Chapter 12
12
JONAS
Gloria and Bert decide to invade with a “casual family dinner.” Casual, my ass. They storm the front like it’s a military operation, armed with casseroles and enough judgment to start a second Inquisition, all under the guise of concern. It’s like deja vu, the same look they wore like armor after Genny’s death, ready for the next disaster.
“The children need stability,” Gloria declares, not even fully in the door yet, pearls and all. Her pearls mean business, and her arms full of food feel like a preemptive condolence. "Especially now, what with the hockey season and... changes."
"Gloria—"
“We saw the article,” Bert chimes in, already making a beeline for my whiskey like it’s his. “The article about Paris, about Alexa’s potential return to the glamorous jet-set life.”
Great. The whole world knows, it seems, except the two kids upstairs probably crafting ‘welcome home’ banners for a person who might not stick around.
"It's not a done deal," I try to interject, but Gloria’s already launched an investigation on her phone.
"Look at her Instagram, would you? Posts about solo travel and child-free resorts. ‘Missing my freedom days’? Doesn’t exactly scream ‘settling down’ now, does it?" She thrusts her phone in my face like it’s Exhibit A.
Bert helps himself a generous pour, probably wishing it were the old days of quiet grief when he just hid at home, missing his daughter. “Jace told us she wants to be a ‘traveler,’ like Alexa. And Lukas…” His voice trails off, but we know where he’s going. Lukas is hooked on Alexa as much as anybody is.
"I’m aware of Instagram, Paris, and all the articles," I snap, sharper than I mean to. My mother-in-law’s eyes narrow, the unspoken accusation hanging between us, a ghost of the past grievances and grief.
"This is different," I add, though it sounds feeble even to my ears.
"Is it?" Gloria plants herself at the kitchen island, the one Alexa organized, where we pretended for a moment as if we were some sort of family. "They’re looking at her like she’s replacement mom."
"She’s not their mother," I say, though the defensive edge in my voice feels like a betrayal.
"But she’s managing to do a damn fine impression of it," Bert observes, swirling his drink. "Or at least she was. She’s woven right into the fabric of your daily lives."
"I think she’s leaving," I admit, my throat tight.
Gloria narrows her eyes, like she’s ready to swing. "She’s all over social media, liking posts about Fashion Week in Paris and solo travel. Like she’s already gone," she adds, her voice a mix of sorrow and acid. But more acid.
I’m about to argue when my phone buzzes. It’s pain-in-the-ass Vince Vincent, worried about how this latest news will play out publicly. Great, now my failed personal life is PR fodder. I’m going to have to talk to my agent about getting the team to stop trotting me out as their resident widower-slash-regular-guy.
Give me a goddamn break.
Gloria’s still talking, something about how Genny would’ve wanted stability, wanted happiness for us. "Don’t tell me what Genny would’ve wanted," I bark, my frustration boiling over.
Shit. I can’t talk to my in-laws that way.
But Jace shows up and crawls onto her grandfather’s lap. "Is Lexa coming to dinner?" she asks.
This simple question is the worst punch to the gut a parent could hear. Damn it all, what have I done, setting the kids up for disappointment? This is on me, and I’m not happy about it. I knew from the start that Alexa had a different life than we did.
Guess I set myself up for disappointment, too.
"Honey, she’s working," I manage to say, but even to me, it sounds hollow. Lame. Pathetic.
It’s a fat, fucking lie, too. If Alexa wanted to be here, she would be.
"Working?” Confusion washes over her face, and suddenly, it’s not just about Alexa. It’s about protecting my kids as best I can, until they’re ready to face the world on their own. Life is full of shit sandwiches, but it’s not supposed to be like that when you’re three and four years old.
I have failed on so many counts.
Bert tries to offer comfort by showing her the quarter-behind-the-ear magic trick, but Jace resists, her small body rigid with the beginning of a sob. "I want Lexa," she whimpers, the sound twisting in an already ragged wound.
Gloria and Bert exchange looks, the weight of the moment settling around us like a shroud. "I’ll talk to her," I tell them, my voice rough. "I need answers just like you all do."
