Chapter 27
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
PATRICK
“That’s a foul! He tackled me!”
“I didn’t tackle you! I blocked you! It’s called defense!”
I stood on the edge of the patio, a cup of tea in hand, watching what could only be described as an international incident unfolding on the sprawling lawn of Theresa’s house. The inaugural McCrae-Carideo Cup was underway, and the rulebook had apparently been tossed into the neighbor’s yard.
On the far side of the grass, my twins, Carson and Cory, moved like a two-headed hydra, weaving the football between them with that eerie telepathy they shared.
They were closing in on the goal—marked by two plastic lawn chairs—when Rome, Theresa’s seven-year-old hurricane, introduced a new element to the game.
Instead of using his feet, Rome dropped his shoulder, lowered his center of gravity, and plowed into Carson with the enthusiasm of a linebacker making a Super Bowl sack. Carson went down in a heap of limbs and giggles. Rome scooped up the football in his hands and sprinted for the lawn chairs.
“Touchdown!” Rome screamed, spiking the black-and-white ball into the grass and doing a victory dance that involved a lot of hip wiggling.
The game ground to a halt. My boys stopped and stared.
“You can’t pick up the ball, you numpty!” Carson yelled from the ground, though he was grinning. “It’s football! Not... whatever that was!”
“It’s American football!” Rome argued, breathless and triumphant. “I scored six points!”
“Zero points!” Cory corrected. “And that’s a red card for... being mad.”
From the makeshift goalposts, Alec leaned against the back of a lawn chair. A few months ago, my eldest would have stormed off, furious that the rules weren’t being followed, or he would have stood on the sidelines with a scowl dark enough to blot out the California sun.
Today, he just laughed.
“Let him have it, Carson,” Alec called out, his voice light. “If he wants to play rugby, we’ll play rugby. Next time he runs, just tackle him back.”
“Really?” Rome’s eyes went wide, delighted by the prospect of sanctioned violence.
“Aye, really,” Alec said, jogging out from the goal. He ruffled Rome’s hair. “But you have to run faster than that, wee man. My brothers are quick.”
Beside me on the patio, Theresa leaned against the railing, wrapped in one of my oversized cardigans. She looked tired but content, her eyes following the disorganized tangle of kids.
“I have no idea who is winning,” she admitted, blowing steam from her tea.
“I believe the current score is three to... something else entirely,” I said. “Though Rome seems to be inventing new strategies as he goes. Did you see him try to body-check Brody earlier?”
“I tried to look away,” she laughed. “He’s been watching too many 49ers games with Michael.”
Out on the grass, the game resumed, though it had morphed into a hybrid sport that involved kicking, throwing, and a lot of falling down.
Eoin, my four-year-old, had abandoned the match entirely and was currently belly-down in the grass, inspecting a beetle, while Paris stood near the sidelines acting as a self-appointed referee, blowing an imaginary whistle every time someone’s shirt got untucked.
“Tweet! Penalty!” Paris shouted, pointing a finger at Blaze. “Your shoelace is untied! Five minutes in the dungeon!”
“There’s no dungeon in soccer!” Blaze protested.
“There is now!”
I watched Alec jog alongside Austin. They were talking, not playing. Austin gestured to the sky, probably explaining some cloud formation or aerodynamic principle, and Alec nodded, listening intently. The rigid tension in his shoulders was gone. He looked like a boy again.
“Look at them,” I murmured to Theresa.
“Who?”
“Alec and Austin. And the rest of them.” I gestured with my mug. “Not long ago, my lot marched around like little soldiers afraid to step out of line.”
“They look like a mess,” Theresa noted with a smile.
“Exactly. A beautiful, loud, unstructured mess.” I took a sip of tea. “Mrs. Kowalski is going to have an aneurysm when she sees the grass stains on those trousers.”
“Let her,” Theresa said, leaning her head on my shoulder. “Grass stains wash out. Memories stay.”
The game ended not with a final whistle, but with a collective collapse. The boys, exhausted and sweaty, flopped onto the lawn in a heap. Paris declared herself the winner for reasons no one understood, and everyone seemed fine with it.
“Snacks!” I called out. “Kitchen! Now!”
The resulting stampede nearly took the patio doors off their hinges.
I found Austin in Marco’s study later that afternoon. The boy sat in his father’s oversized desk chair, a photo frame in his small hands. I recognized it from my previous visits—Marco and Theresa on their wedding day, looking impossibly young and happy.
I knocked softly on the open door. “Mind if I join you?”
