Chapter 50
CHAPTER FIFTY
MAYA
Iknow it’s ridiculous.
I know Ollie is trustworthy. I know Lila loves him. And still, I’m clutching my phone with the anxious intensity of someone about to launch a space shuttle.
I re-read the checklist for the third time before I hit send.
MAYA: Lila should be in bed by 7:30. She can have one cup of milk before bed but only if it’s warmed but not too hot, just warm enough.
No scary stories. She says she’s brave, but she is not.
Avoid all films with villainous octopi. Do not let her trick you into a second dessert.
She WILL try. Also, she talks a big game, but she still sleeps with the bunny.
It needs to be on the left side of the bed.
Emergency contacts: Me (obviously). Jacko. Fire, police, poison control. Dylan (in case you lose all common sense).
I hit send.
Almost immediately, Ollie replies with a voice memo.
OLLIE: “Maya. My love. My queen. My slightly terrifying co-parent-for-the-evening. We’re gonna be FINE. We’ve got Moana queued up, I’ve bought fruit snacks shaped like dinosaurs, and I’ll pre-warm the milk with a thermometer. Go make out with your boyfriend. BYE.”
I groan, dropping my head into my hands. Then I laugh. God, I needed that.
The nerves don’t vanish entirely, but they settle enough that I can go get ready without pacing like a trapped animal.
I haven’t worn much makeup in months, but I line my eyes with a careful hand and dust powder over my cheeks.
I choose a soft muted tone for my lips and sweep mascara over my lashes.
Not too shabby, even if I say so myself.
I try not to overthink the flush of nerves beneath my ribs as I open the wardrobe and stare inside.
What does someone wear on a date with a man who’s already seen you at your worst? Who’s seen you covered in flour and crying over burnt jam, snarling like a feral cat on no sleep, and yet he still looks at you like you hung the damn stars?
Apparently, you wear the black dress you haven’t worn since before Lila was born. It still fits. Still zips. And still makes me feel like the version of myself I used to dream I’d become.
I smooth it down. Take a breath.
Then head for the living room just as the doorbell sounds.
Owen moves first and Lila races to the door before I can even blink. There’s a beat of quiet. Then a shriek.
“OLLIE!”
She launches at him like a heat-seeking missile. Ollie scoops her into his arms and spins her with an exaggerated grunt, like she’s heavier than a featherweight child in pink leggings and glitter socks.
“There she is!” he declares dramatically. “My favourite girl not currently employed by a professional hockey team.”
“Bear won his game!” she says proudly, beaming at Jacko like he invented hockey.
“I know!” Ollie gasps. “I was there, remember? I was the handsome guy on the ice not doing any of the fighting.”
Owen snorts behind me. “You tripped during warmups.”
“It was theatrics, Jacko. Showmanship. The fans loved it.”
He winks at Lila, who dissolves into giggles. And then Owen turns to me and freezes. His eyes go wide. His mouth opens slightly. For a second, he doesn’t say anything at all. Then, softly says, “Wow.”
I roll my eyes, but my cheeks warm. “What?”
He steps closer, slow and reverent, like I might disappear. “You look…” His voice goes husky. “You look unbelievable.”
Ollie makes a gagging noise. “Okay, Romeo. We get it. She’s hot. Go before I start narrating this like a David Attenborough special.”
Owen doesn’t even blink. Just offers me his arm like we’re heading into a ballroom. My fingers curl around his bicep automatically. He’s warm and solid. Familiar and electric.
I turn back one last time. “Lila, sweetie,”
“I get to pick the first movie!” she interrupts, already sprawled across the couch with a blanket and a bowl of dino snacks. Her bossy voice is in full force. “No ‘grown-up’ music during the credits!”
Ollie salutes. “As you command, Captain.”
“And remember the checklist!” I call.
“Printed and laminated,” he replies solemnly, holding up a sheet that is, in fact, laminated.
Owen laughs as we head down the hallway and out of the front door. “I think he was more excited than she was.”
“He probably was,” I admit. “I still feel weird. Guilty.”
“She’s safe,” he says, opening the truck door for me. “And you deserve a night off.”
He holds my hand across the centre console for the whole twenty-minute journey. I love that he’s picked somewhere far enough that I can’t freak out and walk home to Lila, but also near enough that if anything happens, we can get back quickly.
The restaurant is tucked into the corner of a cobbled street, with soft lighting and candles flickering on every table. It smells like fresh herbs and garlic and something gently sweet. A little upscale, a little magical. The kind of place I haven’t let myself imagine in years.
The host greets Owen like an old friend. Apparently, he booked this weeks ago.
Our table is by the window. Owen pulls out my chair for me. He’s dressed in smart trousers and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled back a little, his beard a little scruffy and in need of a trim, and he has the softest smile tugging at his lips.
“You really planned this,” I say, startled.
He shrugs, suddenly bashful. “I wanted it to be… something.”
It is. God, it is.
We order a couple of glasses of red wine. I let him choose the food, he picks out a sharing starter and then orders a seafood pasta dish for me and a steak for himself.
And we talk.
About hockey. About baking. About Lila and her increasingly advanced knock-knock jokes.
He tells me about his childhood, his grandmother’s sourdough starter, the year he almost quit hockey for catering college before he got drafted.
I tell him about the bakery course I did, about how I loved running before I had a child and the trauma of that still living in my bones, about the version of myself I used to imagine I’d be.
He listens like every word matters.
“You know what’s wild?” I say, sometime between starters and mains. “I used to think the future was a single fixed thing. You miss it once, you’re done. Like it passes you and you just have to watch.”
Owen tilts his head. “And now?”
I shrug. “Now it feels like maybe it loops back around. Just slower. And messier.”
He reaches across the table, brushing his thumb against the inside of my wrist. “I’m really glad it did.”
We share dessert. A chocolate tart so rich it feels scandalous. Two spoons tangled together, knees bumping under the table.
Halfway through, he squeezes my hand and looks me straight in the eye. “I want more nights like this.”
I nod. “Me too.”
And I mean it. All of it.
The porch light is on when we pull up. I expect to feel the usual lurch of anxiety, but it never comes. There’s a note stuck to the door in Ollie’s handwriting, written on the back of a Raptors warm-up sheet.
Baby Bear asleep. No tears. One story (not scary). Milk temp 37.4 (sue me). She says she had fun. So did I. Made myself a bed on your couch so be quiet and no sex noises please ;) Ol x
Inside, the house smells like popcorn. The TV is off. A few empty bowls scattered on the coffee table. One unicorn blanket folded with shocking precision.
I crack open Lila’s bedroom door and peek in. She’s fast asleep, bunny clutched to her chest, one arm flung above her head. The nightlight casts soft constellations across the ceiling. Owen steps behind me, resting a hand on my lower back. “She’s happy,” he whispers. “Safe. And very lucky.”
“So am I,” I say. And I mean that, too.
We don’t do more than kiss that night. We’re too full, too tired, too emotionally wrung out in the best way. But when he walks me back to the bedroom I now refer to as ours and wraps me in his arms, I feel something settle deep in my chest.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t have to choose between being a mother and being me.
I get to be both with him.
And I don’t feel guilty for wanting it anymore.