31. Chapter Thirty–One
Chapter Thirty–One
AVA
T he RSVP list refreshes again.
Eighty-two confirmed.
I scroll through the latest guest entries. A few late names have trickled in overnight — some I recognize, some I don’t.
Then I see it.
Bradley Thomas.
My breath catches.
No way.
I click into the submission details, hoping it’s a glitch. But the email matches. He filled out every field. Even checked the vegetarian dinner option.
My fingers move, texting Jenna on instinct.
Brad RSVP’d. He’s on the list.
She calls before I can even put the phone down.
“Tell me this is some kind of sick joke,” she says.
“It’s not,” I manage. “He used the public RSVP form for general attendees. I just didn’t think he’d—”
She cuts me off. “Actually, it’s exactly the kind of thing he’d do.”
She’s right.
It’s not about the gala. It’s about control. Subtle, deliberate. Just enough to knock me off balance.
“Maybe he won’t even show,” I murmur.
“Or maybe he will,” Jenna replies, voice calmer now. “And if he does, we handle it.”
When I hang up, I stare at the screen, my fingers tapping against the edge of the keyboard.
Not fear. Not anymore.
Just anger.
I spent too long shrinking myself for his comfort.
Never again.
Footsteps sound behind me.
Jackson appears in the doorway, holding a plate.
“You’ve been at it for hours,” he says, setting it down beside me. Grilled cheese, tomato soup, and apple slices.
“I know your gala’s in crunch mode,” he adds, “but you still have to eat.”
As I glance at the plate, a memory rises, uninvited—
Brad, leaning in the doorway while I scrambled to launch our fall literacy campaign. No offer to help. No concern if I’d eaten.
Just a clipped, “Pressure brings out your best, Ava.”
Brad expected perfection.
Jackson reminds me I’m human.
And that makes all the difference.
He kisses the top of my head. I try to smile, but it slips.
He notices. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
I turn the screen toward him.
“Brad RSVP’d.”
Jackson’s jaw hardens. “Do you want to take him off the list? Call security?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “He might not even come. But if he does…”
Jackson doesn’t flinch. “He won’t get near you. And I’ll be there. Even if we go to Game 7, it’s scheduled a few days before the gala. I’m not missing it.”
The knot in my chest eases. Just enough to let in a breath.
I nod. “Okay.”
He squeezes my hand, brushing his thumb over my knuckles before stepping back.
I turn to the screen and sit a little taller.
Let him RSVP.
Let him show up.
Let him see who I’ve become.
The next few days pass in a blur of vendor calls, last-minute RSVPs, and too many emails to count.
When Tuesday arrives, it’s the kind of morning that feels like it’s holding its breath.
Game 1 of Round 3. A big day for Jackson.
It starts with the low sound of coughing.
Miss Taylor shuffles into the kitchen, wrapped in a cardigan and moving slower than usual. Her skin is pale, eyes a little glassy.
“Morning,” I say gently. “How are you feeling?”
She waves it off, her voice rough. “Just a little tickle. I’ll be fine after some tea.”
But when Jackson comes in from the garage, already dressed in joggers and a SteelClaws hoodie, he stops short the second he sees her.
“Miss Taylor, you look like hell.”
She snorts, but it turns into another cough. “Thanks, sweetheart. You sure know how to flatter a woman.”
I glance between them, then step in. “Why don’t I take the boys today? I can get them ready and drop them off. You stay in and rest.”
Miss Taylor opens her mouth like she might argue, then sinks into the kitchen chair with a sigh.
“I’ll make their lunches,” I say, already moving. “Anything else?”
Jackson nods. “I’ll give you directions to their school. We’ll make sure their folders and water bottles are in their backpacks. I’ll help.”
Jackson turns to Miss Taylor.
“Please rest. We need you better. We’d be lost without you.”
Miss Taylor nods, her stubbornness finally giving way.
“I’ll head back to the guest house then. I have everything I need there.”
I offer a soft smile.
“Text us if you need anything.”
She shuffles out, the door clicking softly behind her.
From there, it’s full tilt.
Jackson slices apples while I assemble sandwiches.
The boys come clomping down the stairs, yawning and squinting.
I help Liam find a clean shirt while Jackson tries to get socks on a squirmy Noah.
Someone’s toothbrush ends up in the wrong cup.
There’s toothpaste on Noah’s cheek and a sneaker wedged under the couch.
It’s chaotic.
And oddly grounding.
When we finally get the twins wrangled into shoes and coats, Jackson grabs his keys and gives them a round of fist bumps.
“I’ve got skate and media this morning, then locker room prep and warmups. I probably won’t be back until after the game tonight.”
“Understood. I’ll hold down the fort.”
He gives me a grateful look. “Thank you for doing this.”
Then he’s gone. I glance at the clock, calling for the twins to grab their bags. “Let’s go, guys. We don’t want to be late.”
