6. Chapter Six
As CC and I leave the rink, she's chatting up a storm, but I can’t listen. My mind is somewhere else. On Valeria.
The way she worked with CC, the way she pushed her but still showed kindness. I saw a side of her I hadn’t expected—steady, patient, strong.
She gave that side of herself to CC. With me, it’s different. Guarded. Like she’s holding something back.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her like this. I can’t. She’s Nina’s best friend. I’m a single father. She has her whole life ahead of her, and I’m still untangling myself from a marriage that failed.
A failure.
"Are we going to Grandma and Grandpa’s for dinner?" CC asks, practically bouncing in her seat.
"Yeah, squirt. We’re going tonight," I reply.
We pull into our driveway, and before I even put the truck in park, CC is already unbuckling herself, hopping out before I can tell her to slow down.
I follow her up the porch, boots creaking against the old wood. The front yard looks the same as ever—patchy grass, garden gnomes CC and Nina thought were funny, a porch that could use another coat of paint. I keep telling myself that I’ll fix it. Mom says I need to. Dad says it’s fine the way it is.
The screen door slams shut behind me with its usual clang. Inside, the air smells like leftover takeout and stale coffee, maybe a hint of the cinnamon candle CC made me buy last week.
The living room is the usual mess. CC’s toys are scattered across the floor, books stacked half-open where she left them. One of them, a fairy tale book Nina gave her, rests on the couch with a crumpled blanket beside it, left where CC and I curled up reading last night. The couch cushions are lopsided from our last movie night, and there’s a smudge of peanut butter on the coffee table. I swipe at it with my thumb, shaking my head.
"CC, don’t eat too much," I warn as she heads straight for the kitchen, already rummaging through the fridge.
I bend down to grab her bag and toss it on the hook in the mudroom.
By the time I step into the kitchen, CC is peeling an orange at the table, feet swinging beneath her chair.
"Did you see how fast I was going today?" she asks, already mid-story, her face lighting up as she talks.
I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and lean against the counter, listening.
I don’t understand half the moves she talks about, the jumps, the spins, the way she breaks it all down like a puzzle she’s constantly solving. But I know that look in her eyes. The way her whole face lights up, like nothing else in the world matters.
That’s enough for me.
"Okay, hop in the shower! We're heading to Grandma's!" I cheer.
I’m sure Nina is already there, helping Mom cook.
I sit on the couch, scrolling through my phone, but I don’t have to wait long. CC comes bounding down the stairs, dressed and ready, a brush in her hands. I already know what’s coming.
She stops in front of me, holding it up like an offering. "Can you do my hair, Daddy?"
"Of course, sweetheart," I say, taking the brush from her. "What do you want?"
"Braids, please!" she exclaims.
"You got it," I say, patting the spot in front of me so she can sit.
I start to braid her hair, fingers working through the familiar motions. I love doing this. Always have. But lately, it feels different. She’s growing up too fast, her hair longer, her patience shorter.
She used to sit still for this, small and content in my lap, insisting I make her look like a princess. Now, she barely sits still at all, already halfway out the door before I can remind her to grab a jacket.
I twist another section of hair, securing it carefully, and something in my chest tightens.
She tilts her head slightly, checking her reflection in the nearby mirror. "Looks good," she says with a satisfied nod.
Margo should be here for this. The thought hits me like a truck. She should be the one sitting behind CC, combing through the knots, braiding her hair, telling her how beautiful she looks. But she isn’t. And she never will be, not in the way CC needs.
CC deserves a mother. A real one. Someone who shows up, someone who stays, someone who puts her first. But Margo doesn’t deserve a daughter like CC.
And the worst part is, CC knows it too. She never asks about her anymore. Never wonders when she’s coming home. Never looks for her in the stands.
She just keeps moving forward.
I tie off the braid and smooth my hand over the top of her head.
She leans into my touch for half a second before springing up, already onto the next thing, already racing toward the door.
I push myself up, shaking off the weight in my chest. "Alright, squirt. Let’s hit the road."
Family dinners have been a thing for as long as I can remember. Every Saturday night, no exceptions.
And somehow, it’s still the same excitement from CC.
