Chapter Eight #2
And yet, there’s a strange comfort in the familiarity of him. Not love, not even nostalgia. It’s more like the echo of a dance I used to know all the steps to.
I unlock my phone. My thumb hovers.
Before I can decide what to do, I open my socials and search out a name I shouldn’t. It sends me to Aleksi’s page.
Big mistake.
The first photo that pops up is him in Finland, standing on a frozen pond with a whistle around his neck, surrounded by a swarm of kids in matching jerseys. His caption reads: Coaching the next generation.
My heart stutters. He looks so happy. So… settled. Gorgeous as ever.
The next photo nearly knocks the breath out of me.
A gorgeous brunette woman on skates, her cheeks pink from the cold, laughing as he holds her steady by the waist. They’re both smiling like there’s no one else in the world.
It can't be his sister, she’s working in France for a marketing agency the last I heard, and they’re twins but this woman doesn’t have his blonde hair.
Another shot: Aleksi helping her with her laces. One more, this time with his arm slung around her shoulders as they eat ice cream cones, he’s smiling at her like he just finished saying something funny, something so ‘Aleksi’, and she’s mid laugh.
And finally, a group shot: Aleksi, the brunette, his mom, and a little boy I assume is his nephew. A perfect Finnish postcard of domestic bliss.
She’s met his mom.
I zoom out and stare at the screen until my vision blurs.
She’s stunning. Effortless and natural in a way I’ve never been.
The kind of woman mothers adore and players settle down with.
She’s probably from where he’s from. Maybe they dated in highschool, first loves…
or maybe she’s the girl next door. The woman his mother always hoped he’d come home and marry one day, giving her gorgeous, Finnish grandbabies.
My chest tightens until it’s hard to breathe.
I told him to give me space, and he did.
I told him we couldn’t risk it, and he listened.
Now he’s halfway across the world, building a life with someone who doesn’t come with a warning label and a file with the medical board.
And I’m… happy for him.
At least, that’s the story I’m sticking to.
A car honks, jarring me back. I blink hard, realizing they were honking at someone while I stare at my phone like an idiot.
“Jesus,” I mutter, my heart is pounding.
I get into my car and slam the door, the sound too loud in the quiet morning. I rest my head against the steering wheel and let the cold air from the vent brush against my face until I can breathe again.
The phone lights up one more time.
Tarron: Dinner? Tomorrow night?
I stare at the message, thumb hovering. I could ignore it. I should ignore it. But something in me—some mix of exhaustion, curiosity, and desperate need for distraction—wins over.
Fine, I type back. Dinner. Just this once.
The message sends, the little bubble pops up, “Delivered”, and just like that, it’s done. The screen goes dark, and I whisper the lie I’ve been telling myself since Nevada.
“It’s just dinner.”
But even as I start the car, my stomach rolls again, and I can’t tell if it’s guilt, grief, or something else.
I drop the phone into the cup holder and stare at it like it might bite back.
Regret hits almost instantly. Not sharp, but slow and creeping, like water seeping under a door.
What am I even doing?
I pull out of my parking spot and head for home. Maybe I just need a nap. Everything will feel better after that.
I tell myself that dinner with Tarron is harmless. Closure, maybe. A chance to tell him that I’ve moved on, that he can stop with the texts and the “what ifs.”
That’s all this is.
Right.
I pull into the parking garage of my apartment building. It’s dim, the concrete walls sweating with condensation. I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes, the vibrating of the car still idling, lulls me for a moment.
If I could just stay here for another minute I might actually breathe again.
But my chest is too tight, my stomach rolling in slow, uneasy waves.
“Stress,” I whisper out loud. “It’s just stress.”
The word sounds empty even to me.
I grab my phone and send out a text to Vivi: “SOS, I might need to raid your closet tomorrow for a dinner date with my ex.”
Then I press my hand to my stomach, palm flat, as if I can will it to settle. The motion is automatic—doctor’s instinct, self-check, diagnostic calm.
Except my pulse jumps under my fingers. My breathing stutters. And the nausea doesn’t fade.
Travel fatigue, I tell myself next. Meeting up with Tarron probably isn’t helping.
Too much caffeine and not enough sleep could also be the culprit.
The emotional hangover of seeing the social media evidence that the man you shouldn’t want looks like he’s finally found someone who’s a better fit for him.
There are a hundred logical explanations.
My brain does what it always does. It starts cataloging data. Last cycle. Last test. The last time I had sex…
And then the thought I’ve been dodging all week slips through the cracks, quiet and cruel.
You’re not… or, could you be?
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head hard enough to make my vision blur. “It’s not that. We used protection.”
Except it could be.
It’s not improbable. It’s also not likely but that doesn’t mean it's impossible.
And missed periods mean nothing. During medical school finals, I missed at least a couple due to stress.
Even during my divorce, I missed my periods for six straight months from heartbreak.
It happens and the stress of possibly dying in the motel, and then the possibility of losing my medical license due to what Aleksi and I did, is reason enough that I could have missed one.
I’m a doctor. Women miss periods all the time. It proved nothing, and we used condoms.
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles ache, trying to ground myself. My reflection stares back from the windshield—washed out, exhausted, with that same stubborn streak that’s gotten me through every tough decision I’ve ever had to make.
I survived my mother. I survived my divorce. I survived Nevada.
If this is what… I think it could be, I can survive this too.
But even as I think it, a quiet panic coils tighter under my ribs.
I open my eyes again and look down at my phone, the faint glow of the screen painting the inside of the car in blue light. Vivi’s name stares back.
Vivi: Yes! I can’t wait. See you tomorrow. I’m inviting some of the girls. It’ll be fun. We’ll make him eat his own shorts when he sees you.
I could still cancel. I could still undo it.
But I don’t.
Because as much as I hate to admit it, part of me wants the distraction. I want to walk into a room where someone looks at me like I’m still wanted, even if it’s for all the wrong reasons.
I know how this ends—probably with regret, definitely with indigestion—but for one night, the idea of being seen feels easier than being alone.
I shove the phone back into my bag, cut the engine and climb out of my car.
The nausea eases with motion. Maybe that’s a good sign. Maybe that’s my body’s way of saying you’re fine, Kendall. Stop jumping to crazy conclusions.
I can do this. Dinner. Closure. Then home. Then sleep. The nausea will subside. I just hope it does before Aleksi comes in six more weeks when pre-season starts back up.
Easy, right?