Through all of the conversation, Wilder hasn’t spoken. He follows her down the hallway wordlessly to a large room at the back of the house that appears to be the playroom.
There are small tables and chairs and a large, worn couch pushed against the wall to the side. Bookshelves line the walls,stuffed full of books, and it makes my heart sing. I’m so glad that these precious kids have the chance to get lost in stories.
I stand next to Wilder, leaning slightly into him as Mrs. Aucoin opens the door and kids begin to pile into the room, all various ages from young, maybe two or three, who are being carried in by a staff member, all the way to teenagers, who look like they’d rather be anywhere but here. Except for a few of the older boys, who are trying to appear cool, but I can see they are excited to meet Wilder by how their eyes widen, and they’re shifting from foot to foot excitedly.
Sometimes I forget that he’s had a long, successful professional hockey career before coaching at OU.
He’s a statue, steely gaze moving over the kids, who are starting to sit on the large, plush, colorful rug in the center of the room. I’m not even sure he’s breathing right now.
I brush the tip of my pinky against his as the only reassurance I can offer when so many eyes are on us. He slowly tips his chin, looking down at me.
“Okay, okay, everyone, settle down, settle down,” Mrs. Aucoin says from the other side of Wilder, and immediately, the kids quiet, their conversations turning into a whisper, their attention glued to us.
I have no idea what Wilder’s going to say. I’m not sure he’s even thought about that part of this yet, not with his feelings on returning here in the first place.
When he doesn’t move, just continues to stand there, I start to get worried, but thankfully, Mrs. Aucoin takes over and begins introducing him and talking about the things he’s accomplished in his career.
When she mentions that he’s got three Stanley Cups, the boys in the back of the room look at each other with wide eyes and mouths agape, and I have to bite the corner of my lip to stop from smiling.
I just… wish that Wilder could be as proud as I am. But when I look back at him, he’s still frozen in place. It takes everything inside of me not to reach out and comfort him.
Everything.
I know how hard this is for him, and I just feel helpless right now. All I can do is stand here and watch, like he isn’t struggling.
“Now that we’ve gotten introductions out of the way,” Mrs. Aucoin says, turning to look at Wilder, “the special part of why Mr. Hawthorne is here today is not only because he’s from New Orleans, but because when he was a lot of your age, he too lived here at the Crescent House.”
A series of shocked reactions erupts around the room, whispers and gasps, and Mrs. Aucoin nods, smiling softly at the children.
I canfeelthe air shift between us. Feel the moment where the storm brewing in Wilder takes over in a funnel of emotion. A tangible feeling that has my heart plummeting.
His breathing has gone ragged, and his chest rapidly rises and falls, like he can’t take a full breath. The muscle in his jaw flexes as his frantic gaze darts around the room.
I watch as it lands on the exit, and then he’s moving, nearly running toward the door, wrenching it open.
But the sound of it slamming behind him is drowned out by a loud clap of thunder that rattles the walls.
And Wilder’s gone.
CHAPTER 49
MAISIE
Rain lashes angrilyagainst my face, cold and relentless, stinging my cheeks as I burst out of the front door with my breath caught in my lungs, searching for Wilder.
It takes only seconds for the heavy rain to drench me, causing my hair to stick to my forehead, my clothes to plaster against my skin, and my vision to blur from the water dripping into my eyes.
“Wilder!” I yell, but the storm swallows it up.
I cup my hand, curving it along my forehead in an attempt to shield my eyes as I search the parking lot, but the wind is raging as angrily as the rain is, and it’s falling sideways.
I can hardly see anything, and I don’t see Wilder.
Taking the porch stairs two at a time, I run down the sidewalk and through the gate into the mostly empty parking lot, spinning in circles, squinting to try and see through the rain…
And then I find him.
In the overgrown grass of the empty lot next door, his head bowed, hands planted on his knees, shoulders heaving.