She’s bouncing in her seat as I pull up to my parents’ driveway. The smell of woodsmoke and roasting chicken drifts through the cool evening air, curling from the open windows, a welcome aroma that promises a warm evening.
The house comes into view, a large farmhouse standing against the backdrop of open land and towering trees. The soft cream exterior, accented by navy blue shutters, looks exactly as it always has—sturdy, familiar, the kind of place that never changes no matter how much life does. The paint is beginning to wear in some places, but that only adds to its character.
The wraparound porch stretches wide, its weathered wooden railings lined with potted flowers that Mom fusses over, her way of making sure the house feels as welcoming as ever. Rocking chairs sit in their usual spots, ready for conversation, for slow evenings spent watching the land roll out around us.
Beyond the house, the yard extends into a well-tended vegetable garden and the small chicken coop my dad still insists is more useful than it probably is. A gravel driveway leads past the house to the detached garage and workshop, where he spends half his time tinkering, fixing things that don’t need fixing, just for the sake of keeping his hands busy.
My dad, bless his old heart, parks in the usual spot, close enough to the porch that she doesn’t have to struggle with the car door. Mom always complains, but I bet she secretly appreciates the convenience.
Besides Ryan and Drew’s vehicles, there aren’t any other cars. Ryan Porter and Drew Miller have been my best friends since childhood. They’re family at this point and at every family dinner laughing, arguing, and enjoying every bit of it.
We step out of the truck and CC races for the porch.
“Grandpa! Grandma!” she calls, already halfway across the yard.
I watch her, a soft smile tugging at my lips.
“Slow down, squirt,” I shout after her.
Her laughter echoes off the trees nearby.
I stop at the top step, breathing in the cool evening air, feeling the warmth radiating from CC’s vibrant energy. She’s all sunshine in this moment.
Maybe, just maybe, tonight could be a night like the good ones.
I follow CC inside and look around for everyone. She darts past me, already making her way toward the kitchen, her sights set on whatever snack she can sneak before dinner. I take my time, letting the familiarity settle over me.
This house never changes. And I wouldn't want it to.
"Grandma! Grandpa!" CC yells again.
"Lovebug!" Dad exclaims. He picks up CC and twirls her around, her laughter filling the space like it belongs there. Like it always has.
Dad sets her back down, ruffling her hair before turning to me, that knowing look in his eyes. The same look he always had when I was a kid, standing in his garage, waiting for him to teach me something new.
Grant Crosse is the man who taught me everything I know. I grew up watching him work, handing him wrenches before I even knew what they were for, listening as he explained how machines fit together, how patience and precision could fix almost anything. He gave me a piece of himself in every lesson, every scraped knuckle, every late night spent side by side in the garage.
I love him for that.
And no matter how much time passes, no matter how much life changes, I know one thing will always be true—he’s the kind of man I can count on.
"Hi, sweetie. Did you enjoy skating?" Mom asks, her voice warm as she brushes a hand over CC’s hair.
Hannah Crosse. My mother has made this house a home. She raised us, kept us steady, made sure we never went without. Every dinner was homemade, every scraped knee tended to, every late-night homework session met with patience and encouragement.
But she didn’t just pour herself into us—she poured herself into everyone. She’s always been that way, the kind of woman who remembers birthdays, who organizes fundraisers for neighbors in need, who somehow has time to volunteer at the school and still make it home in time to put a full meal on the table.
I watch as she fusses over CC, the same way she used to fuss over me and Nina.
CC, still bouncing with energy, looks up at Dad. "Grandpa, did you hear about my spin today?"
Dad chuckles, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Your dad told me you nailed it. That true?"
CC nods fiercely. "Uh-huh! Ms. Valeria saw too! She said it was solid!"
At that, my eyes flick to the woman in question, who’s been standing quietly nearby. She shifts slightly, like she’s not used to being pulled into the family’s rhythm. But there’s something in her expression—something softer.
"That right?" Dad asks, glancing at Valeria with that steady, assessing look he gives everyone. The kind that reads people before they even realize they’re being read.
Valeria meets his gaze without hesitation. "She’s got a natural feel for the ice," she says simply. "If she keeps working, she’ll only get better."
