CHAPTER fifty-four #7
"And what," he asks, voice calm but carrying lethal fatherly weight, "does 'for real' mean, exactly?"
My spine straightens.
Caroline groans into her palms. "Daddy, stop—"
"No, no," he says, eyes never leaving mine. "I want to hear this. A man should have a plan if he wants to be with my daughter."
A plan. Right. Cool.
Totally fine.
I'm sweating through my shirt.
"Well, sir," I start, trying not to choke on air, "it means... I'm committed. To her. To us. Long-term."
Franklin raises a brow.
Long-term?
Why did I say long-term?
Why am I like this?
"So you see a future with her?" he asks, like he's casually discussing stock options and not my entire lifespan.
"YES," I blurt before I can stop myself. "I— I mean... yes, sir. Absolutely. One hundred percent."
Caroline kicks my shin under the table, horrified.
My mom laughs.
Esther laughs harder.
Franklin nods slowly, like he's evaluating a horse he might buy.
"My daughter," he says, voice softening but still very much in dad interrogation mode, "is precious to us. The most precious thing in this house."
I nod vigorously. "She's precious to me too."
"Good," he says. "Because if you ever— and I mean ever —break her heart...I have friends everywhere who owe me favors."
"DAD!" Caroline yelps.
"I'm kidding," he says.
He is not kidding.
Every cell in his face says he is not kidding.
I swallow. "Understood, sir."
He leans back, expression easing just a little. "But I will also say this... I've watched you both grow up together. You always looked out for her."
I feel something loosen in my chest.
"And I can see the way she looks at you. And the way you look at her. Like she's the center of gravity in your world."
Caroline's cheeks turn scarlet.
I glance at her, unable to help the soft smile tugging at my mouth.
"She is," I say quietly.
Franklin's eyes soften fully then — the intimidating dad aura melting into something warm and proud.
"Then," he says, finally lifting his wine glass again, "you have my blessing. Just don't make me regret it."
"Thank you, sir. I promise you won't regret it."
I exhale so hard the table probably shakes.
Franklin finally cracks a grin and pats my shoulder. "Relax, son. You're doing fine."
Caroline leans over and mutters, "I'm so sorry."
I whisper back, "It's okay. Pretty sure I lost five years of my life but... it's fine."
Her dad raises his glass.
"To family," he says warmly.
We all lift ours.
Everyone's still talking around the table—laughing, passing dishes, clinking glasses—but something feels... off.
It hits me when I glance at Sam's chair. It's empty.
She excused herself to use the bathroom "real quick" a few minutes ago.
...Was it really just a few minutes? Or longer?
A weird, uneasy tug twists in my gut.
I lean closer to Caroline and whisper, "I'm just gonna check on Sam."
Caroline's brows knit, her voice a soft whisper. "Is something wrong?"
I shake my head, offering her a small smile. "No, babe. Just making sure she's okay."
"Do you want me to go with you?"
"No, it's okay." I kiss her forehead. "I'll be right back."
I slip out of my chair and head toward the hallway.
I knock on the bathroom door.
"Sam?" Silence.
I knock again. Nothing.
The knob turns easily. It's empty.
I exhale, confused.
Okay... where the hell did she go?
I'm about to check upstairs when I pass the sliding door to the terrace. Light spills across the patio from the string lights overhead, warm and soft against the dark.
And there she is.
Sitting on the outdoor sofa, shoulders curled in, clutching her phone like it contains her entire world.
She doesn't even notice I'm there until I open the door and sit beside her.
She startles a little. "Hey, Zachy..."
Her voice is small. Too small.
"Hey, angel," I say gently. "Everything okay?"
She nods, still not meeting my eyes. "Yeah. Just... needed some air."
Her phone lights up with a ping.
She checks it so fast it hurts to watch — and her whole posture deflates when she realizes it's just her class group chat sending Happy Thanksgiving messages and memes.
My jaw clenches.
"You waiting on Elijah?" I ask quietly.
She goes still.
"No." She says, then she exhales... and it sounds like defeat. "Maybe."
Her fingers twist around her phone.
"I sent him a Happy Thanksgiving text. I knew he wouldn't respond. He never does."
She lets out this laugh that doesn't sound anything like her — empty, tired.
"He doesn't even open them. But... I sent it anyway. Just in case he checks."
"Sam, when are you going to stop throwing your heart at someone who's given you zero—absolutely zero—reason to believe he wants it? When are you gonna stop chasing him?"
I try to keep my voice steady, to keep the frustration out, but it bleeds through anyway.
"You're bleeding yourself dry for someone who doesn't even see you're hurting."
