13. Vivian #3
I shrug, one shoulder lifting as I stare at my cone. “The closer we got to the wedding, the more he realized he didn’t actually want to get married.”
Ty’s jaw tightens just slightly. “He told you that?”
“Eventually,” I say. “Not all at once. It was more like a gradual pulling back. Hesitation. Little things that didn’t line up anymore.”
I glance out toward the street, watching people pass.
“And then one day it just became clear.”
There’s no bitterness in it. Not really. How can it be when it’s simply facts?
“I’m just grateful we stopped before we sent out invitations,” I add. “Because that would’ve been a nightmare to undo.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That would’ve been a lot to handle on top of everything else.”
I slip into self-deprecation mode. “See? You can find miracles if you look.”
“He didn’t deserve that ring,” Ty says. It’s immediate and his words are certain. “That’s not even me being dramatic,” he adds.
I let a tiny snort escape. “You don’t even know him.”
“I don’t need to,” he says. “He had someone who designed her own ring. That’s—” He gestures toward me. “That’s not something you mess up.”
Something in my chest shifts at that. I look down at my ice cream, which is now absolutely melting past the point of structural integrity.
“Careful,” he says, nodding at it. “Your rocky road is living up to its name.”
I laugh, catching the drip before it falls. “Feels on theme.”
“Yeah,” he says, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “But you rebuilt.”
I glance at him.
He shrugs, like it’s obvious. “You’re still here. Still designing. Still doing your thing.”
I take another bite, smaller now, more thoughtful.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I guess I am.”
There’s a quiet beat. He nods once, like that should be the end of it. But then his thumb drags along the edge of his cone, catching a drip that’s already started to fall.
“That kind of stuff,” he adds, not quite looking at me, “sticks with me.”
I tilt my head. “What kind of stuff?”
He hesitates. It’s small. Most people wouldn’t notice it, but I do. I’m noticing more and more about Ty McCade every time I’m around him now.
“People getting all the way to the edge of something big,” he says finally. “And then realizing it’s not right.”
His gaze drifts out toward the street, following nothing in particular.
“My parents did that,” he adds, quieter. “Except they didn’t stop.”
Something in my chest tightens.
“They went through with it,” he continues. “Even when it wasn’t working. And then…” He shakes his head a little. “It didn’t just end. It blew everything up with it.”
He glances down at his hands, like he’s checking where he is again.
“Family, house, all of it,” he says. “One decision…ripped straight through everything else.”
The words sit there between us. Weighted and full, and I can see it’s a part of him he doesn’t let out for others to see easily. I stay quiet, wanting him to keep going when he’s ready. He finally looks at me, one shoulder lifting in that familiar, easy shrug—but it doesn’t quite land the same now.
“So yeah,” he says. “I think stopping before it gets to that point? That’s a good call.”
I study him for a second, seeing him a little differently than I did five minutes ago.
“Yeah,” I say. “Guess it is.”
We sit in silence for a moment, our gazes locked—held just a second too long—before he nudges my arm with his elbow, his attention dropping to my cone.
“You’re losing your ice cream.”
I let out a small laugh, catching another drip. “It’s a high-risk ice cream.”
“Clearly.” He points to a drip. “There…get it.”
“Wait—” I say, trying to tilt the cone just enough to save it, which somehow makes it worse.
A slow, inevitable drip slides over the edge. “Okay, that one’s gone—”
“Hold on,” Ty says.
Before I can protest, his hand closes gently around my wrist, steadying it. Not tight. Definitely not urgent. But it’s his warmth and the electricity of his very touch that sends something tingling through me, hitting me in my toes.
“Angle it,” he says, focused now. “Like this—”
He adjusts my hand slightly, his fingers brushing mine, guiding the cone upright before the rest of it can collapse, the heat of his breath on my cheek.
We both go still. It’s subtle but it’s there.
Enough that I notice it. The warmth of his hand is one thing, but the way he’s now closer than he was a second ago is a whole other.
The faint smell of mint from his ice cream, the feel of his breath on my cheek.
The way the sun hits his face just enough that I can see the concentration there soften into something else when he looks up at me.
Our eyes meet. And hold.
There aren’t any fireworks. It’s not sweeping music and wind and anything you’d expect.
It’s quieter than that. But to me, this hits harder, because suddenly I’m very aware of him.
Of the fact that I kissed him a couple of weeks ago, and at the time it felt like a moment.
A blip. Something I could tuck away and not think too hard about.
And now—now he’s here. And he’s this close. Holding my wrist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And I don’t feel like brushing it off.
My brain, however, is doing a great job of trying. This is just a moment. This is nothing.
This is ice cream and a sunny day and—
His thumb caresses my skin, sending a cascade of flurries through my system.
Oh.
That does not help.
At all.
I swallow, my gaze flicking down to his mouth for half a second before snapping back up.
Dangerous. Those lips of his are dangerous. And we are getting close to something I’m not sure I’m ready to name.
Or handle.
Or—
“Hey. Sorry. But, excuse me, aren’t you Ty McCade?”
The moment breaks. It’s sharper than I’d like it to be, but hey, it’s a clean break at that. I whip my hand back as Ty straightens, turning toward the voice.
A guy, mid-twenties, maybe, stands a few feet away, already pulling his phone out.
“From the Dominion?” he adds, like he just needs the confirmation.
Ty exhales, something shifting back into place as he gives a quick nod. “Yeah. That’s me.”
“I thought so! That’s awesome,” the guy says, grinning. “You’re my favorite player. Can I grab a photo?”
“Sure,” Ty says easily.
I take a small step away from the pair, giving them space, my fingers curling slightly like they’re remembering something they shouldn’t.
The guy moves in beside him, lifting his phone. Ty leans in just enough, relaxed, practiced.
Click.
“Thanks, man. Good luck next season.”
“Appreciate it.”
The guy walks off, still looking at his phone unaware of the moment he’d interrupted or the fact that he’s left two people alone who have more to talk about than either is willing to admit to at the moment.
Ty glances over at me, one brow lifting slightly. “You good?”
“Oh, yeah,” I nod, maybe a fraction too quickly. “So good. Fine.” I lift my cone like proof. “Still intact.”
He looks at it, then at me, a hint of a smile pulling at his mouth.
“Structurally sound,” he says.
“Barely,” I whisper, but let’s be honest. I’m kind of talking about myself now.
His eyes meet mine, and while he holds the gaze, I swear I can see them glimmer like he’s also holding a secret he wants to tell me. “Counts.”
I nod, turning back toward the street as we start walking again. Like nothing happened. Except—something did.
And I have a feeling pretending it didn’t is only going to work for so long.