CC beams. "Hear that, Grandpa? I’m gonna be just like Val!"
Dad grins, nudging her lightly. "You work half as hard as she does, and you just might."
Valeria doesn’t react right away, but I see the flicker of something in her eyes.
"Valeria’s the best skater ever," CC announces proudly, turning to Mom. "Right, Grandma?"
Mom laughs, ever the peacemaker. "I think she’s pretty incredible."
Valeria lets out a small breath, then clears her throat. "Thanks," she says, a little hesitant, like she’s not sure what to do with the praise.
"Let's eat, everyone!" Mom says.
We all head to the dining room. The table is packed, everything laid out like always—roast chicken, buttery mashed potatoes, green beans tossed with garlic, fresh dinner rolls that are still warm from the oven. Mom made her famous mac and cheese, the kind with the crispy top that CC always fights for.
I take a seat and look around. Drew. Nina. Ryan. Valeria. Everyone is here.
My eyes keep drifting to Valeria, she’s beautiful. That’s not news. But standing here, in my parents’ home, in something softer, something warmer than her skating clothes, I catch myself looking too long.
We all dig in and begin to eat. The table is loud, everyone talking over each other like they always do, the kind of noise that used to drive me crazy as a teenager but now feels like home.
Ryan is the first to speak, mouth half-full like always. "Alright, let’s settle this now. Greatest movie trilogy of all time. And if anyone says anything other than the original Star Wars , they can leave."
Drew scoffs, reaching for another roll. "That’s predictable. Lord of the Rings exists, you know."
"You mean the movies that take an hour just to get out of the damn Shire?" Ryan fires back.
"You have no taste," Nina chimes in, stabbing a piece of chicken. " The Dark Knight trilogy is superior."
Dad shakes his head, unimpressed, as he spoons mashed potatoes onto his plate. "Kids these days don’t know what a real movie is. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. That’s cinema."
I smirk, glancing at Valeria, who has barely said a word, just quietly observing the chaos. She’s eating, but slower, taking small bites, like she’s still deciding how she feels about the atmosphere. Or maybe the company.
"What do you think, Val?" I ask.
She looks up, eyes flicking between them all like she’s analyzing a competition. "Objectively? Lord of the Rings. But I’d rather not start a war at the dinner table."
Ryan groans dramatically, tossing his fork onto his plate. "Et tu, Valeria?"
Nina grins, passing her the basket of rolls. "You’ll fit in just fine."
She hesitates for a beat before taking one, fingers brushing lightly against mine as I reach for the same basket. She doesn’t pull away immediately, and neither do I.
"You always this diplomatic?" I ask, voice low enough that only she hears.
She lifts a brow, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. "When necessary. But I can argue with the best of them."
"I don’t doubt that," I murmur, watching the way she studies me, like she’s still figuring me out.
She shifts slightly, pushing her plate forward, finished eating but still lingering. "Do you always ask deep, thought-provoking questions over dinner?"
I huff a quiet laugh. "Nah. Sometimes we discuss life’s biggest mysteries, like why Die Hard is obviously a Christmas movie or how Ryan ever passed the bar exam."
"Because I’m brilliant," Ryan calls out, clearly eavesdropping.
"Debatable," Drew mutters, dodging a playful jab from Ryan.
Val shakes her head, amused, but there’s something softer in her expression now. She’s relaxed—just a little. I don’t know what I expected when she agreed to come tonight, but seeing her here, actually engaging, is… nice.
She catches me watching her and tilts her head. "What?"
"Nothing," I say, shaking my head. "Just glad you’re here."
Her gaze flickers before she looks away. She doesn’t seem uncomfortable. Just thoughtful.
The conversation shifts again, the table still alive with debate and laughter. But for the first time tonight, I feel like Valeria isn’t just an observer.
Dinner winds down, plates empty except for a few stray bites of mashed potatoes and the last roll CC is still eyeing. I lean back, full, content, until my gaze drifts across the table.
Valeria’s plate barely looks touched.
The others had second helpings, clearing their plates without thinking twice. Hers? A few scraps of lettuce, a couple of berries, nothing else. No dressing, no toppings, nothing that makes a meal feel like a meal.