Something in me twists — anger, helplessness, all of it burning hot.
"And I hate it. I hate watching you keep trying, keep breaking. You've been getting... dimmer lately. Quieter. Sadder. I don't like seeing you like this, angel."
She stares out into the yard, quiet for a long time.
Then, so soft I almost miss it—"...I'm starting to let him go."
I stare at her, stunned.
No. Shocked doesn't cover it.
This feels like someone slapped the wind out of me.
Every time I've asked her this question, she's always answered with the same ridiculous certainty:
'Forever, if I have to. Until Elijah loves me back.'
Ten years of the same answer.
Ten years of her chasing him.
And now...
She laughs under her breath when she sees my expression. But there's no humor—just... emptiness.
"I know, right? Sounds insane coming from me. I've been in love with him for ten years." Her voice cracks so softly it guts me. "I don't even know how I'm supposed to do that. But I will. This time... I will. This time I mean it."
Something tightens in my chest.
A strange, unnerving pressure.
I don't know what it is exactly—relief? worry? dread?
Some messy, tangled mix that scares the hell out of me.
"It's about time," she whispers—soft, quiet, breaking. "Time to end my ten-year, one-sided love affair with Elijah Deveraux."
Her voice wavers.
The sadness in it is almost unbearable.
Like every word costs her something.
She turns to me, eyes glossy. "You'll be right behind me... right?"
I don't hesitate.
I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her into me, tucking her against my chest.
"Of course, angel. Always." I kiss her temple gently.
She doesn't say anything after that.
But a second later... I feel it.
Her shoulders tremble. Her fingers curl into my shirt. And warm tears soak through the fabric over my ribs.
I say nothing.
I just hold her tighter—holding her together the way I've always tried to—even though I know I can't stop this kind of pain.
I stay with her while she cries into the November night, the patio lights flickering softly above us.
And I don't let go.
CHAPTER fifty-two
CAROLINE
Second period.
2–2 on the board.
But if you watched only Zach, you'd swear this was a blood feud.
He cuts across the ice like a damn apex predator—fast, coiled, laser-focused—every glide sharp enough to slice glass. And poor Tyler Manning, Duluth's cocky right defenseman, is the prey who keeps forgetting he's wandered straight into the lion's cage.
Tyler tries to chase the puck into the corner?
Zach is already there—slamming him into the boards so hard the plexiglass shivers.
Tyler tries to clear the puck out of their zone?
Zach picks his pocket clean and sends him tripping over his own skates.
Tyler dares to charge toward Ridgewater's goal?
Zach steps into his path like a storm front and drops him flat on the ice.
The crowd gasps every time.
I cheer every time.
Look, do I love violence? No.
Do I love this violence?
...Hell yes.
Especially when it wipes that smug, greasy smirk right off Tyler Manning's stupid face.
The arena smells like cold air and adrenaline, fans roaring around me, but I barely hear them. My whole attention is glued to number 19 speeding across the rink like he's personally offended by Tyler's existence—and honestly, yeah, he is.
Lucy leans toward me, clutching her hot chocolate with both hands. "Uh... is Zach planning to murder him tonight?"
Katie whistles. "If he does, I'm not testifying."
I laugh, loud and unbothered. "He's fine. This is Zach holding back."
Which is terrifying. And beautiful.
Because what he's doing isn't dirty. Not even close. He's hitting clean, timing everything perfectly. He's being ruthless enough to rattle Tyler's bones but smart enough to avoid the penalty box. Every hit is legal. Every shove is calculated. Every collision is Zach saying:
Mess with my girl again, I dare you.
What surprises me most, though?
Ridgewater is on fire tonight.
Their passes are cleaner, their lines are tight, their rhythm—God, their rhythm—is unmistakably back. Elijah and Zach, who haven't been speaking for almost three weeks, are suddenly playing like the universe hit an invisible "restore chemistry" button.
A perfect give-and-go down the middle.
A seamless zone entry.
A no-look pass from Elijah that Zach receives like they never fell apart at all.
Lucy squints at the ice. "Wait... are we sure they're still mad at each other? Because this is soulmate-level teamwork."
Katie nods slowly. "Either they made up... or they temporarily hate Tyler more than they hate each other."
I snort. "Oh it's definitely the second one."
Because Zach probably filled the guys in about what went down — the high school crap, the grocery-store run-in, all the garbage Tyler and Cici spewed — and now the whole team decided to treat this game like a group revenge mission.
And I'm not going to lie... watching a bunch of Division I hockey players unite to obliterate your childhood tormentor?
Healing.
Deeply, stupidly healing.