They barrel out the door, backpacks swinging. I follow, feeling half amused and half braced for whatever the rest of the day brings.
Back home, I dive into emails. Rental confirmations, floral approvals, table placements. I answer what I can and flag the rest for later.
When I pause to stretch, I find myself carefully looking around.
I realize this house used to feel temporary, like I was borrowing someone else’s life.
But now I know where the extra printer paper is. I know the rhythm of school drop-offs and what snacks Noah will actually eat without bargaining.
It doesn’t feel foreign anymore.
It feels like I belong.
I’m halfway through answering a florist’s email when my phone buzzes on the table beside me.
It’s Mom.
I hesitate.
It’s about time I tell them.
I swipe to answer. “Hi, Mom.”
“Ava! How have you been?” she says, and I can hear the faint clink of dishes in the background.
I laugh softly, sinking into the kitchen chair. “Sorry. It’s been a madhouse here. Gala prep, last-minute sponsor calls… you know.”
“Of course,” she says. Then, more gently: “And how are you holding up?”
I pause. “I’m... okay. Tired. But good.”
“And Jackson? Your dad keeps asking if you’re still ‘taking up space in that hockey man’s house,’” she teases lightly.
“Oh God,” I say, my laugh catching in my throat.
“Well, you know your father.”
I shake my head. “Yeah. He’s subtle as a freight train.”
There’s a beat of silence on the line, the kind that feels like she’s giving me a nudge without saying a word.
“Mom,” I start, the word coming out softer than I intend.
“Mm?”
I swallow, exhale slowly. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. You and Dad both.”
I pause. “Jackson and I… Well, we’re... together. We’ve been seeing each other for a little while now.”
Silence. Then a sharp inhale.
“Oh!” she breathes, and I can practically hear her hand flying to her chest.
“Mom—”
“No, no, honey, I’m happy,” she cuts in quickly. “I mean, we’ve always adored Jackson. I just… I didn’t want to assume.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “I figured you suspected.”
“Well, we did,” she admits. “Your dad called it weeks ago. He said, ‘That boy’s been in love with her since she had pigtails.’”
My throat goes tight.
“He’s a good man, Ava,” she says softly now. “You deserve good.”
I close my eyes, fighting back the sting behind them. “Thanks, Mom.”
I hear my dad’s voice somewhere in the background, then a muffled shuffle, and suddenly he’s on the line too.
“We always liked that Jackson,” he says, his voice gruff but warm. “I bet you two make a good team.”
My chest squeezes. “Yeah. We do.”
“Good,” he says simply.
There’s a quiet moment where no one rushes to fill the silence. Just warmth stretching across the line.
“We’re happy for you, kiddo,” Dad says finally.
“Thanks,” I whisper. “I love you guys.”
“We love you too,” Mom says.
I hesitate a beat, then add, “Um—could you not mention it to Greg yet? Jackson wants to tell him himself.”
There’s a faint hum of understanding in her voice when she says, “Of course. I imagine that’s a conversation he’d rather have man-to-man.”
“Exactly.”
“Then my lips are sealed. Now go finish your million gala tasks so you can get some rest, okay?”
“Okay.” I’m smiling so wide it almost hurts.
We hang up, and I sit there for a long moment, phone still in my hand. Relief slides through me like warm honey.
That night, after school pickup, homework, and dinner, the boys and I curl up on the couch with popcorn and handmade signs.
Liam’s says “GO DAD GO!” in big, uneven letters. Noah’s drawing looks like a flaming hockey stick.
For the first ten minutes, they’re fully locked in: commenting on who has the puck, which helmet looks the coolest, and whether their dad is the fastest skater out there.
By the time the first period ends, both boys are yawning between bites of popcorn.
“Alright, you two,” I say, brushing Noah’s hair off his forehead. “Time to get ready for bed.”
They protest half-heartedly, but there’s no real fight in it. I help with pajamas and supervise a messy round of toothbrushing before tucking them in.
As I adjust Liam’s blanket and kiss his forehead, Noah says casually, “You’re kind of like a mom now.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, not a real mom,” he adds quickly. “But you do mom things. And you’re really good at it.”
I glance between them—Liam thoughtful, Noah shrugging like it’s no big deal, as if he didn’t just upend my heart.
My chest warms, unexpectedly.
“I’m glad you think so,” I whisper, brushing a hand over Noah’s hair again.
They both smile, already halfway to sleep.
I press my hand lightly against my chest, trying to steady whatever just shifted inside me.
I head to the living room and curl on the couch with a blanket and my laptop, the second period already underway. I answer a few last-minute gala emails, reviewing RSVPs, flagging a menu change, and keep half an eye on the screen as the SteelClaws dominate the third period.
When Jackson scores an empty net goal to seal the win, I can’t help the big smile that spreads across my face.
I close my laptop, fold the blanket, and head upstairs.
Not like a guest, not like I’m borrowing someone else’s life.
But like I’m home.