Chapter 13
13
ALEXA
I'm supposed to be writing about Paris. About Fashion Week and wine tours and child-free luxury resorts. Instead, I'm sitting in my hotel room at two a.m., researching San Francisco school districts like some kind of... mom.
Jonas has no idea.
The spreadsheet on my laptop would make Ryan have an aneurysm:
- District rankings
- Test scores
- Student-teacher ratios
- Distance from hockey practice
- Special programs (Lukas would love the science lab)
- Arts integration (Jace needs a creative outlet)
- After-school activities that work with NHL schedules
I hit save.
My phone buzzes. Mom:
How's the Paris prep going?
Great. Very professional
Then why are you sending me links to SF real estate?
Did I send you that? It was accidental
Mmm hmm
Stop it, Mom
Earlier today, I nearly had a panic attack in Target.
In the kids' section.
Somewhere between the tiny hockey gear and the princess dresses, it hit me—I know their sizes. I know Lukas needs new skates and Jace is obsessed with anything sparkly and purple. I know which snacks they'll eat and which they'll negotiate away. I know...
Too much.
Way too much.
"Don't lose yourself," Mom's voice echoes in my head. "Don't give up your dreams for someone else's life."
But what if that that life is the dream?
Just asking.
My laptop pings with a news alert: "Hockey's Most Eligible Dad Back on Market? Sources Say Travel Writer Heading to Paris"
The comments are brutal:
Another woman abandoning those poor kids
Called it - she was never mom material
Back to her selfish child-free lifestyle
Those kids deserve better
Delete. Delete. Delete.
But they're right, aren't they? I'm not mom material. I'm solo luxury travel material. I'm five-star resort reviews and Fashion Week coverage and...
My spreadsheet mocks me with its domestic perfection. When did I learn about school zones? When did I start caring about elementary school rankings? When did I become someone who knows the difference between public and charter options?
I close the spreadsheet and look at the Paris apartment listings my mother sent.
Her words again: "Don't lose yourself."
But what if I'm finding myself? What if the real me likes making dinosaur pancakes and princess hair and...
No.
Professional distance.
I open my Paris article draft:
The City of Light offers sophisticated travelers ...
Delete.
Fashion Week promises exclusive access ...
Delete.
For the discriminating child-free lifestyle ...
Delete.
My phone buzzes with another news alert.
NHL Star's Family Man—Alone again as Travel Writer Plans Paris Move
Oh my God.
The photo they use breaks me—Jonas at practice, kids watching from the stands. An empty seat between them where I usually sit.
Used to sit.
Should sit?
No.
I close everything. The school research. The Paris listings. The article that won't write itself because my heart's too busy writing a different story.
I throw my phone across the room.
Professional distance requires actual distance.
Even if distance feels like drowning.
Even if Paris feels like running.
I return to Jonas’s place to pick up some things I left behind and find custody paperwork on Jonas's desk. What the hell? I see legal language that makes my stomach turn: "concerns about stability" and "emotional impact of recent changes" and "custody arrangements under review." Because apparently my entering their lives only to leave is giving Bert and Gloria ammunition to take the kids?
The irony isn't lost on me. I came here to write about family-friendly activities, and instead end up making Jonas look like an incompetent father?
I call Gloria. After all, I’ve gotten to know her well enough to find out what the hell is going on.
"Bert's lawyers are just asking questions, Alexa. About stability. About routine. About what's best for the children."
"Jonas is what's best for them."
"Yes," she says carefully. "He is. But all this uncertainty... the media attention... the kids acting out. You know how it is. Bert and I are very worried. But dear, we thank you for your concern.”
And just like that, I’m dismissed. Like I never existed.
I’m sure Jonas is trying to handle everything with his usual grace, and that Gloria and Bert’s “interest” is only making things worse. I know Jonas’s pre-season has started, bringing insane demands, for one, barely leave time for school drop-off. He’s got media appearances where he has to pretend everything's fine. Team events where he's supposed to maintain his "family man" image.
Thank God for Frenchie.