After a depressing dinner, they leave me to gather the shards of a rapidly fracturing situation. No amount of talking will fix this. Paris is calling Alexa, loud and clear, and I know her well enough to realize what this means to her.
And no matter what I say or do, I might be standing here soon, watching another piece of my kids’ world—and mine—leave us.
I recognize the signs because, basically, I’m not an idiot. The way Alexa skips bedtime stories these days. The "work emergencies" that keep her late. The careful distance she's putting between herself and tiny hearts that don't understand why their Lexa isn't there. It's like watching a slow-motion replay of a game you know you're going to lose.
"Dad?" Lukas's voice is small as I tuck him in. His hockey chart on the wall is unsigned for the third day in a row. The special stickers Alexa got him are still waiting in their spot on his desk. "Is Lexa mad at us?"
"No, buddy. She's just..." Working. Running. Protecting herself from loving us too much. "Busy."
"Too busy for stories?”
My heart cracks a little more. For a short while, we had a routine—Alexa would make up stories about hockey-playing princesses who saved the day with perfect slap shots and magic puck handling. Now the stories sit unfinished, like everything else.
"You know how sometimes, during the season, Frenchie and Gamma come over more? Because I’m working so much? This is kind of like that. Sometimes at work you go through super busy times."
"She’s coming back then?” he asks, brightening.
Shit. I backed myself into that corner.
He sees the distress on my face. "Or is she leaving?" His lower lip trembles. "Like Mommy?"
Jesus Christ.
"No, buddy. That's... that's different."
"Mommy didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay. With us. But she got sick."
Sometimes I forget how much he understands. How much they both understand. How carefully they watch everything going on around them. It’s scary.
Down the hall, I can hear Jace talking to her unicorn. "Lexa's busy. She loves us. Right, Minty?"
I find myself doing what I did after Genny—protecting them. Building walls around tiny hearts learning way too young that life can fucking suck.
She's just working . How many times can I say that? I mean, the kids are little but they’re not stupid. I guess it’s better than something like she likes us but maybe not enough to stay .
My phone buzzes again with the world's opinions on my publicly crumbling happiness:
Vince:
TMZ reporting trouble in paradise. Comment?
Delete.
Team owner:
City loves the family man image. Fix this.
Delete .
Gloria:
The children are asking questions
Can't delete that one.
"Daddy?" Jace calls from her room. Her crown is crooked, her hair a mess of failed attempts at braids. "Can you do my hair like Lexa?”
“You’re supposed to be going to sleep, honey. But I’ll try.” My fingers are too big for tiny braids, too clumsy for delicate hair clips, too... inept. The result looks more like a hockey helmet malfunction.
"It's okay," Jace says, patting my hand with the kind of compassion that breaks me. "We can practice later. Lexa's busy."
When did my three-year-old start protecting my feelings?
As I say goodnight, my phone lights up with another memory I can't delete—a photo from last week. All of us are on the ice, while Alexa tries to stay upright while Jace attempts "princess spins." We’re all laughing.
Lukas is not the only one whose behavior changes. Jace stops hiding phones. Stops asking for princess hair. Stops... hoping. Just like after Genny, she's learning to expect less, to need less, to love less.
My phone again:
Alexa:
Out on interviews. Kiss the kids for me?
They miss you
I know. I just need...
Time?
Space
Paris has plenty of that
No response.
As night rolls around again, I tuck the kids in, trying not to notice two small faces pretending not to watch the door
"Tell us a story?" Jace asks. "One of Lexa's?"
"How about a different one?"
"No." She clutches her unicorn tighter. "Lexa's stories are best."
"Dad?" Lukas's asks. "We'll be okay, right?”
"Always, buddy."
We have to be okay, because what’s the alternative? We’ve already been through the worst of things. If we survived that, we can survive anything.
The text comes during team practice, my phone buzzing in my locker like a countdown.
Alexa:
Can't make Lukas's presentation. Deadline emergency.
Where are you?
Working in the home office.
Oh. She’s there now, when nobody else is home.
