Chapter 29 #2
Watching her is like feeling the sun on my skin, and it warms me from the inside out.
I’ve never seen her look so proud or confident before. And suddenly, it makes the dozens of hours hearing her practice all worth it, just for this moment.
In the darkness of the large room, Asher grabs my hand briefly, letting me know that he feels it, too. “She’s been holding out on us,” he whispers in my ear, his lips brushing so close that it sends a zap of electricity through me.
Us.
Pride swells up in my chest when the song ends, and I’m on my feet, clapping like a maniac. So is Asher, and we even let out a few whoops, just to really show our excitement. You can take the men out of the hockey arena, but you can’t take the hockey arena out of the men.
I’m still riding high as we head toward the back exits of the auditorium, where the large lobby area will do its best to house everyone for the milk and cookies social that’s following the performance.
“Do you see my parents?” I ask, looking around as way too many people mill around in the warm space. The lobby is decorated with snowflakes and garland and twinkling lights, creating a festive atmosphere, even if it’s hard to see them because of the fluorescent ceiling lights.
Asher, who’s taller than me, cranes his neck around. “I don’t. Did you check your phone again?”
I’d turned it off before the play started, since I didn’t want to be that asshole who missed an alarm or had a call that somehow managed to sneak through a do not disturb setting. I was sure as hell not going to be the reason that I upset the already delicate balance of a gaggle of nervous kids.
Honestly, at this point, I’m still not sure that milk is a great idea for some of them, given how peaked a few still looked at the end of the show. Stage fright is real.
But there’s nothing that we can do about that now except try to stay out of the splash zone. Per the email from Jodi and Samantha earlier this week, the kids will be escorted from the stage by class and deposited with their parents or guardians within a few minutes of the show ending.
I wait near the hallway they’ll come from, excited to see her. That’s when Jodi–or is it Samantha?–catches my eye. Her daughter, Mackenzie, is in Lyla’s class. I definitely know which kid is hers, even if her name escapes me.
“Wyatt,” she says, hitting me with a blindingly white smile that shows more interest than I’m comfortable with.
“Good to see you…” My words trail off, and I hope it isn’t obvious. I add, “Mackenzie was great,” just so she knows that I’m not completely inept.
I feel like she’s sizing me up when Asher reaches his hand out. “Jodi, right? Lyla’s told me so much about you. She loved the Thanksgiving glitter turkey, which I have on good authority was your doing.”
And just like that, she softens like putty in his hand. Literally, as she shakes his hand and then holds it for a few seconds longer than I’d like, eyeing him up-and-down. “Always nice to meet a fan,” she drawls. “And who might you be?”
I have no idea how he knows that this is Jodi, specifically.
And the glitter turkey was great, but I mostly remember thinking how batshit crazy it was to give kindergartners glitter.
But then again, I used to go to school with kids who would suck on construction paper and dye their whole mouths, so the truth is that with enough determination–and weirdness–kids can make a mess of anything.
The few seconds of that memory, which I haven’t thought about in twenty-five years, lessened the unfair jealousy that’s flaring through me. At least, until Asher says, “I’m Lyla’s neighbor and sometimes vocalist coach,” he jokes, so at ease that it’s throwing me for a loop.
“Well, I’d absolutely love to hear your rendition of the recital set list some time,” she says, acting like she’s not married–which I know for a fact that she is.
Plus, she’s at least a decade older than him!
So maybe I’m throwing stones in glass houses, and I have even more going against me–and us–than our five-year age gap, but it doesn’t mean that I can think rationally.
When Asher Reynolds is part of the equation, I boil down to my baser instincts. Whether I want to or not.
But for as much as Jodi annoys me, I get it. Asher’s attractive and funny and… apparently really charming?
I’m saved by putting my foot in my mouth or deepening my scowl when Lyla rounds the corner, a flurry of energy.
“Daddy!” she yells, closing the distance between us.
My arms are out, and I catch her easily and pull her into my chest. “You were incredible, baby.”
It very much seems like my praise isn’t needed, since she quickly turns toward Asher. “Did you like what I did there at the end? Making my hands big?” she asks seriously, thrusting her hands out and wiggling her fingers, like his opinion means the world to her.
And god, do I know that feeling.
He smiles, and thankfully, Jodi moves away from us when Mackenzie wanders out. “Didn’t you hear me screaming my head off at the end? I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. You looked like you were having so much fun.”
She nods. “I did. Kind of scary, but I liked it.”
I can see the thoughtful look on his face, the one he gets when he’s really considering his words.
And I always appreciate that he still gets that look with Lyla, even though she’s only five.
He takes her seriously, and it’s stupid what a turn on I find it to be.
Especially the way it pushes his full eyebrows together, as he scratches at his beard.
“Scary can be good. It makes us be brave if we want to do something really big,” he finally says, stretching his arms out wide, too and then wiggling his fingers.
