Chapter 11
11
ALEXA
"Paris."
The word lingers in the air as I stare at my phone, letting the gravity of it sink in. Paris—the dream, the goal, the pinnacle of my career. And life. And… everything, really.
Paris is pure magic, the sweetest of dreams, a place I’ve only ever visited, and departed most reluctantly.
"Paris Travel Editor," Ryan reiterates, his voice tinged with a mix of envy and excitement, waiting for me to erupt into ecstatic jubilation. "Complete creative control."
A year ago I would have fallen to my knees in tears, thanking the universe for blessing me with more fortune than I deserve. With no time to waste, I’d be on my way to the airport, passport in hand, with only a small carry-on because I’d buy all new clothes when I got there.
Today, not so much.
"Uh, when? When do I, um, go?" My voice is distant and shaky, even to my own ears. I hope Ryan doesn’t notice.
It seems he doesn’t. "Get this, Alexa—you start ASAP. January. Picture it—New Year, new beginnings, and the new Alexa Minty taking the European travel scene by storm."
It’s a dream come true. Plain and simple.
So why am I calculating the number of days I have left in the US?
"Lukas has his first hockey practice next week," I blurt before I can stop myself.
"What? Huh? Who’s that?" Ryan asks, thrown off that anything exists that might be more important than Paris.
He has a point.
"Nothing." I shake my head, attempting to refocus. "Just... juggling some things."
"Forget the juggling. Forget the family fluff pieces," Ryan insists, his voice sharpening with impatience. "This is what you've been gunning for. Remember that night in Bali? When you drunkenly charted your perfect career path?"
I remember. I also remember promising Lukas I’d help make signs for his practice and make pancakes for Jace. I remember Jonas’s look when the kids worked me into their lives without a second thought.
I remember how all that felt. Kind of like I’d won the lottery of life.
But isn’t Paris the pinnacle? The top prize?
"The timing is a little… tricky," I start.
"It’s perfect," Ryan cuts in, his enthusiasm undeterred. "No more dismal San Francisco winter. Swap the fog for French wine. Trade those tedious kid-friendly articles for Fashion Week glamour."
Fashion Week. Adult conversations that don't involve negotiating over chicken nuggets or detangling princess hairdos.
"One year minimum commitment," he adds, as though reading from the ultimate travel writer’s dream contract. "They're hoping you’ll make it your new home base."
Home base. My mother made it her home base. I could do that too. Right?
"This is what you’ve always wanted," Ryan prods, sensing my hesitation. "Paris. Recognition. Freedom."
He’s right. It’s all I ever wanted.
"The offer includes a hefty salary bump, a generous housing allowance, a travel budget to die for," Ryan continues. "Back to luxury hotels, gourmet meals, adult experiences. No more scraping Play-Doh out of your MacBook’s keyboard."
My eyes fall on my laptop, the one Jonas got me after his kids ruined my first one, which somehow got covered in dinosaur stickers when I wasn’t looking. I clock on my latest blog draft: Finding Magic in Family Craziness: A Reformed Solo Traveler’s Guide . Surprisingly, I’ve really been enjoying writing it.
"When do they need my decision?" I manage to ask.
"By the end of this week," Ryan replies. "You're their top choice. Your Hawaii series—how you spun family travel into something chic—it caught their eye. But in Paris, you'll be free from the family travel niche. I knew that would make you happy. And, honestly, I’m thrilled for you Alexa."
The family travel niche. I was so resistant to it. And look at me now...
"I need to think," I say, more to myself than to him.
" Think ? What's there to think about?" Ryan's confusion is obvious. "This is your dream job, Alexa."
It is? I mean, it is . Certainly. For sure. No doubt about it. All I ever wanted…
"Just... let me process this," I fumble like an idiot.
"Process?" He’s incredulous. "This is everything you've worked towards. Since—” He pauses, recalibrating. "Oh."
"What?"
"I get it. This is about that hockey player. And his kids? The ones you met on assignment in Hawaii." He sighs like I’m a lost cause.
But not so fast.
"I’m considering all professional angles," I assert, scrubbing a sticky spot from the kitchen counter. “That’s what you always say right?”
"Yeah. Right. I get it." His tone softens, and I’m relieved he’s not going to give me a load of shit about being noncommittal.
"I'll think about it," I say.
"Don’t think too long. Opportunities like this don't come often."
"I know."
“I mean, if you don’t want to do it, Alexa, I am sure there are a hundred people who do?—”
“I said I need some time to think, Ryan. I did not say I don’t want to do it,” I snap.
The call ends, leaving me staring at our Jonas’s window at the San Francisco city lights. Paris. Everything I’ve worked for. Everything I’ve ever wanted.
So why is it so terrifying? Why does it feel like I might be leaving something behind? Something good?
