Chapter 16 Mel
Chapter sixteen
Mel
My alarm beeped, slicing through the early morning like a rude guest. I shut it off and curled back beneath the covers, limbs heavy, head foggy, lips still tingling from something that technically shouldn’t matter as much as it did.
It was just a kiss, my brain insisted. Except it wasn’t, my heart countered. Not with a cha-cha party still happening in my stomach, and not with the way Sean looked at me right before it happened—as if he’d snapped us into some glossy poster for his own private billboard.
There was no guessing what version of dating we were in. Undefined, unlabeled, but definitely something.
I rolled out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom, feet dragging across the cool tile. The mirror greeted me with the usual: same curls, same sleepy eyes, same girl trying not to admit she hadn’t melted, freaking sugar style, under the midnight blue.
“Get a grip,” I muttered, reaching for my toothbrush. “People kiss. Grown-ups kiss. It was the third time we kissed. It was fine.”
No, it wasn’t just fine. It was the kind that left your knees weak the next day (I was the living proof). It made you want to rewind time and feel it again—slower, longer.
And damn it, he hadn’t even said much. Just walked me to his car, slid the food in the back seat, and kissed me as if the only thing that made sense in the world was me in his arms. Then he stepped back, leaving me like a knocked-out toaster oven after a power surge.
I rinsed my mouth and stared at the faucet, heart thudding for no good reason. It was fine. We were fine. He had a game tomorrow, I had a job to do, and no one needed to know that I’d barely slept because my brain kept replaying the way he’d said Not happening.
Not a tease. A promise. And I didn’t mind one bit.
That was the part crashing over me—how much I didn’t mind. How fast things were moving. How different it felt from the spark I’d searched for years. How opposite of what I’d known with Vince. And how much it was something I hadn’t even known I’d wanted until Sean gave it to me.
Erica’s voice from our latest talk echoed in my head: “Big men can be big messes, Mel. Please make sure yours is worth the cleanup.”
I was halfway through getting dressed when the door creaked open. Some things never changed. Just like when Sam was three, sneaking out of her bed into mine, she still did it. She slipped in and flopped onto my bed.
“Sean’s house, Mel…”
I groaned. “Please don’t start.”
She ignored me completely, propping herself on her elbows.
“Long, low-slung-ranch style. His has two buildings linked in an L-shape, grainy white exterior, stunning against that black tile roof. Oh, Lord, Mel. The windows!” She flung her arms wide, voice low, reverent.
All she needed was a choir and a slow zoom.
“Those perfect divided-light square panes. You know, the kind that makes everything inside glow in a Nancy Meyers-film style?”
I tried not to picture it. Failed.
“Sam, you’re reciting a real-estate brochure. Can I please finish getting ready in peace?”
She sighed, completely unbothered. “Wraparound porch on one of the wings and a gazebo in the back. A gazebo, Mel. The kind that screams ‘Kiss me dizzy under the moonlight.’”
I clenched the mascara wand tighter, blinking in the mirror. “Now that you’ve launched your side hustle as a Fixer Upper poet, can you leave?”
She didn’t move. She stared at the ceiling dreamily. “Wilhaggin neighborhood. Not flashy, just pure class. I can totally see myself picnicking with six nieces and nephews on that deep-green lawn.”
I whipped around and pointed a finger. “Sam!”
She grinned. “What? I’m a hundred percent on board with a future brother-in-law who dyes his hair to seduce my sister.”
A huff escaped my chest–half laugh, half exasperation.
I’d been coming home late, mostly to avoid crossing paths with Mom and hearing about Sean’s age, hairline, or whatever else she’d weaponize for dramatic effect. She was probably Google-search armed by now.
And I did not need Sam turning Sean’s house into a romantic dreamland. I narrowed my eyes on her.
“If you ever looked up from those books long enough, you might notice plenty of guys worth swooning over,” I said.
“Bingo. I know a subject-change move when I hear one.”
“Can’t wait for you to move across the country.”
“Ha! So you can see the hot coach without me fishing for gossip?”
I took a breath, smoothing the gloss across my lips. “How’s preparing for the move going? You and your new roommate settled the bathroom race terms yet?”
Sam smirked. “I called dibs on the 6:30 a.m. slot with surgical precision. She didn’t stand a chance.”
“Impressive. You haven’t moved yet and already claimed territory.”
“Mel, I’m a doctor. The quicker the flush, the healthier the nation.” She nodded sagely. “It’s a matter of public health, really.”