I’ve watched him juggle all this from my cowardly distance. It hasn’t been hard, since he’s so high-profile. The gossip pages share glimpses of him sneaking the kids out the school's back door to avoid reporters, and show him rushing from practice still in gear to make parent-teacher meetings. One blogger has started a campaign of women writing him love letters, and is taking bets that someone snags him in the next year.
The Paris deadline looms over everything like a storm cloud. Twenty-four hours to decide. Twenty-four hours to choose between the dream I've always had and the one I never did. Ryan keeps calling, talking about Fashion Week and luxury travel and everything I always thought I would die for.
Instead, I am haunted thinking about Jonas juggling all his shit.
"They'll adjust," my mother says when I call her in a panic. "Children are resilient."
"They shouldn't have to be."
Twenty-four hours.
Two kids.
Three hearts.
Infinite happiness… or regrets?
Reality sets in, heavy and formidable, obscuring everything I thought was clear. I'm not just choosing between Paris and San Francisco. Between fashion shows and hockey games. Between freedom and family.
I'm choosing what I want my goddamn life to look like. The question is, am I brave enough to decide?
And that’s when it hits me. Life’s not about choices in and of itself. It’s about cleaning up the messes after you’ve made them.
I find a drawing stuffed into my laptop bag. Crayon stick figures on construction paper—two tall ones, two small ones. There I am, a purple stick figure next to Jonas, wearing what appears to be a crown and holding a hockey stick.
She's even drawn my coffee mug.
I make it to the hotel bathroom just before I throw up.
The drawing mocks me from the counter as I rinse my mouth, splash water on my face, and try to breathe. Purple stick-figure me, holding stick-figure Jonas's hand, while stick-figure Lukas and Jace smile their crayon smiles.
I stare at my reflection—designer outfit, perfect makeup, all the trappings of my carefully curated child-free lifestyle. The woman in the mirror looks nothing like the purple stick figure wearing a crown and holding a hockey stick.
Which one is real?
Which one is me?
"Take some time," Jonas had said in his infinite patience, when I tried to explain about Paris. About dreams and careers and everything I thought I wanted. "Really think about what you want."
What I want.
What I want is to stop crying in hotel bathrooms.
What I want is to stop breaking tiny hearts.
What I want is...
The mini bar beckons. Tiny bottles of clarity. Or at least tiny bottles of numbness.
The first vodka burns. The second one less so. By the third, I can look at the drawing Jace sneaked into my bag without throwing up.
My laptop sits open to flight bookings. Paris. One-way. Everything I've worked for. Just a click away.
Another tiny bottle.
I trace the crayon figures with unsteady fingers. Like I'm not about to ruin everything.
My phone lights up with Jonas's face—not stick-figure Jonas, but real Jonas. Jonas who deserves better than someone who runs. Jonas who deserves someone who stays. Damn my iPhone.
"The kids want to know about Saturday," he says when I answer. His voice is careful. Everything about him is careful lately. "Lukas has that hockey thing..."
The hockey thing. The one I promised to film. The one I promised to celebrate. The one I...
"I can't."
Silence. Then, softer: "Paris?"
"Jonas..."
"Take the time you need." Always understanding. Always careful. "Just... you know they adore you. However this goes, remember that."
That's what breaks me.
Not the drawing, though it cracked me.
Not the vodka, though it blurred me.
Not the flight booking page staring at me.
The simple fact of being wanted.
The terrifying weight of being needed in return.
I hit "Book Now" on the Paris flight through tears I can't stop. Through shaking hands that can't seem to type my name right. Through a heart that's screaming, asking me if I’m making the right decision.
Just one more tiny bottle.
The confirmation email arrives like a death sentence: " Bienvenue à Paris!"
New life.
Maybe a better life?
A happier life?
Or just... a new life.
I prop up Jace's drawing on my nightstand. Apparently, I like to torment myself.
I book the earliest flight possible. Tomorrow. Before I can change my mind. Before tiny people can convince me not to.
I text Jonas one last time. Simple. Final. "I'm so sorry."
Then I grab the drawing from my nightstand, fold it carefully, and slide it into my passport holder.
Because it’s more than just a drawing. It’s all the messy pieces of me I’m leaving behind. But that’s okay. This is my chance to start fresh, to prove I’m more than the sum of what I’m walking away from.
Paris will be worth it. It has to be.