My phone buzzes with a message from Jonas:
Lukas wants to know if his signs should be blue or teal for practice. Apparently, it’s a crucial rookie decision.
Jace insists her pancakes need extra sprinkles for good luck.
And yet another from Jonas:
Should I be worried that my three-year-old has developed complex breakfast-related superstitions?
I can’t respond. I don’t know how to.
Paris would mean no more of… this. Or anything like it. Out of sight, out of mind. The Knight family would keep chugging along, forgetting me, in time. Jonas would meet another woman who, while she’d never replace Genny, would love him and his kids to the point where it aches. They would always hold hands and grow old and die together.
I’ve got some decisions to make, and to make them I need some distance, a distance I haven’t had in weeks. A distance that has eroded ever since a certain family decided to make a splash landing in my well-organized, solo life.
Paris. Everything I ever wanted.
Right?
It's two a.m., and I'm holed up in Jace's room, my laptop balanced precariously on my knees. I'm ostensibly working on my latest article, but really, I'm watching her sleep, surrounded by the remnants of her "princess hockey practice"—glitter speckling her pillow, casting tiny rainbows in the dim light. It's a silly little detail that unexpectedly tightens my chest.
Since Ryan dropped his Paris bombshell, my phone has been an incessant buzz of notifications, with Instagram echoing the turmoil in my head:
What happened to child-free living?
Your content used to be so aspirational. Now it's all sticky fingers and hockey practice?
Unfollowing. I miss your escape-the-kids content. Now you're just another mom blogger.
Remember when you wrote about five-star spas instead of princess crap?
Scrolling through my feed is like tracing the outline of my unraveling life. Three months ago, I was in Bali, critiquing adults-only resorts. Two months ago, I penned that reluctant review of a family resort in Hawaii.
My latest post, featuring Lukas's "hockey princess power play," has unexpectedly gone viral. The feedback is all over the place, with some hating and some loving my story.
Lost another child-free inspiration.
When did you sell out?
Finally, real content about real life. Love this!
Has my voice evolved, or have I just completely lost the plot?
Then there’s Paris, within arm’s reach—the only sacrifice to be made is the little family that’s pulled me into their hearts—kicking and screaming. I’ve fallen for them all. I can’t deny it. And it’s not right. Not for me, and not for them.
I know what this family needs, and it’s not me. I might be able to show up to a game or ballet practice or two, and maybe even get everyone’s schedule written down in one place, but I know I’m going to let these people down eventually. I can’t be these kids’ new mom. And I can’t be their dad’s new partner. It’s just not in my DNA, no matter how many dinosaur pancakes I make. I feel like a fraud, because I am one.
Paris promises a return to the real me—chic Fashion Week coverage, wine tours, late-night meals, and adult conversation.
I glance at my laptop screen, where my draft titled A Reformed Solo Traveler's Guide to Family Adventures sits half-finished. The cursor blinks accusingly. I contemplate hitting delete. I’m not reformed. I’m the same as I ever was.
More notifications pile in:
Saw you in that hockey jersey.
Selling out much?
Your child-free travel tips were a lifeline during family reunions.
Paris would mean reclaiming my identity, the carefully constructed life of freedom and next to no responsibilities.
"Lexa?" Jace's sleepy voice cuts through my thoughts. "Why aren't you sleeping?"
"Just working on something. Go back to sleep."
"My story? About the hockey princes?" she mumbles, and my heart skips a beat.
"Yes, that one," I lie.
"Can we go see her after hockey season?”
Her words sting. After hockey season. As if I’ll still be here.
"Go back to sleep, sweetie."
"Will you tell me a princess story tomorrow? With hockey moves?" she persists.
"Maybe," I hedge, the word heavy in the dark.
My phone vibrates again and I gather my things to leave Jace’s room. Ryan's text message flashes on the screen:
Paris office wants to schedule a call. Time to make dreams come true.
Followed by:
Unless your dreams have changed? It's okay if they have.
The social media alerts continue.
Your piece about finding magic in family life was so real. This new voice of yours—it's genuine and raw.
Jesus. I don’t even know what authenticity is at this point.
Jace sighs softly, her grip tightening on her unicorn—Minty, named whimsically after me for reasons I can't fathom.
"Lexa?" Her voice is fainter now, sleep reclaiming her. "Stay with me?"
The simplicity of her request, the complexity of what it signifies, anchors me to the spot. "Sleep, honey," I whisper back, my voice thick.
I watch her for another minute, wondering if the idea of Paris is beginning to pale in comparison to the reality of these quiet, unremarkable moments that are somehow so fulfilling. Actually, more than fulfilling.
Even if admitting that scares the living hell out of me.
