Chapter 24
The Distance Between Us
Andrew
I sit at the front desk of the West Hollywood yoga studio, the hour stretching later than usual, mismatched files scattered before me as the faint scent of lavender incense clings to the air.
Our receptionist has called out sick, leaving the shift unattended, so I've offered to stay after my class. The studio owner practically shoves me into the receptionist chair with a beaming smile, saying I've saved her from a marathon day of juggling the front desk and teaching.
She says she owes me one, but honestly? The extra hours and a simple thank you are plenty.
I'm organizing registration forms when the woman standing in front of the desk catches my eye. She isn't a regular, not someone I recognize from my classes, but she somehow knows my name.
She's tall—towering, really—and her boots add even more height, the heels sharp enough to stab a man's ego.
Her shorts and oversized shirt give her a carefree look, but the red lipstick and perfectly styled hair say she isn't here to lounge.
Add in the jangling decorations on her messenger bag, and it's like she's stepped straight out of an urban fashion magazine.
"Andy?" she asks.
I wince at the nickname, and she laughs softly.
"Uh, Andrew," I correct. "But yeah. How can I help you?"
"I'm Malia," she says simply. "Vince's oldest daughter."
Of course. I see it now in the shape of her eyes, in the curve of her smile—an echo of Vince, unmistakable.
"Oh!" I blurt, practically jumping to my feet. "Hi!"
Before I can second-guess myself, I rush around the counter and pull her into a hug. She lets out an amused laugh, covering her mouth with one hand.
"Sorry," I mutter, suddenly realizing how forward that is. "Is this weird? Should I not hug you?"
Great first impression, Andrew. Hi, I'm the guy who ruined your dad's last relationship. Nice to meet you.
The thought ricochets through my mind, sharp and unforgiving.
I pull back from the hug, my hands hovering awkwardly between us, suddenly unsure where to put them.
Malia's smile doesn't waver, but something in her eyes shifts—a flicker of recognition, maybe, or curiosity that feels too knowing for comfort.
"No, no, it's not weird," she says, her voice warm, but I can't help wondering if she's just being polite. "Vince talks about you all the time."
All the time. The words land like stones in my stomach.
I rack my brain, trying to remember if Vince ever mentioned having kids.
He talks about his daughters, sure, but always in this abstract way, like they're characters in a story he's telling, not real people who might show up at my yoga studio unannounced.
Real people who might hate me for what happened with Sam.
"Does he now?" I manage, my voice coming out tighter than I intended. I clear my throat, trying to recover. "I mean, that's nice. I hope he says good things."
Malia laughs, a sound that's so much like Vince's it makes my chest ache. "Mostly about how you're stubborn and terrible at taking compliments," she says, nudging me playfully with her elbow. "And how you make him get up at the ass-crack of dawn to run, even when he's hungover."
I can't help but smile at that, the tension in my shoulders easing just a little. "Well, someone has to keep him in line."
Her expression softens then, her gaze turning serious. "Look, I know about what happened with Sam," she says, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "And I know my dad can be... well, my dad. But he's been happier since he met you, Andrew. Happier than I've seen him in years."
The sincerity in her voice catches me off guard, and I have to look away, focusing on a stack of registration forms on the counter. "I'm glad to hear that," I say, the words feeling inadequate. "But I think I might have made things worse."
Malia reaches out, her fingers closing around my wrist. Her touch is gentle, but firm, like Vince's when he's trying to make a point. "Hey," she says, waiting until I meet her eyes again. "Sam wasn't right for him. Anyone could see that. You just helped him see it faster."
I want to believe her, I do, but the weight of guilt still sits heavy in my chest. "I didn't mean to—"
"I know," she interrupts, her thumb stroking the back of my hand in a gesture that's so much like Vince's it makes my breath catch. "But sometimes the things we don't mean to do are the things that need to happen most."
The bell above the studio door chimes, pulling us both back to the present. A group of chattering women files in, their yoga mats tucked under their arms, their laughter echoing in the small space. Malia drops my hand, stepping back as if suddenly aware of how intimate the moment had become.
"He used to be my best friend," she says, her fingers twisting the strap of her bag, the worn leather absorbing her agitation.
"But after the split with my mom, he just started working all the time.
He still treats me like I'm a kid." A heavy sigh escapes her lips, and she brushes her hair behind her ear with a flick of her wrist. "I'm almost eighteen, and he treats me like I'm Tina's age.
I'm not his buddy anymore, not his partner in crime, not his equal. Just a kid. I hate it."
Her words land like stones in my stomach. "I'm here for you, anytime," I offer, my voice soft, barely rising above the studio's ambient hum. "But why did you want to talk to me so badly?"
She winds a strand of her hair around her finger, her gaze dropping to the floor, avoiding mine.
"You're, like... obviously his new best friend now.
But I'd never even met you before today.
I mean, I never met my dad's best friend.
That's not fair. We used to be so close.
And Andy? You have a boyfriend, right? My dad told me you did.
That's why you couldn't come with us to the museum that one time.
You were having dinner with your boyfriend. "
I lean back on my hands, crossing my legs, the movement feeling slow. "I did. But not anymore. I don't have a boyfriend."
She blinks, surprise flickering across her features. "But you date men."
"Yeah," I say, giving her a curious look.