I frown, watching as she pushes the last piece of fruit around with her fork before setting it down like she’s finished.
Like that was enough.
I don’t say anything yet. But my appetite isn’t as strong anymore.
"Boys, go in the living room while we clean," Mom says.
"Not happening, Mom," I say. "You cooked. We clean. Go relax."
We start clearing the table, passing plates, stacking dishes, the usual post-dinner routine we’ve done a hundred times before. Someone washes, someone dries, someone half-jokingly complains about the mess. It’s quick, efficient, and second nature when you grew up around here.
By the time the last dish is set on the drying rack, Ryan stretches like he just did all the work, then heads to the fridge. "Alright, boys, who needs one?" He starts tossing out beers before anyone even answers.
I catch mine without thinking, the cold can familiar in my grip as we make our way to the den.
We settle in, the familiar routine easing in like it always does. The room smells like old leather and faint cigar smoke, the kind of place where conversations always go deeper than they should.
Dad leans back in his chair, eyes on me. "So, son, how’s everything going with the divorce?"
I exhale, rubbing the back of my neck. "I don’t really know." I glance at Ryan. "Have you heard anything?"
Ryan shakes his head, setting his beer down. "No. I know we served her, but nothing else. She hasn’t signed or returned it with any stipulations."
My grip tightens on the can, jaw clenching. "I just want it done."
There’s a heavy pause. We’ve all lived with the weight of Margo in some way. She’s not here, but she still lingers in every decision.
Drew is the one to break the silence. "You think she’s stalling on purpose?"
I shake my head, but the truth is, I don’t know. "Wouldn’t put it past her. But honestly? I don’t know what she wants anymore. She had the chance to be a real wife, a real mother. She didn’t take it."
Ryan folds his arms, leaning back. "She never really seemed like she wanted the family life. Did you know that before you married her?"
I stare at the label on my beer, peeling at the edge with my thumb. I don’t answer right away.
Then, finally, I sigh. "Maybe. Maybe I didn’t want to see it."
Dad nods, doesn’t press. He lets the words settle.
But Drew and Ryan? They aren’t done yet.
Ryan smirks, shifting the mood. "Well, at least you got good taste now. Valeria’s way out of Margo’s league."
I don’t react. Or at least, I try not to.
Then Ryan leans forward, stretching out his legs like he’s getting comfortable. "I was thinking about asking her out."
I freeze.
It’s quick, instinctual almost, but it happens. My fingers flex just a little, and when I go to take a sip, I almost miss my mouth. Setting the bottle down harder than I mean to, my gaze shoots to my friend.
Drew notices first. "Huh."
I glance at him. "What?"
He shrugs, but the grin is already forming. "Nothing. Just… you made a face."
Dad chuckles, shaking his head. "He did."
Ryan raises an eyebrow, amused now. "Oh, you definitely did. Interesting."
I scoff. "I didn’t make a damn face."
Drew leans forward, eyes locked on me like he’s got me figured out. "So, what’s going on with you and Valeria?"
"Nothing," I say too quickly.
Silence. No one buys it.
Dad takes a slow sip of his beer, then sets it down. "Then why does she make you look like you don’t know what the hell to do with yourself?"
I rub a hand over my jaw, exhaling hard. I don’t want to talk about this. Not here. Not now. But it’s my dad and my brothers. There’s no getting out of it.
I sigh. "I don’t know, man."
That lands. No one speaks for a moment.
Then, Dad, ever steady, ever sure, watches me carefully. "What don’t you know?"
I shake my head, frustrated. "She’s different, the only girlfriend I’ve ever really had was Margo. I don’t know what to do with that."
Drew smirks, like he’s been waiting for this moment. "So it’s not just a ‘Nina’s best friend’ thing."
I grit my teeth. "It should be."
Dad doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches me, like he’s weighing his words. Then, finally, he speaks. "Maybe you’re just not ready to admit it yet."
I take another drink, ignoring the way the words sit heavy in my chest.
Maybe he’s right. And that’s exactly the problem.
Because if he is, I’m screwed.