On whatever we might still be.
And yes, he apologized every time for sounding like a creep.
A month ago, the three of us sat in a booth at Sal’s Pizza, squeezed together on a cracked vinyl seat. I’d been nervous about how it would go, but Laddie warmed to Liam instantly.
He spent the whole night peppering him with questions about hockey, skating, and even what kind of pizza athletes eat.
He kept drifting closer across the booth until he was practically leaning on Liam, stealing bites of his slice like they’d been friends forever. Liam didn’t mind at all; he just smiled and kept talking to him, patient and warm.
They laughed together, shared mozzarella sticks, and somehow ended up quoting the same cartoon I didn’t even know Liam watched.
By the time we left, Laddie was holding Liam’s hand, swinging it as they walked to the car. He talked about him nonstop for days afterward, slipping Liam’s name into every story.
He attached himself so naturally, so completely, it made something warm and aching bloom in my chest.
And it terrified me.
Because watching them having this easy, instant bond, this… likeness between them—it reminded me just how much I’ve kept locked away.
Just how much I’m risking by letting Liam close again.
But God… it was a wonderful night.
For Laddie.
For Liam.
And yes, if I’m honest, it’s for me too.
Chicago got decent snow overnight,and Liam suggested we meet up at a sledding hill for a while.
Today, as I wait beside the park entrance bundled in my blue puffer jacket, I spot Liam’s SUV pulling into the lot. He steps out wearing a Reapers’ beanie, a winter coat, and a dark bruise under his left eye.
He grabs a big plastic sled from the backseat and heads toward us.
Laddie yelps, “Mr. Callaghan, Mama. Hi, Mr. Callaghan,” He snatches the sled right out of Liam’s hands and sprints toward the hill without looking back.
I start to call after him. “Say thank?—”
He’s already out of earshot.
I sigh. “That kid. Sorry.”
Liam shoves his hands into his pockets and smiles. “He’s excited. It’s fine.”
“You shouldn’t spoil him like that,” I say, because someone has to be the responsible parent here. “You got him so much for Christmas. He’s going to think he can just come to you for whatever he wants.”
He lifts a shoulder. “I have to make up some time.”
I turn my head and give him a look. “That is not a good answer. I’m not raising a spoiled, entitled kid.”
“Okay, okay,” he says, laughing softly. “We’ll make him do the dishes. Vacuum the carpets.”
“We?” I ask, arching a brow. I don’t look directly at him, but I can feel him tense like he already regrets the slip.
“Sorry,” he mutters.
The truth is, every time he says something that sounds like us, something that sounds like a family, I feel my heart tighten in this confusing, painful, yet hopeful way.