I rolled my eyes and capped the gloss. “If this medical thing doesn’t work out, there’s always politics.”
She winked. “Oh no, a kid party planner. First gig: one-year-old’s birthday. RSVP to: Tall, sexy, and swoony. Directions? Start on Heart Skips a Beat Lane, cruise past Stolen Glances, then take a slow left at Breath Hitching. End of the street—bam—he marries you.”
I shook my head and walked out without a word. Reasoning was pointless at this stage. Lucky for her, I didn’t lock her in my room until I got home tonight. Not that it mattered, because now I couldn’t stop picturing Sean’s house, and I had to wait until Sunday to see it for myself.
The next two days flew by faster than I expected. Between summarizing player development reports for Maria and reviewing off-ice progress plans, I barely had time to think. Which was honestly for the best. My brain had been on a runaway train; no need to add in a marching band.
We lost the game last night, and this Saturday’s game was do-or-die. I texted Sean a quick “props” after the game, and he sent back a thumbs-up emoji. That was it. Classic efficient coach guy. Still, my heart did a little flip. So, annoying, but true.
He was neck-deep in pressure, juggling a roster on his back and dodging press conference bullets with grumpy charm, while I’d lazily rolled out of bed, eaten a great lunch, and spent the afternoon folding towels and arguing with the laundry machine.
Talk about different realities. He commanded the rink in a chessboard-boss style, and I still lost battles to my wrinkled jeans.
“Hey, Mel,” Dad called, walking into the house. “I haven’t seen you since Sunday at the party.”
“Yeah, it’s been a busy week,” I said, setting the laundry basket on the floor. “How’d it go with the golf course job?”
“It’s mine, at least for now. The guy who has it is on medical leave.”
“That’s better than I’d hoped. A tiny win! We need those.”
“Agreed. A stepping stone.” He dropped onto the couch, the cushions sighing beneath him, and flipped on the TV.
Mom came in from the back door, folding her gloves with precision. I’d seen her earlier through the window, adjusting the potted plants along the fence.
I turned back to Dad. “It really is, and I like that you seem happy.”
“I am,” he said simply.
Mom stepped closer, the TV noise catching her attention. A commercial played—a pristine house, manicured lawn, a family of four unloading groceries from their luxury SUV.
“That should’ve been us years ago,” Mom said.
Dad kept his eyes locked on the screen, as if he didn’t hear it. But we both had. Her words hung in the air.
Then it was like someone handed me binoculars and pointed me at everything I’d been looking at my whole life, but never really saw.
I turned to her. “Dad’s got a job, and I found a job listing I think could fit you, too. Light driving, helping seniors get to appointments, a few hours a week. It’s a start.”
She stared at me as if I had committed freaking treason. “And you forgot we only have two cars, and Sam’s taking hers?”
I paused. “I thought of that. I’ll take the bus, and you can use mine.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Huh. Thought you’d say your older boyfriend would drive you.”
My chest squeezed, and I glanced at Dad. He looked at Mom, then back at the TV, a master at silent retreat these days. The financial mess had been a joint decision, but for some reason, he carried all the guilt.
“His name is Sean, in case you forgot,” I said.
Her mouth pulled into a line. “Shawn, Fynn, whatever.”
I inhaled slowly. “You wanted me to have someone. But you meant someone you picked—Vince, preferably. Not because he was right for me, but because he fit your version of who I should be with.”
She held her precisely folded gloves. “At least he’s safe.”
“He is safe. You’re still banking on him? What’s going on?”
She didn’t answer.
I carried the laundry to my room, set the basket down, and dropped onto the bed. Eyes closed, I massaged my temples, as if I could scrub my mom out of my life with my fingers.
This house…
My eyes popped open. The sloped ceiling I used to love, the late sun still painting gold across the carpet—it all pressed in now. Familiar but suffocating, as if the walls had memorized every version of me I’d tried to outgrow.
A cage disguised as home. And I couldn’t leave. Not yet.
At least he’s safe.
The words echoed like a verdict. Safe wasn’t comfort, it was a cage, and I didn’t want it. How is falling for someone supposed to be small, predictable, preapproved?
I reached for my phone. No texts. I hadn’t expected one, but I still wanted to squeeze something out of the silence. It wouldn’t fix anything, but maybe it could be a tiny escape hatch from the suffocating safe.
Sam had taken off earlier to run errands, groceries probably, or another Goodwill run, her pre-move-nesting ritual. She was about to start a new chapter: new city, new people. I was here, trying not to drown in financial ruin and passive-aggressive garden-glove commentary.