I’m startled when he casually informs me, “Mark texted again.”
“He did? What did he have to say this time?”
“Read for yourself.” Brennan hands me his phone.
Mark:
Don’t cut me out, man.
I’ve stuck by your side through everything.
Please…call me.
I lift my head to find Brennan’s blue eyes locked on me. His lips are quirked to the side before he informs me, “I don’t need anyone but you.”
But it’s not the big gestures that are getting to me. It’s the small ones. The quiet admissions. The way we’re peeling back the years and talking honestly about who we were then—and who we became after. Even the parts that sting to say out loud.
Especially the truth that we both built our lives assuming we’d never find our way back to each other.
Despite the ache from time lost, the steady building blocks we’re laying as our foundation give me a quiet certainty that this—us—is worth it. And somehow, that feels stronger than anything we had the first time around.
I’m startled when I realize I’m no longer waiting for hurt. I’m just living for every moment of happiness.
But it really sinks how far we’ve come when I dash into the grocery store that night and hear my name being called. “Amy?”
I turn and find Grayson grinning. “Hey. How have you been?”
“Good, though not as good as you.”
“What does that mean?”
“You look…different. Happier.” Before I can process that, he adds casually, “I ran into Brennan the other day at The Honeyed Hearth.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Are you two together?”
I nod definitively. “We are.”
His smile is genuine. “I’m happy for you. You deserve this.”
After he walks away, I stand there longer than necessary, a box of pasta clutched to my chest. The drive home is quiet as the truth settles deep in my bones.
I forgave Brennan. I’ve already committed to him.
Now it’s time to see what’s next.
29
WIDE DRIVE ENTRY: ENTERING THE ZONE ALONG THE BOARDS TO CREATE SPACE
The athletic director’s office smells like burnt coffee and a lemon-scented air freshener that fails to cover it up. There are framed photos of athletic teams lining the wall behind his desk—the last ten years captured in glossy smiles and stiff postures. Kids mid-laugh. Arms slung over shoulders. Bodies still unbroken by time or expectation.
I notice it because it pulls me back in time to recalling the first rink I skated at in Dublin. That was nothing like this—no trophies, no banners, just cold air that bit through your clothes and boards patched more times than anyone could count. But the school coach had photos, too. Every team he’d ever trained, taped or framed wherever there was space. Some were crooked. Some were faded. None of us looked polished.
We looked hungry.
He used to tell us skating wasn’t about speed. It was about balance. About knowing when to lean and when to pull back. About trusting the ice even when you thought it failed you.
