I take a second. Not long. Just long enough to breathe.
"Yeah," I finally say. "We can go."
Jace cheers, jumps in place, and runs inside to get his helmet. Gabe watches him, eyes warm and stunned and full of something he is trying hard to hide.
We walk to the little bike path near the park. The morning is bright, kids are out, parents wave, and I can feel the looks landing on us again. Not cruel. Just curious. Hungry for stories.
Jace rides ahead, legs pumping fast. "Gabe, look! Look how fast!"
"I see you!" Gabe calls, smiling widely. "You're flying!"
Jace beams and pedals harder.
I stand back with my arms crossed, watching them. Watching Jace circle the path again and again. Watching Gabe jog beside him at one point because Jace wants "a race", and Gabe lets him win by half a wheel. Watching Gabe clap when Jace brakes without wobbling.
My chest feels full and strange and almost painful.
My phone buzzes.
I pull it out of my pocket without thinking.
A message from Tom pops up.
So you vanished last night.
You could've just told me you were busy.
Are we still on for Wednesday?
Another bubble appears immediately.
You didn't need to play games.
If you wanted attention, you could've asked.
My grip tightens.
I look up.
Jace is riding circles around Gabe, laughing so hard, he nearly tips over. Gabe is pretending to stagger back like he has been hit by a speeding car.
"Slow down, buddy," Gabe calls. "I'm an old man."
"You're not old!" Jace argues. "You're huge!"
Gabe gives him a look. "That's not the same thing."
Jace is giggling. Gabe is smiling. My phone buzzes again.
I stare at the screen, then at the man in the park who left me once by saying nothing and everything at the same time, and the boy who trusts him without hesitation.
My heart twists.
I know this moment is about to blow something wide open.
We spend another hour at the park. Jace burns through all his energy and then some. By the time we head home, he is drooping in his seat, helmet sliding sideways. Gabe lifts it off gently and carries it for him, no fuss, no grand gestures. Just steady hands and quiet attention.
At home, Jace unloads his bike and runs inside yelling that he needs water "right now or I'll die." I follow him in, already planning dinner, already tired down to the bone.