Austin looked up, quickly setting the photo down face-up on the blotter. “It’s okay. Mom says I can come in here whenever I want. It helps me think.”
“I know. It’s a good room for thinking.” I entered slowly, respecting the space that still held so much of Marco Carideo. Books lined the shelves—medical texts, engineering manuals, science fiction novels. A half-finished model airplane sat on a side table, frozen in mid-assembly.
I pulled up a visitor's chair across from Austin, giving him the power position behind the desk. He watched me warily, those brown eyes missing nothing. He didn't fidget like a typical eight-year-old; he waited.
“I wanted to talk to you about something important,” I began, my heart hammering unexpectedly. I’d negotiated multi-million-dollar contracts with less anxiety.
“Is it about you and Mom?” Austin asked, cutting straight to the chase.
I blinked, momentarily thrown by his directness. “Yes, actually. How did you know?”
He shrugged one small shoulder, though his gaze remained steady. “You look at her the way Dad used to. Like she’s the only person in the room. And she laughs real laughs when you’re around, not the fake ones she does for company.”
The observation, so astute and heartbreakingly protective, stole my breath. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees to bring myself closer to his eye level.
“You’re right,” I said. “It is about your mom and me. The truth is, Austin, I care about your mom very much. And I care about you, and Rome, and Paris, and Aspen too.”
Austin nodded once, sharp and businesslike. “I know. You brought Rome the otter. And you let Paris win the arguments about the rules.”
I suppressed a smile. “She makes very compelling arguments. But I’m here because... because I want to ask your permission for something. Man to man.”
That got his attention. He sat up straighter, his hands folding on the desk in an eerie echo of a CEO taking a meeting.
“I want to ask your mother to marry me,” I said simply. “To become a family—all of us united. But before I do that, I wanted to talk to you about it. Because you’re the man of the house right now, and your opinion matters very much to me.”
Austin was silent for a long moment, his eyes dropping to the photo of his parents before returning to mine. When he looked back up, the vulnerability was stark.
“If you marry her,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, “does that mean we forget Dad?”
“Never.” I leaned closer, making sure he saw the absolute truth in my eyes. “Austin, listen to me closely. I am not trying to replace your father. Marco was a great man, and he will always be your dad. Always. Nothing—and no one—can change that. Not ever.”
Austin swallowed hard, his small hands tightening on the edge of the desk. “Good. Because I won’t let anyone replace him.”
“I wouldn’t want to,” I promised. “Think of me as... reinforcements. An extra person in your corner. Someone to help your mom carry the load so you don’t have to worry so much.”
Hope flashed across Austin’s face, warring with his self-imposed duty. “I have to worry. Mom forgets things when she’s sad. Like toast.”
“I know. And that’s exactly why I want to be here. To help with the toast. And the homework. And to make sure Rome doesn’t launch himself into orbit.”
A small, reluctant smile touched his lips. “He almost did with the catapult.”
“Exactly. That’s a two-man job to supervise.” I paused, letting the moment settle. “So, what do you think? Would it be okay if I joined the team?”
Austin stared at me for a long moment, and I could almost see the calculations running behind those intelligent eyes—assessing me, weighing the risks, measuring my sincerity against his protective instincts.
“Okay,” he said finally. “You can marry Mom.”
The air rushed out of my lungs in a relief so profound it made me dizzy. “Thank you, Austin. That means a lot to me.”
He nodded, his expression serious again. “But there are conditions.”
I tried not to smile. Of course there were. “Name them.”
“One: You must promise not to make her cry. She cried a lot after Dad died, and I don’t want her to be sad anymore.”
“I promise to do everything in my power to make her smile,” I vowed solemnly.
“Two,” he continued, holding up a second finger. “You have to help me finish Dad’s rocket. The instructions are complicated, and Mom doesn’t understand aerodynamics.”
I glanced at the model on the side table. “Deal. I’m quite good with aerodynamics.”
“And three...” His voice dropped, becoming hesitant for the first time. “Do I... do I have to call you Dad?”
The question hung in the air, heavy with loyalty and fear.
“Only if you want to,” I said immediately. “And only when—or if—you’re ever ready. You can call me Patrick. Or 'Hey You'. Or 'The Scottish Guy'. Whatever feels right. There is absolutely no rush.”
He nodded again, visibly relieved. “Okay. Patrick is good.”
“Patrick is perfect.”
He let out a breath, and suddenly he looked just like a little boy again, the weight of the world lifting slightly from his shoulders. He reached into the desk drawer and pulled out the partially completed model rocket.