28. Tara
TARA
I woke to the sound of my phone having a full-blown panic attack on the nightstand.
I fumbled for the device, my eyes bleary. CHLOE was flashing across the screen in all caps, which was her permanent setting. I took a deep breath, braced myself, and answered.
“Before you say a word,” she began, her voice a whirlwind of crackling energy, “I’ve already texted the gallery and told them I’m having an ‘acute spiritual crisis’ and can’t come in.
Then I went to that vegan bakery you love and got a dozen of those cinnamon things that are basically just sugar held together by hope.
I’m five minutes from your place with oat milk lattes and an industrial-sized bottle of moral support. Open the damn door.”
A laugh bubbled up from my chest, a weird, hysterical sound I didn’t recognize. “Have I told you lately you’re my soulmate?”
“Not nearly enough,” she replied breezily. “You’re my muse for a new tragic heroine series I’m working on, so this is technically a business expense. Four minutes. Pants are optional but encouraged.”
She hung up. I dragged myself out of bed and into the strange, quiet apartment. It felt like it belonged to someone else now—a woman whose life hadn’t just been detonated and reassembled on national television.
The buzzer shrieked, and I let her in. Thirty seconds later, Chloe exploded through my door.
She was a riot of color—purple hair a chaotic halo, a paint-splattered denim jacket, and arms overflowing with a bakery box, a tray of coffees, and what looked like a large, lumpy sculpture wrapped in burlap.
“Holy fucking shit, Tara,” she declared, dropping everything onto my kitchen counter with a loud thud. She grabbed me and pulled me into a hug that smelled like turpentine and cinnamon. “You magnificent, terrifying bitch. You burned it all down.”
I hugged her back, clinging to her solid, vibrant presence. “Yeah,” I whispered into her shoulder. “I guess I did.”
She pulled back, her sharp artist’s eyes scanning my face. “How are you? And don’t you dare say ‘fine.’ ‘Fine’ is a beige color, and you are currently a Pollock painting of rage and vindication. So, give it to me.”
“I’m…” I searched for the word. Not broken. Not fine. “I’m free,” I said, the truth of it landing as I spoke the words aloud. “For the first time since Jimmy died, I’m actually, completely free.”
Chloe’s eyes went bright. “Damn right you are.” She shoved a coffee into my hands. “Now, sit. Tell me everything the news didn’t. I want the behind-the-scenes director’s cut.”
As I talked, she unwrapped the lumpy sculpture.
It was a grotesque, vaguely man-shaped clay head with a crown falling off.
Your father, she explained, gesturing with a half-eaten cinnamon roll.
I’m calling it ‘The Patriarchy Eats Itself.’ It’s cathartic.
I brought you a hammer. We can smash it later.
I told her everything—the storage unit, saving Diego, the chilling final confession in my father’s study.
“So what now?” she asked when I’d finished. “With the smoldering remains of your father’s empire, the team, and Sir Brooding McHottie?”
I sighed. “The league is taking over the team. My father is… gone. And Xander…” I trailed off. “We went through a war together. But what happens when the war is over? What if we’re just a trauma bond? What if normal, quiet, boring life is something we can’t actually do?”
Chloe rolled her eyes so hard I heard them click.
“Tara, honey, listen to me. ‘Normal’ was never in the cards for you two. You built a literal serial-killer wall to him in your office. He flew across an ocean and walked into a mob den for you. This isn’t a rom-com.
It’s a goddamn epic. Stop trying to shrink it down to fit in some boring little box.
” She leaned forward, her expression fierce.
“I’ve seen the way he looks at you. That man is a goner.
So maybe, for once, stop analyzing the brushstrokes and just enjoy the damn painting? ”
My phone buzzed, saving me from having to answer. It was a video link from the team’s official social media. Diego’s bruised but resolute face filled the screen.
“…Everything in those reports about Hank Swanson is true,” he was saying. “Xander is a great player and a better man. He saved my life when he had every reason not to. I’m telling the truth to start repaying a debt I’ll never be able to fully square.”
The video ended.
