Hard.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Liam’s voice carried clearly through the glass, a hint of his Irish accent coming out.
Anger radiated from every line of Drew’s body as he screamed at Liam. “You fucked my sister!”
I spun to Ava who was staring at Drew and Liam, her face beet red. Time stopped.
The words seemed to echo off the arena walls and into a silence so complete I could hear my own heartbeat. Around us, parents covered their children’s ears. Players on both teams stopped midstride. Even the referees looked stunned.
Beside me, Ava buried her face in her hands and whispered, “Oh, shit.”
EPILOGUE
Five Years Later
Julian had been silent for three months, and today he hummed.
I had fifteen minutes until my last client of the day, which meant fifteen minutes to decompress from what had been an emotionally intense session with Julian, a seven-year-old dealing with selective mutism.
We’d been working together for three months, and today he finally hummed along to “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” while I played piano. It was such a small thing to anyone else, but to me it felt like watching the sun break through storm clouds.
This was why I loved my job.
My phone buzzed on the piano bench, and Drew’s name appeared on the screen along with a photo that made my chest warm. He was crouched next to our kitchen island, his hair mussed and his T-shirt covered in what looked suspiciously like pancake batter. Behind him, I couldmake out the edge of Rory’s straight brown hair as she stood on a step stool, probably “helping” make dinner.
Andy
Crisis level: moderate. Someone insisted on making pancakes for dinner and may have gotten more batter on the ceiling than in the bowl. Also, she wants to know if you can bring home chocolate chips.
I laughed out loud, the sound echoing in my empty office. Even through text, I could picture the scene perfectly—Drew trying to maintain some semblance of adult supervision while Rory exercised her newfound independence in the kitchen. At six years old, she’d developed both her father’s stubbornness and what Drew liked to call my “artistic vision,” which apparently extended to abstract pancake art on various kitchen surfaces.
Me
I’ll be home by 5:30 with choc chips in hand. Try to keep the kitchen standing until then.
Andy
No promises. She’s eyeing the mixer now with a look I recognize. Pretty sure she got that from you.
I shook my head, but my cheeks were starting to hurt from how hard I was smiling. I knew exactly what look he was talking about, and there was no way she got that from anyone but him.
My wedding ring caught the light as I typed my response, and I twisted it after I set my phone down, remembering our actual wedding three years ago. We’d eloped to the courthouse in Missoula with just Ava, Liam,Rachel, and three-year-old Rory as our witnesses—a decision that had felt both rebellious and necessary after months of wedding planning disasters.
Every conversation with our families had devolved into passive-aggressive comments about guest lists, venues, and whether the Dumontiers and Tinsleys could sit in the same room without security present. The final straw had been when both our fathers had gotten into a shouting match at what was supposed to be a peaceful venue walk-through, right in front of Rory.
Drew had looked at our daughter’s confused, frightened face and made the decision for both of us. “We’re eloping,” he’d said that night after Rory was asleep. “Just us and the people who actually support us.”
So we’d snuck away on a Thursday morning, and gotten legally married in a simple ceremony that had still felt magical because I was marrying my person. Six months later, we’d held the “wedding” our families expected—complete with the dress, the photographer, and the carefully orchestrated seating chart that kept the feuding sides separated.
The judge who married us also happened to be the same judge who completed my adoption of Rory. Her mother—whoever she was—had never returned for her, and since she’d included a legal waiving of her rights when she’d abandoned Rory, it was a pretty straightforward process.
It was her loss. Rory was the most amazing little girl I’d ever met. She was smart, vivacious, and kindhearted. Drew and I had talked about what we’d tell her about her mom. Drew didn’t love the idea of confessing to his daughter that he had no recollection of the woman, or even know her name, and he still had fears that one day she’d just show up, but we’d agreed that we would alwaysbe honest with Rory. So far, we hadn’t had to worry about it.
After my last client—a teenage boy using guitar compositions to work through anxiety—I locked up the office and headed home. The drive took me past the shiny new stadium where Drew worked as head athletic trainer for Montana’s professional football team.
Our house was a contemporary mountain home, all big windows and open spaces that gave us lots of natural lighting. More importantly, there was enough room for Rory to chase the dog from one end to the other. Drew’s truck was in the driveway, along with Liam’s motorcycle.
“Mommy!” Rory launched herself at me the moment I walked through the door, wrapping her arms around my waist in a hug that knocked me back a step. At six, she was all elbows and knees and wild hair that never stayed in whatever style I attempted. She had Drew’s nose and stubborn chin, but her smile was pure sunshine.