She hesitates, then blurts it out quietly, almost like she's afraid of my answer. "Andy, be honest... are you secretly dating my dad?"
I laugh so hard she turns red. I try to stop, but I can't.
"No, no. I'm not."
"Well... I just thought maybe." She groans, burying her face in her hands. "He's been acting weird, you know? And you guys spend a lot of time together. Then he told me Sam broke up with him, so I thought maybe you guys were, like..."
"Malia," I interrupt gently, choosing my words with care. "I think your dad's a little out of my league. Don't you think?"
She laughs, loud and genuine. "No way. If anything, you're out of his league. He's way lamer than you, man. You seem alright."
I smile at her honesty. "I meant more like..." I gesture toward the parking lot. "That's my car." I point to the rusty old Range Rover. Then I motion to the studio behind us. "And I work here."
"So what, dude?"
I stare at her, trying to figure out why no one ever understands this.
"Is that why you came here? Because you thought I was dating your dad?"
She laughs again, shaking her head. "No.
Well... kind of. I just wanted to clear the air, you know?
I had my suspicions." She bites her lip and gives me a sidelong look that's so much like Vince it makes my stomach flip.
"You sure, though? You're not just lying to cover it up, right?
You're really not together with my dad?"
I nudge her playfully. "No. I mean, we run together on weekdays, and sometimes we grab lunch or coffee in the afternoon. We text, we call. That's it. We're not dating."
She raises an eyebrow, but I laugh it off.
"Okay," she says finally, nudging me. "But I don't know if I believe you."
We sit there a moment longer, then her expression shifts. She rakes her fingers through her hair, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "There was actually something else I wanted to talk about... Another reason I came here."
I sit up straighter, catching the seriousness that suddenly weights her tone.
"I don't think my parents would understand," she admits, the words spilling out in a rush. "I really need advice, and... I don't know who else to talk to about this who would understand."
I nod, keeping my voice calm and steady. "Okay."
That's when she tells me something she makes me swear to keep secret. Something Vince can't know. The promise feels strange—wrong, even—on my tongue, but I can see how much she needs someone in her corner, someone who won't judge.
So I wrap my pinky around hers and swear to keep her secret, even as uncertainty coils in my stomach.
"I should probably let you get back to work," she says, grabbing her messenger bag from the floor. "But hey, you should come by for dinner sometime. My sister would love to meet you too."
The offer hangs in the air between us, a fragile olive branch I'm not sure I'm ready to accept. "I'd like that," I say, the words surprising both of us. "Yeah. I'd really like that. But... Maybe I'll come up with something fun for us to do, instead of a dinner. Is that okay?"
Malia grins, and for the first time, I see it—the way her eyes light up just like Vince's when he's genuinely happy. "Yeah that's cool," she says, already backing toward the door.
We exchange phone numbers before Malia leaves, her condition clear: I'm not supposed to tell Vince about our little friendship, or the secret she's just shared.
"Hey, you're not supposed to park there, you know," I say, smirking as we go our separate ways.
She shrugs like it doesn't matter. "I get a ticket, I pay the ticket. Whatever. I park where I want. Tickets are a price I gladly pay."
I have a sneaking suspicion Vince is the one paying for those tickets.
She walks to the black Porsche, still ranting about how ridiculous it is to have a red zone in front of the studio. She's genuinely indignant about a standard rule that exists literally everywhere. Watching her climb into Vince's illegally parked car, still mid-rant, I can't help but smile.
She's endless entertainment... to me, at least.
I can see why she stresses Vince out so much.
Later that night, my phone buzzes with a stream of thank-yous, memes, and a GIF of a dog wearing sunglasses that makes me laugh out loud. I don't expect to become friends with Malia, but that's exactly what's happening. And honestly? I like her.
She's sharp and funny, with a good head on her shoulders. Vince has every reason to be proud of her.
Inspired by her rant about feeling distant from him, I type back an idea.
"What do you think about ice skating next weekend? Maybe some hockey? Your dad used to love it as a kid."
Her response comes back almost instantly, a barrage of exclamation points and an enthusiastic, "Yes!"
Vince already has plans with her and Tina this weekend, but she says the next one is free. She even drops a pin to their house, so I'll know where to pick them up.
That's when I see it: Mulholland Drive. Of course. Where else would Vince live but tucked away in the hills, in one of those sprawling homes that look down on the city like royalty? My thumb finds the blue dot on my phone's map, tracing the winding road that snakes up the hillside.
I tap the screen, letting Google calculate the distance. Thirty minutes. Each way. Sixty minutes of driving just to spend an hour with me in the pre-dawn darkness, our breath pluming in the cold air as our feet pound against the pavement.
The phone slips from my grasp, clattering onto the passenger seat. My stomach twists, a slow, painful knot of realization tightening with each passing second. Every morning. The thought of him navigating those treacherous, winding roads in the dark, alone, just to meet me—
The olive green walls from yesterday flash in my mind. His confession about gambling, the weight of secrets we'd shared. His hand brushing against mine, the electricity that had sparked between us. And now this. This sacrifice of his time that I never knew he was making.
My fingers tremble as I pick up the phone again, staring at the blue line connecting our two worlds. One in the hills, one in the valley below. The distance between us suddenly feels vast and insurmountable.