“Well, look at that,” Chloe said, grabbing the burlap-wrapped head. “The dominoes are falling, and the patriarchy is about to meet its maker.” She handed me a small mallet from her tote bag. “Your turn first.”
I looked at the ugly clay head, at the hammer in my hand, and for the first time all morning, I smiled. A real, genuine smile. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was time to smash a few things and let myself be happy.
By noon, three major sponsors had announced they were pulling out of their deals with the Miami Pirates FC, citing ethical concerns.
The league had appointed an interim management team to oversee the club while Hank was under investigation.
The local news was reporting that my father had been seen leaving his mansion with suitcases, destination unknown.
It was surreal, watching it all unfold from the quiet isolation of my apartment. The man who had controlled so much of my life, who had manipulated and lied and schemed to keep me under his thumb, was being systematically stripped of his power, his reputation, his empire.
And I felt... nothing. Not satisfaction or vindication or even anger. Just a profound emptiness where those emotions should have been. As if my father had become a stranger, someone whose fate no longer affected me.
My phone rang—Xander.
“Hey,” I said, my voice softening automatically at the sound of his.
“Hey yourself,” he replied, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “How are you holding up?”
“Honestly? I have no idea. It’s all so... overwhelming.”
“I know.” He paused, and I could picture him running a hand through his hair the way he did when he was gathering his thoughts. “Listen, I was thinking... do you remember that morning we met to run? When we first decided to work together?”
“Of course.” How could I forget? It had been the beginning of everything—our partnership, our reconciliation, our journey toward the truth.
“Meet me there,” he said simply. “At South Pointe Park. Same spot, sunrise tomorrow. Just you and me, away from all this madness. We need to talk.”
My heart stuttered in my chest. We need to talk . Those four words that never preceded anything good in the history of relationships. But no—I was being paranoid. After everything we’d been through, Xander wouldn’t bring me to a meaningful place just to end things. Would he?
“I’ll be there,” I promised, trying to keep the sudden anxiety from my voice.
“Good. Thank you.”
The call ended, and I stood in the middle of my bedroom, phone clutched to my chest like a talisman. Tomorrow at sunrise. Our spot. Just the two of us.
That night, for the first time, I let myself truly grieve. Not for the abstract victim of a car crash, but for Jimmy. My brother. The boy who hid his demons behind a blinding smile. I cried until my body ached and the knot of pain I’d carried for so long finally, blessedly, began to loosen.
When my alarm went off at 5:00 AM, I was already awake, watching the sky bleed from black to bruised purple.
I dressed in the dark—running clothes, a ghost of that first morning—and slipped out before Chloe, who’d insisted on sleeping on my couch like a bohemian guard dog, could wake up and offer a pep talk I didn't have the strength to hear.
The drive to South Pointe Park was a masterclass in anxiety.
Every traffic light seemed to mock me. We need to talk.
The words echoed in the silent car, a four-word death sentence.
The war was over. The mission was complete.
What if I was just collateral damage he no longer needed to protect?
What if, after all this, he was letting me go?
The thought was a shard of ice in my chest.
I parked and walked the familiar path, the air cool and thick with the smell of salt and new beginnings.
And there he was.
Standing at the water’s edge, hands shoved in the pockets of his shorts, staring out at the horizon. Xander. For a dizzying second, I saw them both—the haunted ghost boy from my memories and the impossibly real man who had become the center of my universe.
He turned as I approached, a slow smile spreading across his face that was warmer than the sunrise itself.
“You came,” he said.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t?” My voice was tight, betraying the fear churning in my gut.
He shook his head. “No. But I was afraid you’d think…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely.
“That you brought me to our spot at sunrise to dump me after we just burned down my father’s empire?” I asked, a hint of bitter humor in my tone. “The thought might have crossed my mind.”
He winced, and the tension in my shoulders eased a fraction. “Fair. That’s on me.” He took a step closer, his green eyes serious and searching. “That’s not what this is. But I do need to talk. Walk with me?”
We fell into step, the wet sand cool beneath our feet. The silence between us wasn’t comfortable; it was heavy with unspoken words, with the weight of our entire future.
