Chapter 55
Chapter Fifty-Five
Alec
“Morning?”
I lift an eyebrow at the sight of Julian and Rhodes blocking Mara’s doorway like they’ve been rehearsing an entrance. The hallway light frames them in a way that only fuels my irritation. “Why are you visiting Mara?”
Rhodes points his thumb toward my apartment. “Nobody opened, and Julian mentioned you’re fond of your very beautiful neighbor.”
“I said gorgeous,” Julian corrects, already smug. “And obviously off limits because this one called dibs.”
I stare at them, baffled. If it weren’t true, I’d be beating the shit out of them. Maybe not that, but it’d upset me a lot. “Again—why are you here?”
“We’re checking on you,” Julian replies as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then he repeats it, slower. “Eddie mentioned something about having an existential crisis. But you weren’t home. Did you . . . move here?”
Fucking Eddie. We’ll have words the next time we see each other. I told him no fucking Wilders.
Now . . . the biggest problem is trying to explain why I’m in Mara’s home this early in the morning.
It is the second day in a row I’ve crashed on the couch, but that doesn’t mean I’ve moved in.
Last night I helped with dinner, stayed because Mara got more letters from Lina, and somehow the evening folded into something I didn’t want to walk away from.
I got letters too—still sealed in my jacket.
Maybe I should read mine now that she isn’t downstairs, watching me pretend they don’t exist.
Footsteps sound on the staircase. “Who is it?” Mara calls out before she appears, wrapped in soft morning light and that quiet resilience she wears like a second skin. “Oh—your friend Julian with . . . another Wilder? How many Wilders do you know?”
My jaw tightens because she says it almost fangirling and that doesn’t sit well. She never made a fuss about meeting the Alec Hovarth. Not that I wanted her to go all fan-crazed on me, but I really don’t love the way she’s looking at them—and yes, I’m fucking jealous.
“He knows five, obviously,” Julian announces, breezing past her as if he owns the place. “How are you, Mara?” He lifts her hand and kisses it.
She smiles, though something in her eyes dims for a heartbeat—courtesy, not comfort. I feel a little more comfortable knowing she doesn’t give a shit about them.
“I’m fine. Are you taking him for breakfast?” She tilts her head.
“No, they’re leaving,” I answer before either of them can invent plans.
“They could—”
“We definitely will,” Rhodes cuts in, fully aware he’s testing my patience today for sport. “I heard you have an enchanting daughter.”
“She’s something,” Mara replies with a fondness that sits gently on her face. “Why don’t I start a pot of coffee?”
Julian waves her off. “Nah, I got it. Alec will take care of breakfast.”
Of course he volunteers me. Of course he assumes I’ll play along.
I step closer to Mara and brush a kiss against her cheek. “I can have them gone now. Just say it.”
“No, it’s fine,” she whispers, though the word feels more like a compromise than an agreement.
“We have a full day,” I remind her, letting the sentence hang between us.
It’s true.
I’m taking Mila to the museum, giving her something bright to look forward to, something that feels like childhood should feel.
Meanwhile, Mara is going to her therapist—finally walking into a room she’s avoided for years.
She thought she knew it all after spending three years with her therapist while she was sick. No such thing, obviously.
One event has nothing to do with the other. They’re separate things that each have to be dealt with—and are as important.
Breakfast seems more like an event than a regular meal by the time we’re serving. Mila is delighted with the company.
Julian talks about his career in the ’90s—back when he lived on the road, playing college circuits and small theaters, carving a place for himself in the adult alternative scene. He’s a singer–songwriter at heart, emotional and unfiltered.
Rhodes is a classical pianist, famous in his own right, though his audience falls into a different world from Julian’s.
People adore all the Wilder siblings for reasons that never make sense to me.
Even Alfie—who isn’t here this morning because he disappears whenever his on-and-off girlfriend resurfaces—found fame after stumbling through soap operas in the early days.
Now he’s acting in films and his name shows up in the same conversations people use for Gabe Colt.
By nine, a driver waits downstairs for Mara , ready to take her to therapy.
She stands on the sidewalk with her coat wrapped around her, offering Mila one last hug before climbing into the car.
She waves through the window, trying to look brave.
Then she’s gone, and I’m left with her daughter staring up at me, trusting me far more than she should.
I slide behind the wheel and take us toward the museum.
“Why is Mommy meeting us there?” Mila asks once we’re halfway down the block. I’m sure she’s been holding this question in. I should have expected this. This child is inquisitive to the bone.
“She has an appointment,” I say, hoping that might satisfy her. It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t.
“Why don’t I have an appointment?”
“You’ll have to ask her,” I answer, because honesty feels safer than inventing something, and I’m in no liberty to explain what’s happening. “But you and I will have more fun than she will. I promise.”
Mila doesn’t seem convinced. She stares out the window, her voice small. “But will we? I’ve never been without Mommy.”
“That’s not true,” I gently remind her. “You go to ballet, karate, all your activities without her. She doesn’t sit on the mat next to you.”
“Oh. Right. And swimming.” She pauses, then leans forward in her seat. “Why don’t we have swimming today?”
“That’s a Saturday thing until you pass your strokes and they move you to the weekday schedule.” The knowledge flows out before I can stop it, and it hits me—just how much I’ve been paying attention.
Mila studies me, taking that in. “If you don’t feel comfortable, we can go back home,” I offer.
“No,” she says quickly. “I just don’t want Mommy to miss anything. And we don’t have a camera.”
“You need us to buy a camera?” I ask, trying to figure out if she’s negotiating or simply thinking aloud. With kids, it’s impossible to tell.
“Could we?” She brightens a little. “You can rent it, like those bikes from . . . somewhere. The place where I learned how to ride a bike. I might’ve forgotten how, though. I don’t practice.”
“We can find you a bike.”
“Mom said we can’t. We don’t have a backyard.” She shrugs as if that’s the final authority in her world.
“That sounds logical.”
We roll up to a red light, and something in me shifts—the urge to solve her small worries, smooth the path in front of her, offer something that feels like stability. A house with a backyard is out of the question, but . . .
I pull out my phone and call Eddie. He answers on the second ring, and I ask him to send a camera to the museum entrance. He doesn’t even question it. That’s the benefit of long-standing friendships—fast answers, no explanations.
But after I hang up, a new realization settles inside me.
I can’t fix the bike issue. I can’t step into every part of their life and repair what’s cracked. That isn’t my place. Even so, the pull to make things easier for Mara and Mila keeps rising inside me, brushing aside the lines I tried to draw around my role in their world.
I don’t know why.
I don’t understand how it reshapes my intentions or how it keeps tugging me toward something I have no right to want, but now I believe I need.
All I know is this:
Helping them makes me feel more whole than anything has in a long time. Like someone finally handed me a purpose I didn’t realize I’d been starving for. And fuck, that might be the most dangerous part of all.