26. Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sarah
Instead of watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade like a normal person, I'm scooping kibble at nine-thirty on Thanksgiving morning, and my hands won't stop shaking.
Not from the morning chill — the rescue's heater is working overtime and I'm actually sweating a little.
I have a massive case of nerves that I'm not thankful about because anxiety and morning sickness absolutely do not mix.
In two and a half hours, I'm sitting down to fancy lunch with Kevin's parents. His Highland Park Dallas parents who drive some kind of extra bougie BMW.
The parents who have no idea their son is about to be a father. With a girl they've never even met.
No pressure.
Kevin's already here when I pull up. He got up early and went to the gym first — needed to burn off energy, he said when he texted. But looking at him now, three kennels deep into morning feeding with Hercules practically climbing into his food bowl, he doesn't look nervous at all.
He looks... Settled. Like he's already made peace with something. There’s no doubt that it’s something I’m still fighting.
"Morning, Beautiful." Kevin looks up. He's in shorts and a t-shirt that's still showing sweat stains and his hair is curling in about a thousand directions just above his collar. "You ready for this?"
"To feed dogs or meet your parents?"
"Both." He grins. Actually grins. Like this is going to be fun.
Wait a minute. The league needs to make him pee in a cup or something. Kevin has to be high.
I definitely am not. I’m knee deep in kibble and bowls and barking and I know that it’s pretty much only downhill from here today.
"One of those things I'm qualified for." I grab the other bag of kibble and start on the opposite row. The beagle mix in kennel six is already spinning in circles. "The other one is going to be a disaster."
"It's not going to be a disaster."
"I grew up in a six-hundred-square-foot apartment where the walls shook every time a plane took off at Bergstrom. You grew up in — what? Some mansion in Highland Park?"
"My mom grew up in Arlington."
"Literally not the same. Arlington has a Six Flags. That's practically international." I dump food into the bowl. The beagle immediately shoves her face in. "Your mom probably knows what fork to use for fish."
"There's a fork specifically for fish?"
"I don't know! That's the point!"
Kevin's laughing now. Actually laughing, and I bomb pieces of kibble at his head, one after another.
He dodges, still grinning. "Sarah. My mom's not going to care what fork you use."
"She's going to care that I'm pregnant with her grandchild and I can't even—" I stop.
Breathe. The entire space around me smells like kibble.
The concrete floor needs mopping. I can hear dogs eating and water bowls sloshing.
Everyday things. I need to focus on my normal life.
"Why can't we just wait? Tell them after Christmas when we've had a few appointments, maybe even had an ultrasound? When everything's more certain?"
Kevin stops working entirely.
Sets the food bag down.
Walks over to me with the same purposeful look he gets on the ice when I notice he's about to make a play.
Takes the bag from my hands and sets it aside, then pulls me gently away from the kennels. Sits me down in a nearby chair. Kneels in front of me so we're eye level.
His hands find mine.
"I want to tell you something," he says. "Something I don't talk about much. Something you need to understand."
The shift in his voice makes everything inside of me hit the pause button. Suddenly, I’m not worried about beagles or brunch.
I’m only focused on Kevin.
He takes a breath, then starts to speak. "Cameron."
The name lands softly between us. I feel an edge there, sacred almost.
I know Kevin had a brother who died. He's mentioned it maybe twice in eighteen months. Always in passing. Never with details. Never with this look on his face.
"I was eighteen." His voice is steady. Like he's thought about how to say this.
"Packing for college. Moving to Denver the next weekend.
My duffel bag was on my bed, half-full of Stampede gear because I'd just been drafted, but they were not calling me up yet.
Cameron was twenty-one. Three years older. "
He’s trusting me with this. His thumb traces a circle, like he’s writing the story on my palm as he tells it.
"He had his whole life planned out. His girlfriend Emma. They met in Freshman English — he made some joke about Hemingway, and she laughed so hard she snorted. That's what he told me. He loved that about her. That she snorted when she laughed."
Kevin's smile is small. In fact, I’d describe it as bittersweet.
"She was great. Always laughing at his terrible jokes.
Always pushing him to take risks. He was the planner and she was the spontaneous one.
He was looking at rings. Had this great internship lined up at an accounting firm downtown.
He'd show me updates to his five-year plan, his ten-year plan.
