Chapter 11 #2
"Come on, kid. Grab a cloth and start scrubbing."
"Aye aye, captain."
We tear through the front in fifteen minutes flat. Morgan wipes down tables while I sweep, mop, and restock napkins. By the time we lock up and put the BACK SOON sign on the door, the bakery looks exactly how Zoey likes it.
Now I just have to work out if I have time to finish my plans before I hand back that notebook.
We head down to Chilmore Park, which sits at the bottom of Main Street. It's a stretch of green tucked into the bend of the river where the mountains start to rise, and the leaves are doing that thing they do in autumn here, all golds and burnt oranges that look amazing.
We stopped at Frost Café on the way, mainly to make sure Zoey made it okay, and now Morgan's clutching a hot chocolate bigger than her head, while I've got a coffee and a paper bag of Millicent's almond biscotti.
She climbs onto a swing and waits patiently while I push her.
"Higher, please."
"Aren't you ten? Do I really need to push you?"
"Higher!"
I push anyway, and she squeals, her braids flying behind her as she pumps her legs.
"So! I think I have a sleepover this weekend at Lila's house." She calls over her shoulder. "Can I go?"
"That's a mom question."
"But if you were mom, what would you say?"
"I'd say yes, but only if you promise to brush your teeth with toothpaste."
She giggles. "Mom told you about that?"
"Mom tells me a lot of things."
The swing creaks as she pumps higher. The wind is cold on my face, and I tip my head back to watch her against the autumn sky, and for a second I just… exist.
This is peace.
I haven't felt this free in a long time. Maybe ever.
"Did you have sleepovers when you were a kid?" Morgan asks, still rising higher than the mountains. "Mom's always weird about them."
The question lands gentle, but it lands deep.
I push her again, slower this time. "No, kiddo. I didn't."
"Why not?"
"That's a good question. I guess I was just at the rink a lot. Hockey practice every morning. Early. Like, before-the-sun-came-up early."
"Ew. That's gross." We both laugh. "Did you go to the park after practice?"
"Not really."
"Birthday parties?"
I stop pushing and she lets the swing slow on its own, dragging her sneakers in the dirt until she comes to a stop. She twists in the seat to look at me, maybe because I've gone unusually quiet.
"Colt?"
"Yeah."
"You didn't have birthday parties?"
I shrug, and try to make my voice light, but it comes out heavier than it should when you're talking to a ten-year-old.
"Well, not the kind you're thinking of. There was always practice or a tournament or a camp. Plus my birthday's in November which is in the middle of the season. So I'd just… train through it."
"What about cake?"
"Sometimes."
"Presents?"
"If I won."
She's quiet again, and I realize she's thinking. Trying to fit what I'm telling her into her understanding of how childhoods are supposed to work.
"That's not fair, Colt."
"It's just how it was, kid."
She slides off the swing and walks toward me, brow furrowed. She stops in front of me and tilts her head, studying my face like she's trying to figure out how sad about this I actually am.
"You okay, buddy?"
I look down at her. This kid has a chocolate mustache she has no idea is there, and still, she is more concerned about my childhood than I have been in three decades.
"Excuse me… did you just call me buddy?"
She smirks and the mood lifts instantly. "Yeah?"
"Like… you're the adult and I'm the kid?"
"Maybe." She grins, slow and wicked. "Buddy."
"That's it. You're done."
"What—"
I lunge to chase her so quick she shrieks, dropping her hot chocolate in the grass and bolting toward the climbing frame, her laughter trailing behind her like a goddamn anthem.
"GET BACK HERE, MORGAN MORRISON!"
"NEVER! BUDDY!"
I chase her around the playground, ducking under a slide, vaulting a low bench. She scrambles up the climbing frame, declaring herself queen of the castle, and I collapse against the bottom rung, hand pressed to my chest, breathless from laughing.
But underneath the laughter, this kid has struck a nerve without even meaning to.
Is this why I am the way I am? Is this why I felt so lost when I got injured?
Because underneath the pranks, the chirping and the constant expectations… Am I still that little kid? Trying to earn love by being perfect?
I look up at Morgan, perched at the top of the climbing frame like the conqueror of small worlds, and my chest aches.
She's never had to earn love.
Zoey loves this kid more than anything. No scoreboard, no conditions.
And it shows.
It shows in every uninhibited shriek, every loud opinion, every braid she ruins by tugging on it because she can.
Morgan has never had to be on.
She just gets to be free.
I sit down on the bottom of the slide, and for one terrible, beautiful second, I let myself feel the grief of being four years old in skates I didn't ask for.
But then, precious as she is, Morgan calls down. "COLT! Catch me!"
I look up just in time to see her launching herself off the climbing frame, all flying braids and blind faith.
I catch her and my arms swing her in a wide circle that makes me dizzier than I felt after twenty laps with Willa this morning.
But this kids laughter is the only thing in the whole damn world.
I set her down and push her braid behind her ear. She squints up at me, hands on her hips like a tiny detective.
"Do you think I could be a hockey broadcaster and a pastry chef, Colt? Like, at the same time?"
I crouch down so we're eye to eye. "I think you can be anything you want to be."
"Even both?"
"Especially both."
She nods, and reaches for my hand. "Okay. Push me on the swings again."
But before we reach the swings, I spot Zoey at the edge of the park.
She's wearing a different sweater and her hair is brushed. She's got her hands in her pockets, and she's just watching us like she's been there the whole time.
Morgan spots her a second later and is off the swing before I can blink.
"MOM!"
Zoey crouches just in time to catch her, and the look on her face when Morgan barrels into her arms—
God. It's beautiful.
Morgan is chattering at a hundred miles an hour about hot chocolate and the climbing frame and how I'm officially called 'Buddy' now. Zoey is laughing, brushing dirt off Morgan's leggings, kissing the top of her head.
I hang back at the swings, hands deep in my jacket pockets, watching them.
Mother and daughter. Easy and warm.
And I want it.
God, do I want it.
Not just Zoey. Not just the kiss in the locker room or the moment we shared after.
The whole thing.
The braid arguments. The busy school mornings. The bad days and the sleepovers I never got.
Because she's not just the woman I want.
She's the life I want.