Lyla laughs before she looks around the busy room, where we’ve moved slightly to the side as the hordes of kids keep coming from the hallway. “Where are Grandma and Grandpa?” she asks, craning her neck.
“That’s a great question.” And one that I’d like an answer to as well, if I’m being honest.
I pluck my phone out of my jacket, which isn’t doing anything for the stifling heat in the lobby with so many bodies pressed closely together. I’m expecting a text from my dad, telling me that my mom forgot her phone.
Only – my stomach drops. I did get a text about ten minutes ago.
Mom 5:25 P.M.
Your father and I are at the hospital. Everything is okay, but he fell off the roof putting up Christmas lights. We think his arm is broken. This is NOT an emergency.
“Like hell it’s not,” I mutter quietly.
For Lyla’s sake, I try to keep my composure.
And that’s really fucking hard considering a million different scenarios are crashing through my brain.
It doesn’t matter that my mom told me that everything is fine.
A broken bone isn’t fine. My sixty-year-old father with a fucked up arm isn’t fine. Anyone I love being hurt isn’t fine.
The guilt hits me quickly. I should have put up their lights for them.
I usually did it when I lived there, and I cannot believe that I didn’t think to offer.
Or hell, just gone over one day and handled it anyway.
I’ve been so wrapped up in the Renegades and Asher and Lyla and me living on our own that I dropped the ball.
“What’s up?” Asher asks as I put Lyla down.
When I deposit her softly on the ground, I say, “Why don’t you go grab a cookie and say hi to your friends?
Only one though, since you haven’t had dinner yet.
” She’s off like a rocket before the words are even out of my mouth, zigzagging through the crowd, and I know that my hope for only one cookie won’t be heard.
But I have bigger problems right now than a hyperactive daughter on a sugar high. “My dad broke his arm. He’s at the hospital with my mom.”
Immediately, Asher steps closer. He almost reaches out and pulls me into him, but he stops himself. “What can I do? What do you need to be doing, right now?”
I want to tell him that he doesn’t need to always be showing up for me–saving me, usually from myself–but I can’t bring myself to say the words.
“I’d like to go to the hospital. Just to lay eyes on him myself. And be there for my mom. I’m sure he’s okay,” I say to placate myself, “but it would make me feel better.”
I’m not usually so vulnerable, especially when I’m scared, but Asher’s already broken down most of my walls, and I don’t even know how to put them back up where he’s concerned.
He shoots a glance over to where Lyla is chatting with some of her friends, a cookie in each hand, before looking back at me. “Maybe you can drop us off at the house, and I can watch her while you check on your dad?”
I can already feel my heartbeat starting to slow down. “That’s a good idea. I don’t know how long I’ll be there, and hanging out in the hospital isn’t the celebratory night that she envisioned.”
“She’d probably be doing laps around the floor.” And he’s right, at least for the next few hours. Then, the crash will come. If there are complications with my dad or he needs to be admitted, I don’t know how long I’ll be there.
“Are you sure? Babysitting isn’t exactly part of our agreement.”
He almost looks hurt, but it’s gone before I can ask him about it. “Wyatt,” he says, using my first name and stepping even closer to me. I want so badly for him to wrap his arms around me and tell me that everything will be okay. “I’ve got this. I’m here for you, okay? And Lyla. Always.”
I swallow, emotion threatening to bubble to the surface. His words feel like too much and yet not enough, what with all of the unsaid proclamations threatening–with scary frequency these days–to spill out of my lips.
Instead, I nod. “Okay. Yeah, that sounds good. Make sure she’s in bed by eight?
” I tell him, even though I know that he knows what time Lyla goes to sleep.
And that she likes to leave the little starfish light on next to her bed.
And that sometimes she gets a little grumpy, but it’s only because she’s overstimulated.
He doesn’t put her to bed, but he’s been in the house when I’ve done it, and I know that I talk about her routine with him.
And that he’s always listening intently, taking in everything that I’m saying.
And–
“Hey, look at me.”
I realize then that I’m doing the thing where I turn inward, a million fears and doubts running through my mind. I meet his stare, those impossibly blue eyes that are like a calming ocean. “I’m looking,” I breathe out, not caring if anyone spots the intimate moment that we’re having.
He grabs my hand and holds it, like he’s anchoring me to the present. “We’ll be fine. Great, even. Take care of your parents. Take as long as you need, okay?”
I nod, wishing so badly that I could kiss him. I’ve never been a big PDA guy, but right now, I don’t care who could see. Only, Lyla doesn’t know about us, and I don’t want this to be how she finds out.
The reality is that Asher and I are probably way overdue for a serious conversation about how I think that I’m falling in love with him.
No big deal, I think, even as butterflies explode in my stomach at the words I’ve been rolling around more and more lately.
But I’ve been telling myself that long-term love isn’t for me–and for far longer than he’s been in my life–that that when I finally say, “Thank you,” and manage a smile, I’ve all but tucked that thought neatly back into its box so that I can keep pushing forward.