Chapter 34 Ollie
Ollie
Tennessee Orange by Megan Moroney
I’m home recuperating from a stupid fall.
The floor gave way, and I fell, and it pissed me off.
Because number one, it was a mistake, and I knew better than to trust that floor of that barn, but I did it anyway, and I’m not taking risks like that again.
Lesson learned. I can’t risk anything happening to me. My family needs me.
The Crock Pot in the kitchen smells amazing from whatever it is Poppy threw in there this morning. I have the week off from work while I recover, and I don’t mind our little family hunkered down on this cold day, with movies and the smell of good food.
Owen works on his math at the coffee table in front of us. And he informs us, “I see the Crock Pot made the move with us. Great.”
Poppy doesn’t look up but laughs. “It absolutely did. I wasn’t leaving it behind.”
I nod. “Hey, I love the Crock Pot. I don’t know why you don’t.”
Owen squints at me. “Because it doesn’t taste like The Black Dog?”
“It’s even better,” I say proudly.
He sighs. “If you say so.”
Poppy looks between us. “Why do you hate it?”
“Because Crock Pot food is for old people,” Owen says.
I snort before I can stop myself. “No, it’s not.”
Ellie sighs contently in her sleep next to me on the couch.
Poppy presses her lips together. “Okay, first of all, rude. We are not old.”
Owen points. “See? Ellie even agrees.”
I laugh because this is what life is about—just being together, laughing, and doing life.
Poppy’s hovering, straightening the throw blanket that doesn’t need straightening. She touches my shoulder, my arm, my knee, like she’s checking me to make sure I’m okay.
“You good?” she asks for the third time.
“I’m good,” I insist, chuckling.
She doesn’t look like she believes me, but she smiles anyway. I know I scared the hell out of her, and I hate that I did but that’s the job and she knows it. I’ve had close calls before and I’ll have close calls again.
Owen’s pencil keeps rolling onto the floor. Poppy’s kneeling beside him, humming under her breath without realizing it.
She only hums when she’s worried.
The Crock Pot bubbles from the kitchen with the roast and potatoes that Owen pretends he hates but will have three helpings. The smell makes me feel like everything’s going to be okay.
Owen climbs onto the couch beside me, careful not to jostle the baby. He leans into my side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He watches Ellie for a moment, then looks up at me.
“Ollie?”
“Yeah, bud?”
He hesitates, chewing on his lip, and something in me goes still. I know this moment. I know not to rush it.
“Do you think,” he blurts, “you’d ever want to be like a dad to me, too?”
Everything freezes in the room—the sound of the Crock Pot bubbling, the hum of the heater in the apartment.
I look at him and over at Poppy. My chest squeezes with a hug. Emotion grips me and fills me as I’ve never felt before. Because this is a hell yes question, and hell, yes, I’d love to be like a dad to Owen. I already feel like I am. I hope that he feels it, too.
Poppy’s frozen, emotions tangled in her eyes.
I choose my words carefully because this vulnerability didn’t come easily to Owen.
It couldn’t have. I remember feeling a similar way when I was his age.
Not having parents who cared and wondering who would show up for me and be there.
I’ll make it my mission in life to make sure he never feels that way ever again.
“If you want me,” I say slowly, “I’d be honored to be a dad to you, Owen.”
Owen doesn’t hesitate. He launches himself into me, wrapping his arms around my middle.
I pull him in, tucking him close, my arm around him, Ellie still asleep next to me, my whole world right here.
I look up and meet Poppy’s eyes over the couch as she stands in the kitchen.
We both silently freak out.
Then she turns away, wiping at her eyes like she’s just checking the roast.
I press my cheek to Owen’s hair and breathe.
Weston knocks and smiles when we let him in. His expression tells me something’s going on. “You’re not going to believe this.”
My chest tightens on instinct. Poppy’s hand slides into mine, warm and steady. Because normally, these types of meetings and hearing things like that haven’t been good for us lately.
“Sully came to see me,” Weston continues. “He signed away all his rights. Full guardianship to you and Poppy. He’s not fighting you on anything. He also signed the shop over to you. I don’t know what got into him, but he did the right thing here.”
The room is still, and my brain tries to catch up with what I’m hearing. The bikers made this happen. I’ll be damned.
“He didn’t seem happy,” Weston adds. “And he grumbled a lot, but he did it.”
“What did he say?” Poppy asks.
“Mostly complained about you messing things up for him with the club.”
I huff out a breath. “Shocking.” Everything has always been about Sully. He doesn’t care about anyone but himself, and he never has.
“I pretended I had no idea what he was talking about,” Weston says dryly. “I just focused on getting the papers signed. I had my eye on the prize, and we got it.”
Relief crashes into me so hard I have to sit down. Months of waiting for the other shoe to drop, and suddenly there isn’t one. It’s all over.
Poppy squeezes my hand, her eyes bright and wet. She feels it, too. She laughs once, a shaky sound that turns into a breath.
“So,” I say, voice rough. “Does this mean everything is over?”
Weston smiles and nods. “It means you’re Owen’s legal guardians. Permanently. And if you want, you could pursue adoption. Make him a Kendrick.”
He pauses, then adds, “I’ve also checked with CPS. The case against you is closed. You should be getting paperwork confirming that any day now to keep for your record.”
I bite my lip, words rising before I can overthink them. “What if we changed our name?”
Poppy turns toward me, surprised. Weston’s brows lift.
“To what?” she asks softly.
“Wilder,” I say. The word feels solid. Right. “What if we became Wilders? What if we made a new line of Wilders and a new legacy with Owen?”
The room goes quiet again, but this time it’s the good kind, like the wheels are turning and they’re all considering it. The only Wilder who wasn’t worth a damn is Theresa, but she’s not in our lives anymore.
Poppy’s face breaks into a smile that wrecks me. “I love it, and I think Owen would love it too.”
“No one wants to be a Murphy or a Kendrick,” I say quietly.
Weston nods, his voice gentle. “I think your grandparents would be so proud of you both.”
My throat tightens. I squeeze Poppy’s hand and finally let myself breathe.
“Let’s do it,” I say.
The future feels like something we’re building and can be proud of.