Where they'd live — he had his eye on this neighborhood in Aurora with good schools.
How many kids they'd have — three, maybe four.
What kind of dog they'd get first — a golden retriever named Pancake because Emma wanted to name everything after breakfast foods. "
I can see it. Can picture Cameron so clearly through Kevin's words. The responsible older brother with his spreadsheets and his plans and his girlfriend who made him laugh.
"He had it all figured out. Every detail. Every step." Kevin's voice drops. "And then some truck driver fell asleep at the wheel on I-25. Random Tuesday night in July. That's it. That's all it took. Cameron's whole perfect life, all his plans — just gone."
My throat closes up.
"Emma called me screaming. I couldn't understand her at first. Couldn't understand what she was saying because the words didn't make sense.
Cameron's dead. Car accident. He's gone.
" Kevin's eyes stay on mine. Clear. Honest. "He died instantly.
Twenty-one years old. Three weeks before his senior year was supposed to start. "
I squeeze his hands. It's all I can do.
"Emma was supposed to be my parents' daughter-in-law. They were supposed to have grandkids by now. Kids named after breakfast foods running around some house in Aurora. I should have been Uncle Kevin years ago. Should've been teaching them to skate. Spoiling them at Christmas."
Kevin takes a breath.
"You know what I learned? Plans don't mean shit. Cameron did everything right. Perfect grades, perfect internship, perfect girlfriend. He had a ten-year plan in an Excel spreadsheet. And none of it mattered."
I feel the weight of the circles he traced around my hand, the weight of the words bringing back to life the memory of something gone too soon.
"My parents lost their oldest son. The one who was supposed to give them everything first — wedding, grandkids, family dinners, all of it. Emma lost the love of her life. And I lost my brother. My best friend."
Kevin's jaw tightens. Then releases.
My eyes dart to the tattoo on his forearm. I've seen it a hundred times — at Wing Wednesday when he rolls up his sleeves, at the pool.
Semper Protegam. I’ve always called it his Harry Potter spell.
"Always protect," Kevin says, following my gaze.
"Got it after Cameron. I play defense — my job is literally to protect the net, the team, my guys.
But when he died, the promise became bigger than hockey.
He had all these plans and never got to live them.
So, I made myself a promise. Live with intention.
Protect the people who matter. Step up when it counts.
Don't waste the time he didn't get. But Sarah… This baby — our baby — this my parents’ second chance at those firsts they should have gotten to experience years ago. "
The echo of my own words hits me. Meant for me, I’d said. Maybe it wasn't just meant only for me.
I thought this was about my chance to break the cycle. To be more.
But Kevin's sitting here telling me this baby was meant for him too. Meant for his family. Meant to redeem chances that were lost.
Semper Protegam.
What if I have something to protect too? Something that matters more than I ever realized. I lean in.
"Sarah, this is me getting to give them something Cameron never got to.
And I want them to know. Today. On Thanksgiving.
Because that's what this is. Not some shameful secret we're hiding until the timing's better.
Not something we need to apologize for or explain away.
This is a gift. It's a gift for you and me.
This is something to be thankful for. This is the gift I — we — get to give them. "
Oh. There it is.
Kevin St. Clair is genuinely excited to tell his parents they're going to be grandparents.
Not nervous. Not dreading it. Actually looking forward to it like it's Christmas morning and he gets to hand them the best present ever.
Meanwhile, I'm over here trying not to throw up in some dirty kennel chair.
Glad one of us has their shit together.
"You're not nervous at all, are you?"
"About telling my parents?" He shakes his head. "No. They're going to be thrilled. I can't wait to see my mom cry. My dad's going to try to keep it together and fail completely. It's going to be perfect."
The certainty in his voice almost makes me believe.
And then…nope.
Back to overthinking and questioning everything.
"What about everything else? The baby? Being a dad?"
"I'll figure it out." He says it so simply. "Same way I figured out how to play defense and made it to the league. Game plan, execution, adjust as needed." His smile is soft. Real. "And I'm doing it with you. That makes everything easier."
Easier? I forgot to take my pill when I was sick. I jumped him when he came home from Vancouver. How is doing this with me making anything easier?
For the first time in my life, I find a filter and keep the thought inside.
"I don't know how to do this."