love you, T-Rex." I watch as he blows a kiss to the screen, his small hand waving before the call ends.
The apartment plunges back into silence. I sit in the darkness, Tyler's words echoing. I miss her playing with us. And her hugs.
I sit there twirling my phone in my hand. Without thinking, I swipe to my photos, scrolling back through videos of game footage and playoff pictures with the boys until I find what I'm looking for—a selfie of the three of us at the Navy Pier Ferris wheel, taken just days before everything fell apart. Tyler sits between us, his smile wide and gap-toothed, my arm wrappedaround his shoulders, the other around Reese's. Her cheeks flushed with cold and she looks so happy. I'm not looking at the camera, I’m looking at them, so unguarded in my expression.
We look like a family. Not perfect, not traditional, but real. Connected.
I've been trying to protect my relationship with Tyler but what I’ve actually done is preventing him from having exactly what he needs most. I've been so focused on not being my father that I've failed to be fully myself.
I stand abruptly, pacing the length of my living room, energy surging through me despite my exhaustion. I don't know exactly how to fix this. I don't know if Reese will forgive me, if Jessica can be reasoned with, if I can be the father and captain and partner everyone needs me to be. But for the first time in weeks, my hands are steady. My mind is clear.
I can't keep living in pieces, compartmentalizing my life into separate boxes that never touch. I need to be whole—for Tyler, for the team, for Reese. For myself.
I look down at my phone again, at our smiling faces frozen in a moment of perfect happiness.
This is what I'm fighting for.
We have to be together.
Chapter 28
Logan
The sky is barely lightening to a murky blue-gray as I stand outside Reese's door, about to knock. My knuckles are sore from punching the wall. I haven't slept much. Haven't shaved. I knock three times, the sound sharp in the early morning quiet, and wait, holding my breath.
Maybe she's still asleep. Maybe she's seen me through the peephole and decided not to answer. Maybe?—
The door opens just enough for me to see her standing there in a faded t-shirt, her hair a wild tangle of curls. She doesn't look surprised to see me, but she doesn't look particularly happy about it either.
"Logan." She says my name like it's a word she’s not sure how to pronounce.
"I know it's early," I say, my voice hoarse from lack of sleep. "I'm sorry, I just—I needed to see you."
She doesn't move from the doorway, doesn't open the door wider to let me in. "It's been weeks," she says, and the quiet hurt in her voice cuts deeper than anger would have.