It's an ordinary Sunday morning. I'm midway through wrestling with syrup-laden French toast, something I definitely should not be eating, when Lukas, with all the casualness of a seasoned conspirator, drops a bomb. "Will you be at my school party?" he asks, looking up at me with expectant eyes. "The other moms bake cupcakes but if you don’t have time, maybe we could buy some."
My fork pauses in midair, syrup dripping onto my sleeve. Across the table, Jonas pretends to be engrossed in Jace's fruit crown assembly, but his side-eye tells me he's waiting for a reaction. He's been too observant lately, watching like he expects me to bolt or melt down—or maybe both.
"The party's next month," Lukas barrels on, oblivious to my internal screaming. "Daddy said you'll probably still be around, doing your ’search."
Research. Right. Because that's what I'm here for. Not to play pseudo-mom or craft cookies that look suspiciously like zoo animals. Definitely not to have my phone’s calendar marked with purple notations labeled "kids’ activities."
"I don't know if—" I try, searching for an exit, any exit, but Jonas cuts in with that infuriating casual tone he’s perfected.
"Speaking of plans," he interjects, reaching past me for the coffee pot in a move that’s way too domestic for comfort, "we should talk about the Christmas tree situation."
"Christmas tree situation?" I echo, my voice laced with disbelief. I want to glance at the door, just to make sure that if I feel the need to run, there’s nothing that can stop my escape. But I don’t because Jonas is watching me.
"We thought we'd pick one out as a family this year,” he continues. “You know, make it an event. There’s hot chocolate, horses for the kids to ride?—"
"Horses!" Jace chimes in, scattering her carefully arranged fruit. "And ornaments! And we can decorate your office!"
"Lots of light," Lukas adds. "They have to be nice though, because Lexa has good taste. Gamma said so."
Great. Just great.
My phone buzzes with a reminder from the real world—or as I like to call it, Paris. Ryan’s text flashes:
Paris office needs an answer by Friday
It's Monday
Tick tock
I make a list of all the stupid things I’ve done recently to break my own rules:
Never stay more than three days. Ha.
No emotional attachments. Oops.
Avoid domestic situations like the plague.
Keep relationships casual. Well, that ship sailed.
Maintain professional distance. What distance?
Never date parents. Double check on never dating single parents.
Definitely don't get attached to their kids. Triple check.
Don't memorize how everyone likes their sandwiches.
Never learn too much about elementary school rules.
Absolutely do not fall in...
"Lexa?" Lukas’s voice snaps me back to the present, syrup flying off his spoon as he waves it enthusiastically. "So, you'll make those cookies, right? The hockey ones? And maybe some princess ones for Jace because she gets sad when it's all about sports."
When did I become the go-to cookie chef for thematic school parties? When did my life start to revolve around the snack preferences of a four-year-old?
"We could also start planning for New Year's," Jonas adds, still using that casual tone that’s anything but. "There’s the team tradition?—"
"Fancy party," Jace interrupts, knocking another piece of fruit to the floor. "With princess dresses!"
"And hockey jerseys," insists Lukas.
"Pretty sure it’s black tie, buddy."
"But hockey princes need jerseys, Daddy. Lexa said so."
Right. I did say that. Among other things, like agreeing to help decorate for a team party that I shouldn’t even be here for.
Their plans barrel through the holidays and beyond, assuming I'm part of the scenery. Paris, with its fashion weeks and adult-only events, feels like a distant, sophisticated dream compared to this sticky, syrupy reality I'm in the middle of.
"The party’s on the 15th," Lukas continues, pulling me back to an uncomfortable reality with the persistence of a tiny lobbyist. "Mrs. Martinez put you down for cookie duty because you make everything pretty."
Great. I’m now officially the Martha Stewart of grade school events. This house, these plans, they're pulling me into a domestic vortex that feels both suffocatingly quaint and terrifyingly endearing.
"I have to go," I blurt out, nearly knocking over my coffee in my haste to escape. "Work. Article. Very important deadline."
"Lexa?" Jace’s voice quivers, a mix of confusion and the dawning of a small, heartbreaking realization. "Are you gonna help with my princess project?"
"And hockey practice?" Lukas adds, his voice tinged with a betrayal only a child can convey.
Their faces, full of unguarded hope and expectation, are suddenly too much. I’m not this person. I can’t be.
"I just... I need to...," I stammer, backing away as my phone chimes with another reminder that Paris is waiting.
"Work emergency," I announce, grabbing onto the excuse like a lifeline.
Jonas nods, his expression unreadable.
I retreat to the safety of my makeshift office—the one they made completely welcoming, completely mine—ignoring the buzz of my phone, the pull of two very different worlds, and the growing realization that no amount of professional distance can shield me from the messy, terrifying reality of caring too much.