Another one during media interviews:
Have to cancel tea party. Work calls.
And again during pre-season photos:
Running late. Don't wait for dinner.
They pile up like missed shots on goal, each one hitting harder than the last:
Sorry about story time
Rain check on hockey practice
Paris office needs...
Work deadline...
Maybe tomorrow...
Emergency meeting..
Next time...
Soon...
I’m over this shit.
The kids start acting out in ways that feel painfully familiar. Lukas gets in trouble for pushing another kid at recess— "He said Lexa wasn't coming back, and I told him he was lying."
Jace refuses to let anyone touch her hair, showing up to school looking increasingly disheveled— "Only Lexa can do it right. Only Lexa."
Their teachers send concerned emails that read like ghosts of Genny's loss:
Unusual aggression during play time
Emotional outbursts
Difficulty focusing on tasks
Refusing to participate in group activities
Signs of anxiety
Pre-season intensifies, demanding more of my time just when they need me most and Vince keeps scheduling media appearances with increasingly desperate suggestions:
" Family man angle still plays well."
"City loves a redemption story."
"Maybe don't mention Paris."
"Focus on the kids, the team, the future."
"Avoid terms like 'leaving' or 'goodbye.'"
Everything’s wrong, slightly off-center, like a picture frame knocked crooked:
- Her coffee mug missing from the morning lineup
- Her shoes no longer by the door
- Her laptop missing from its usual spot
- Her presence fading like a Polaroid left in the sun
She shows up late one night, after the kids are asleep. After I've cleaned up another day's emotional debris.
"I have to grab my things," she says. Not at midnight. Not with that look in her eyes that says she's memorizing everything she's about to say goodbye to.
"The kids missed you at dinner."
"I know. I… I’m so sorry. I’m moving to a hotel for the rest of my stay in San Francisco.”
And there we have it.
"What about Paris?"
She flinches. "Jonas..."
"You're breaking hearts here, Alexa,” I try saying in a jovial tone.
Yeah, no big deal. Stomp all over my kids’ hearts. They’ll be fine. Me, not so much .
"This is so hard, Jonas."
She has no idea.
"No, it's not hard. You're choosing Paris. Sounds simple to me. You’ll love it. It’s an amazing place." I fight hard to keep the edge out of my voice.
"I haven't decided?—"
"Then why are you going to a hotel?"
She throws one last thing into her bag. "I should go."
"All right.”
But I'm already moving toward her, drawn by gravity or memory or maybe just the need to hold onto something that's slipping away like water through my fingers.
She meets me halfway, like always. Like that first kiss in Hawaii. Like every moment since.
It feels different this time. Sad, almost. Her hands in my hair aren't playful anymore. My grip on her waist isn't passionate. Every touch feels like practice for saying goodbye.
"Stay," I whisper against her neck.
"Jonas..."
"Not forever. Just tonight."
We both know it's a lie. We both know that tonight means more than just tonight.
I swear I can taste the goodbye in her kiss.
But the couch catches us like it always has, and this time there's an edge to every touch. A finality. Her fingers trace my face like she's taking notes for later. My hands map her skin like I might never touch her again.
"The kids made you cards," I say between kisses that feel like closing doors.
"Don't."
"Jace drew you as a hockey princess."
"Please..."
"Lukas saved his best goal for?—"
She silences me with another kiss, harder now. Trying to erase words with touch. Trying to forget promises with passion. Trying to make this physical enough to drown out any emotion.
But even as clothes start disappearing, even as the line between staying and leaving blurs, we both know.
This isn't love anymore.
This is goodbye.
She pulls back first. Always the one brave enough to end things. Always the one ready to run.
"I can't."
"You can. You're choosing not to."
"That's not fair."
"Neither is Paris."
She stands, straightens her clothes, rebuilds her walls brick by careful brick. "I should..."
"Go?"
"I'm not...it's not..." She grabs her bag. "I'll call the kids tomorrow."
“Please don’t,” I say as kindly as I can.
“Tell them I'm sorry.”
How? How do you make the kids understand that not everyone stays, even when you want them to?
You don't.