“I’ve been thinking about Jimmy,” he said finally, his voice soft. “Really thinking. Not just about the accident, but about him. The pressure he was under to be the perfect son.”
“We should have seen it,” I whispered, my throat tight. “How did we not see it?”
“Because he didn’t want us to,” Xander said gently. “He was always protecting everyone. Especially you.”
“I don’t know anymore. I keep thinking about my father,” I said, the words tasting like poison. “About what he said. The real reason my father covered up the suicide.”
Xander stopped walking, turning to face me. “Tara…”
“No, I need to say it,” I insisted, the awful words tumbling out.
“He said he did it to protect me. To save me from a lifetime of… of wondering why I wasn’t enough to make Jimmy stay.
” The last part came out as a broken whisper, the deepest, most secret fear of my life laid bare in the morning light.
Xander’s expression hardened, a flash of pure hatred for my father in his eyes.
He took my other hand, holding me gently but firmly.
“Don’t you dare,” he said, his voice low and fierce.
“Don’t you dare let him plant that poison in you.
That was a lie. A cruel, calculated lie from a man who wanted to keep you broken so he could control you. ”
“But what if?—”
“No.” He cut me off, his gaze intense. “There is no ‘what if.’ I have proof.”
I stared at him, confused. “Proof of what?”
His voice dropped, becoming soft, almost reverent. “I remember now, Tara. His last words. In the car, after the crash… he made me promise something.” He took a deep breath, his eyes locked on mine. “He told me to take care of Tara-bean.”
The world stopped.
The sound of the waves, the cry of a distant gull, the very air in my lungs—it all just ceased to exist. My mind snagged on the name, a relic from a life I thought was buried forever.
“How…” My voice was a strangled whisper. “How do you know that name?”
“He told me,” Xander said gently, watching me, letting me process the impossibility of it.
“No one knew that name,” I breathed, the realization hitting me with the force of a physical blow. “Not my parents. Not Chloe. Not you. Only Jimmy called me that. ”
And there it was. The final, unbreakable truth.
This wasn’t a memory Xander could have invented or misremembered.
It was a secret code between a brother and sister, a name whispered in the dark of his final moments.
It was proof that Xander was there, that he held my brother, and that Jimmy’s last thoughts on this earth…
were of me. Not with anger, not with blame, but with love.
A love so strong it transcended death itself.
A sob tore from my chest, a sound of twelve years of pain and misplaced guilt being ripped out by the roots.
Tears streamed down my face, but they weren’t tears of grief.
They were tears of release. My father hadn't been protecting me from the truth; he had been shielding me from the one thing that could have healed me all along.
Xander’s arms came around me, pulling me into a fierce, protective embrace, and I buried my face in his chest and let it all go.
When the storm finally passed, I looked up at him, my vision blurry.
“He loved me,” I whispered.
“More than anything,” Xander confirmed, his voice thick with emotion. But he wasn’t the only one.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve spent half my life running from the truth.
Running from that night. Running from myself.
But the one thing I could never outrun was you.
” His voice grew thick with an emotion that made my heart ache.
“I love you, Tara. I think I’ve loved you since I was a stupid seventeen-year-old kid who didn’t know what love was.
I loved you when I hated myself for what I thought I’d done.
And I loved you even when you were plotting my ruin. ”
The confession hung in the air, a raw and beautiful thing. The icy knot of fear in my stomach finally melted, replaced by a wave of warmth so profound it stole my breath.
I cut him off the only way I could—by surging forward and pressing my lips to his.
It wasn't a kiss of passion, but of homecoming. It was the pain and misunderstanding and anger melting away under the light of a new day. He responded instantly, his arms wrapping around me, pulling me in until there was no space left between us, as if he could absorb me into himself.
“I love you too,” I whispered against his lips, the words a sob of relief. “God, Xander, I never stopped. Even when I hated you, a part of me was still that sixteen-year-old girl who was hopelessly in love with you.”
He let out a laugh, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy that echoed across the empty beach. “We’re a mess, aren’t we?”
“The biggest,” I agreed, smiling through my tears. “But we’re our mess.”
We stood there for a long time, just holding each other as the sky turned from gold to brilliant blue.