I've been dodging Jonas since the breakfast bombshell about Christmas plans and school parties—a future I can't guarantee. Professional distance is a hell of a lot easier to maintain from behind the barricade of my laptop, in the solitude an office, rather than facing those expectant family stares that burn my soul.
Everything in this house—which screams "home" but isn't mine—shouts at me. There's the coffee mug Jace decorated with "sparkly princesses," the calendar smothered in purple stickers —a reminder of commitments I never planned on making. And a couple family photos that I'm inexplicably part of.
"The kids are wondering why you skipped dinner," Jonas says from the doorway, his tone cautious, as if he's approaching a wild animal that might bolt. He’s not entirely wrong. "Jace thinks you’re upset with her, and Lukas is worried he did something wrong."
"Sorry, I should have explained. I was working," I lie smoothly, gesturing to my laptop which most definitely is not displaying listings for Parisian apartments. "Deadlines, you know."
"Right," he steps into the office he cleared out for me. "The same deadline that had you missing dinner three nights running?"
"I had calls," I deflect, which isn’t entirely a lie—some of those were to Paris.
"With Paris?" he probes, too perceptively.
I snap my head up, caught. "How did you?—"
"Gloria," he says, and the name drops like a lead weight.
Backed into a corner, I have to fight the urge to come out swinging. I want to ask this man how dare he have expectations of me, an outsider to his family. But I don’t because I understand his expectations. I set them, when it comes down to it. This is no one’s fault but my own. I created the mess.
And I need to get out of it.
It's a professional opportunity," I insist, my voice tight, as if I’m handling explosives.
"For a year. Minimum," he points out, not backing down.
"Yes."
"Starting in January."
"Yes."
"And were you planning on telling me? Or the kids? Or were you just going to vanish after Christmas cookies and hockey practice?"
"I haven’t made any decisions yet. That’s why I haven’t brought it up. And I don’t appreciate Gloria spilling the beans without asking me first. That woman is so gossipy?—"
"Hey. My mother-in-law kept me sane when I lost my wife. She’d lost a daughter, but she was here for my family around the clock." His eyebrow arches and his lips are tight.
I stand up, suddenly needing to put some physical distance between us, to match the emotional chasm I feel widening. "It’s my dream job," I say, staring out at the backyard. "Everything I’ve worked for."
"And this?" he challenges, gesturing around at the house.
"This is..." I struggle for the right words. "Complicated. Jonas, we’ve never discussed the future. Don’t act like we’re some old married couple where the woman can’t have a life of her own."
His face turns beet red. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
"I… I somehow became elbow deep in themed cookies and Christmas plans and school plays and... I don’t even know who I am here."
"Don’t know who you are? What does that mean?" he asks, his voice hard and unfamiliar.
I want to vomit. Or run away. Or both. "I don’t do this—families, futures, feelings. I’m not the school party type, or the Christmas tree decorating type, or the hockey mom type."
"Except, you are. And you’re good at it," he counters, unrelenting.
"That was for the article!" I shoot back, desperation creeping into my voice.
"Was it? Helping Jace with her princess project, teaching Lukas to signal in hockey—was all that just for your article?"
"Professional observation," I insist, clinging to the last shreds of my old identity.
"Professional bullsh?—"
"Lexa?" Jace’s small voice cuts through the tension, her appearance at the door with her unicorn clutched to her chest stops us cold.
"Are you leaving?" Her words are a punch to the gut.
"Like Mommy?" The innocence in her question, the fear, it dismantles me, right there.
Jonas steps towards her, but she retreats, the raw hurt in her eyes anchoring me in place.
"You promised!" she cries, tears streaming down her face. "You promised cookies and stories."
"She can't leave!" Jace’s sobs fill the room, each one splintering the flimsy facade I’ve maintained, and my heart breaks open until it hurts. It’s literally hard to stand up straight.
“Jace, go to your room, please,” Jonas says.
"I need to..." What? Explain that I’m not cut out for this? That I’m scared of wanting a life I never planned? "It’s complicated," I repeat, like the lame asshole I am.
"It's not," Jonas says, voice low. "You’re in, or you’re out."
"I need time."
"You need to stop running."
"Running?" I falter, the truth of his words slicing through my defenses.
"I... can’t." The words choke me, my admission disgusting and shameful and cowardly.
"You can," Jonas insists.
I grab my bag, my keys, my memories of my old life, and flee to the safety of my rental car, away from the choice that’s tearing me apart.
Ryan’s texts blink on my phone screen, a lifeline back to my former world:
* Paris is waiting. Your dream job. Your life.
But as I sit there, engine idling, Jace’s crying cuts through the noise in my head.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, staring at the house like it’s some kind of trap. Paris might feel like running, but stepping back into that chaos feels like drowning.
For now, I just sit there, the car idling, caught between a life I know and one that terrifies me.