“I know.” He grins. “But you’re my dad so…” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “If you can do it, I can do it, right?”
Something warm blooms in my chest. “Yeah,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend. “You definitely can.”
We skate for another hour, the rink gradually brightening as the sun comes up. I show him how to position his hands for better control, how to shift his weight to get more power behind his shot. He soaks it all up like a sponge, making adjustments, trying again when he fails. By the time we’re ready to go, he’s managed a decent attempt at my trick shot.
He takes one more shot at the goal, this one strong and sure. It slides into the net with a satisfying swoosh. This time, I can’t help myself and raise my hand for a high-five. He doesn’t hesitate before slapping my palm with his glove.
“Nice shot,” I say. “Should we go grab your mom and find some breakfast?”
“Yeah, I’m starving. Can we get pancakes?”
Kid, I’ll give you the fucking moon if you ask for it.
“Absolutely. I know a place that makes them shaped like hockey pucks.”
His eyes widen. “For real?”
“For real. And they’re chocolate chip.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
HARPER
Iwake up alone.
For half a second panic flares in my chest. Too much has changed too fast for absence not to feel like loss, but I remind myself to stay calm and see where the guys are. Padding out to the living room, I don’t see Connor or Harrison anywhere, but then I see the note on the kitchen counter, a piece of yellow paper with Harrison’s handwriting, slanted, a little rushed, like his thoughts ran ahead of his pen.
We went to the rink. He couldn’t sleep. Back soon. I love you.
—H
I press my hands against my face, trying to gather myself, the emotions of the past twenty-four hours swirling inside me like a frenzy I can barely contain. Relief that Connor knows the truth. Terror that he might never forgive me. My throat tightens as I press the note to my chest and let myself breathe, last night playing back in fragments, not clean or linear, just raw feelings.
Connor’s face crumpled with confusion and anger.
“Why didn’t you let me have a dad?”
The way his voice broke when he asked why he didn’t get a dad. The weight of knowing I caused that pain, even if I thought I was protecting him at the time.
I hurt my son.
And I hurt Harrison.
And I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life.
The ache is still there, deep and sharp in my chest, but at the same time, it’s layered now with something fragile and hopeful. Connor didn’t shut down and he didn’t try to run. Instead, he cried, he yelled, he let himself feel, and the thing I’m even more grateful for, he let us see it. He let us feel his pain, and God, did we.
My eyes sting.
And then there’s Harrison.
The memory of finding him in the bathroom flashes through me, fully clothed, standing under the spray like he deserved punishment for something he never chose. The look on his face when he realized I was there. Not totally broken beyond repair. Just hurting.
Both of us.
All of us.
We didn’t fix anything in that shower.
