“He’ll survive,” Dex assures me. “Besides, you should have seen her put him in his place. Five feet tall, maybe a hundred pounds, staring him down like he was a misbehaving puppy.”
“I’m looking forward to Monday’s practice,” Brody admits.
The party continues around us—hockey players and their families, team management, sponsors. Normal people celebrating a good season. But I keep catching myself feeling likean observer rather than a participant, like I’m watching someone else’s life.
“You okay?” Elliot asks during a quiet moment.
“Yeah, just... this is still weird for me sometimes. All of it.”
“The fancy parties or the being happy part?”
Straight to the point like always. “Both, I guess. A year ago I was documenting bruises and recording threats. Now I’m looking at houses and planning a future. It doesn’t feel real yet.”
“It’s real,” she says firmly. “You deserve every bit of it.”
Across the room, Dex is deep in conversation with Coach Barrett, gesturing about something that has the normally stoic coach almost smiling. When he catches my eye, his face lights up in a way that still makes my heart skip.
“How do the kids feel about the house thing?” Elliot asks.
“We’ve been testing the waters. Casual conversations, trial runs at Dex’s place, hypothetical discussions about what they’d want in a house.”
“And?”
“Blythe’s fully on board. Her only requirements are a purple bedroom and a backyard suitable for ‘scientific experiments.’”
“Reasonable.”
“Tyson’s more cautious. He’s been through so much change already. But Dex mentioned a basement where he could practice hockey, and suddenly he’s asking about square footage.”
“Bribery, but effective.”
Later, as the party winds down, we collect our coats and head out to pick up the kids. In the Uber, Dex takes my hand.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask.
“How different things are from last year’s end-of-season party,” he says. “I showed up alone, left with whoever, didn’t think twice about it.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m leaving with you to pick up the kids and look at houses tomorrow. And I can’t imagine wanting anything else.”
The simple honesty catches me off guard. “Even with all the complications? The therapy appointments and custody schedules and Blythe’s ongoing war against appropriate volume levels?”
“Especially those things. That’s real life, Goldie. That’s what matters.”
In the car heading home—to my house tonight, though the concept of “home” has gotten more flexible lately—I find myself overwhelmed by contentment. The kids arguing about theater versus hockey in the backseat, Dex’s hand warm in mine, actual plans for a shared future taking shape.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“For what?”
“For staying. For loving us, mess and all.”
His eyes meet mine briefly before returning to the road. “Thank you for letting me.”
After the kids are finally in bed—Blythe still planning theatrical improvements to the hypothetical tree house, Tyson pretending he’s not equally excited about the basement—we settle on the couch together.
“So,” Dex says, playing with my fingers. “Are we really doing this? House, kids, combined everything?”
