Chapter 48
MAISIE
I think today might be one of those pieces of himself that Wilder’s trusting me with.
Not with words. But by allowing me to be here with him.
He didn’t want to face it alone.
Because he’s afraid, even if he’ll never say it out loud.
After what he told me that night at the diner… I think I’m beginning to string all of the fragments together to paint a picture that, even though I can’t fully understand yet, I know is painful for him.
Yet he’s here, doing something incredibly selfless, and I wish he could see that.
As we walk across toward the entrance of the building, I reach for his hand and slide my fingers between his, squeezing tightly. Mostly because I can feel his unease weighing heavily in the pit of my own stomach.
And… because I’m a little worried that he might run.
I’m pretty sure he’s thought the same thing a hundred times since he pulled into the parking lot. His knuckles were blanched white from how tightly he was gripping the wheel, his eyes fixed on the two-story house in front of us with a look that said he was considering fleeing.
“Wilder… you don’t have to do this,” I say softly, a quiet whisper that can barely be heard over the sound of children playing somewhere in the distance. “We can leave.”
He comes to a stop in front of the fence and squeezes his eyes shut, his throat working as he swallows hard.
But he shakes his head. “No.”
When he opens his eyes and they land on me, my heart squeezes so tightly that an ache begins to form beneath its cage. He looks… haunted. And it’s heartbreaking.
“I said I was going to do it, and I am. It’s just a house,” he finally says as he rolls his shoulders. “Just a fucking house,” he grits out, like he’s trying to convince himself.
It is just a house, but to him, it represents something more. Something that is beyond four walls and a roof… and that’s filled with obvious pain.
I turn to him, and even though it’s reckless—we’re in broad daylight in a place where anyone could see us—right now, I know that he needs this, even if he doesn’t know how to ask for it.
I drop his hand, rising on the tips of my toes to frame his sharp jaw with my hands, holding him so he can’t see anything but me.
“It is a house, Wilder. It has a roof, walls, doors. Everything that makes it a physical place. But it still holds a story, and sometimes stories carry pain the same way that scars do. You don’t have to pretend with me. Okay?”
His eyes burn into mine, intense emotion that he clearly doesn’t know how to handle rolling off of him in visceral waves, his chest rising and falling rapidly like he’s tiptoeing a line only he can see.
But then, after a brief moment, he nods and sucks in a deep, uneven breath.
I give him a soft smile as I sweep my thumb along the edge of his jaw. “You can do this, Coach.”
The nickname that he once tried to act as if he hated is what has the corner of his lips curving into a ghost of a smile, some of the unease bleeding out of him, loosening him just enough that he nods again and turns back toward the house, then slowly walks up the sidewalk to the front door.
Each step is measured, hesitant even, but a step nonetheless.
The pale, robin-egg-blue door is cracked and peeling, and the brass doorknocker rattles loosely when I reach up and rap it. The house itself has seen better days, but it still stands tall.
I can hear the steady breaths that Wilder drags in while we wait, and I wish that I could reach for him, hold his hand, touch him to reassure him, but I can’t.
The reminder of our reality hits me directly in the chest so hard that I almost stumble backward a step.
It’s easy to forget that we exist in secret and not out loud when it’s just the two of us, wrapped in each other, when no one else but us matters.
It’s moments like this when it feels impossible not to love Wilder out loud the way that my heart aches to.
The front door swings open to an older woman with gray hair tied at her nape, her features sharp, even with softening skin framed with wrinkles, her lips tight and narrow as she peers back at us.
“Wilder,” she says, her voice softer than she appears. As severe as she looks, her pale green eyes seem warm, kind even. “My God. I can’t believe you’re… grown.”
Wilder’s stiff beside me, his muscles coiled tight. I turn to glance up at him, and I see his jaw tense and set, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows roughly. “Mrs. Aucoin.” The words are hoarse and heavy, laced with a rawness I’ve never heard from him. “It’s been… a long time.”
The woman nods, offering a small smile. “That it has. Thank you for coming today. It is going to mean so much to the children. I hope you know how much I appreciate it.”
He nods. Then, he looks down at me. “This is Maisie Delacroix.”
“Hi. It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Aucoin. I’m the student liaison for OU’s children’s literacy program.” I stick my hand out for her to shake, and she does, giving me a more reserved smile than she did Wilder.
Behind us, thunder rolls somewhere in the distance, followed by a flash of lightning that has my hair standing on end.
I hadn’t realized how dark the sky had gotten until now.
“Oh goodness,” Mrs. Aucoin murmurs as she stares out into the distance behind us. “I need to make sure everyone is inside before this rain hits. Please, come in.”
Wilder glances down at me, like he needs reassurance that I’m still here, and swallows hard before stepping across the threshold. I have to physically stop myself from reaching for his hand again as I follow closely behind him.
Mrs. Aucoin quickly excuses herself to check on the children, leaving us alone in the foyer.
The inside of the house is much like the outside. Older, worn by time, desperate for an update.
But it’s tidy and doesn’t feel as… cold as I expected it would. For some reason, I had pictured this place differently. More barren and impersonal… Now I see that’s not the case.
It doesn’t lack warmth or comfort, but it does feel like it lacks something more important.
Love.
My gaze shifts to Wilder, to where he’s standing with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his pants, looking around the room like he’s reliving the memories stitched into the walls.
I take a step toward him, and his attention darts to me, his dark brown eyes bleary.
“Looks the same as it did… Back then.” His throat bobs, and he drags his eyes over the bannister along the staircase that leads to the second floor.
“Almost broke my arm falling down those when I was seven. Feels like I’m stepping back in fucking time. ”
“I broke my arm when I was ten, falling down the stairs,” I tell him, turning my wrist over to show him the scar that runs in a faint line up my wrist. “My only broken bone and surgery.”
I’m trying to distract him the only way that I can think of, and it works.
He reaches for me, circling my wrist with his fingers, gently sweeping his thumb along the faint white scar.
It’s a quiet gesture, but it feels perfect to connect us when it feels like we’re miles apart, despite standing right beside each other.
A throat clearing has Wilder dropping my hand and me nearly jumping out of my skin, both of us taking a step away.
Mrs. Aucoin smiles as her gaze bounces between the two of us. “Sorry about that. I wanted to get the kids situated before the storm hit. They’re unable to sit still with excited energy today, so we wanted them to exercise it all out.”
“It’s an exciting day for them,” I say with a nod, forcing my gaze not to flit to Wilder. “The kids at our program are the same way. They love when the guys read to them. They always have a ton of questions after. It’s always a lot of fun.”
“Well,” she says, gesturing down the hallway, “let’s get started, then, shall we? I’m sure you’ve got a busy schedule. Both of you.”
Through all of the conversation, Wilder hasn’t spoken. He follows her down the hallway wordlessly to a large room at the back of the house that appears to be the playroom.
There are small tables and chairs and a large, worn couch pushed against the wall to the side. Bookshelves line the walls, stuffed full of books, and it makes my heart sing. I’m so glad that these precious kids have the chance to get lost in stories.
I stand next to Wilder, leaning slightly into him as Mrs. Aucoin opens the door and kids begin to pile into the room, all various ages from young, maybe two or three, who are being carried in by a staff member, all the way to teenagers, who look like they’d rather be anywhere but here.
Except for a few of the older boys, who are trying to appear cool, but I can see they are excited to meet Wilder by how their eyes widen, and they’re shifting from foot to foot excitedly.
Sometimes I forget that he’s had a long, successful professional hockey career before coaching at OU.
He’s a statue, steely gaze moving over the kids, who are starting to sit on the large, plush, colorful rug in the center of the room. I’m not even sure he’s breathing right now.
I brush the tip of my pinky against his as the only reassurance I can offer when so many eyes are on us. He slowly tips his chin, looking down at me.
“Okay, okay, everyone, settle down, settle down,” Mrs. Aucoin says from the other side of Wilder, and immediately, the kids quiet, their conversations turning into a whisper, their attention glued to us.
I have no idea what Wilder’s going to say. I’m not sure he’s even thought about that part of this yet, not with his feelings on returning here in the first place.
When he doesn’t move, just continues to stand there, I start to get worried, but thankfully, Mrs. Aucoin takes over and begins introducing him and talking about the things he’s accomplished in his career.
When she mentions that he’s got three Stanley Cups, the boys in the back of the room look at each other with wide eyes and mouths agape, and I have to bite the corner of my lip to stop from smiling.
I just… wish that Wilder could be as proud as I am. But when I look back at him, he’s still frozen in place. It takes everything inside of me not to reach out and comfort him.
Everything.
I know how hard this is for him, and I just feel helpless right now. All I can do is stand here and watch, like he isn’t struggling.
“Now that we’ve gotten introductions out of the way,” Mrs. Aucoin says, turning to look at Wilder, “the special part of why Mr. Hawthorne is here today is not only because he’s from New Orleans, but because when he was a lot of your age, he too lived here at the Crescent House.”
A series of shocked reactions erupts around the room, whispers and gasps, and Mrs. Aucoin nods, smiling softly at the children.
I can feel the air shift between us. Feel the moment where the storm brewing in Wilder takes over in a funnel of emotion. A tangible feeling that has my heart plummeting.
His breathing has gone ragged, and his chest rapidly rises and falls, like he can’t take a full breath. The muscle in his jaw flexes as his frantic gaze darts around the room.
I watch as it lands on the exit, and then he’s moving, nearly running toward the door, wrenching it open.
But the sound of it slamming behind him is drowned out by a loud clap of thunder that rattles the walls.
And Wilder’s gone.