Chapter 27 #2
We start play-fighting like little boys, me holding him down with my hockey stick while he grabs at my leg like it's actually going to do anything.
Both of us are gasping for air between fits of laughter, sliding around on the ice in the least coordinated display imaginable.
Tears stream down my face, and I can't stop taunting him about how much better I am at this.
I'm pretty sure he knows I'm full of shit, considering he's crying with laughter, too.
"What are you guys doing?" Malia's voice cuts through the chaos.
I glance up, catching the look on her face. Her eyes dart between me and Andy, something sharp and knowing in her gaze.
She knows.
Shit.
I quickly skate away to dance with Tina, leaving Andy red-faced on the ice to recover without me. My stomach churns as I try to steady my thoughts.
When we finally leave the rink, the girls insist Andy join us for lunch, so we head to a nearby diner for burgers and milkshakes.
Andy pays for everything, of course. I've gotten used to his insistence on paying, though I know it's just his way of being kind. He always deflects when I bring it up, so I've stopped trying to argue.
He even buys the girls new pendants from a gumball machine, pulling the plastic bubbles out like he's handing them rare jewels. Malia puts hers around her neck immediately, and Tina pins hers to her jacket, both of them beaming like he's just given them the world.
I'm not sure what's more endearing: his generosity or the way he seems genuinely happy to do it.
He parks us in front of my house an hour later.
Malia and Tina's laughter fades as they disappear upstairs, leaving just the two of us standing beside Andy's rusted Range Rover.
The afternoon light has softened, casting long shadows across the driveway, and for the first time all day, we're alone.
The air feels different—thicker, charged with all the unspoken things that have been simmering between us since the ice rink.
I reach out before I can second-guess myself, my fingers finding the stray strand of blonde hair that's fallen across his forehead.
He doesn't flinch or pull away. Instead, his eyes meet mine, those endless pools of blue that somehow manage to look both innocent and knowing at the same time.
I tuck the hair behind his ear, my knuckles brushing against the warmth of his skin, and he leans into the touch just slightly, almost imperceptibly.
"You didn't have to do all this," I say, my voice softer than I intended. The words feel inadequate to express what today has meant to me.
Andy's lips curve into that gentle smile that makes something in my chest loosen. "I didn't do it for you," he says, his gaze steady. "I did it for them. They needed more quality time with you."
And just like that, everything clicks into place.
Like the final piece of a puzzle I didn't even know I was solving.
The way he always seems to know exactly what I need, even when I don't know myself.
The way he cares about my daughters not as an obligation but as genuine affection.
The way he sees past the carefully constructed walls I've built around myself to the man underneath.
The man who's still trying to figure out how to be a good father, how to be a good friend, how to be whole.
I do love Andrew Parker, and all of a sudden nothing else seems to matter anymore.
The thought hits me with the force of a physical blow, stealing my breath.
It's not a gradual realization but a sudden, overwhelming certainty that floods every part of me.
All the things I've been worried about—my career, what people might think, whether this is right—Gary's words from our conversation come rushing back.
And suddenly, none of it matters anymore.
Because he's the right one. Everything is going to be okay, and he deserves to know.
"Can you come in?" I ask, my voice cracking slightly. "I need to talk to you."
Andy's expression shifts, a line forming between his brows. "I can't tonight," he says, his tone apologetic. "I have that early class tomorrow."
The rejection stings more than I expected, and I must let it show because his face softens.
"Vince, what's wrong?" he asks, reaching out to touch my shoulder. His fingers curl around the fabric of my jacket, and I can feel the warmth of his hand even through the layers between us. His cheeks have pinked up in the cold air, or maybe it's my imagination.
"Gary's doing a campout next weekend," he says suddenly, changing the subject. "Can you come?"
"I'll make the time," I say without hesitation.
Andy seems to read my mind. "Great. See you for our run tomorrow? Maybe we can talk then."
The words tumble out, clumsy and disjointed. "This... this conversation feels too heavy for a run. Can we wait until the campout?"
"You sure you're okay?" His brow furrows. "You've got that look—that one you get when you realize your shirt's been on backwards all day."
A laugh escapes me, breaking the knot of nervousness in my throat. My fingers find his chin, gently tilting his face upward. "I'm alright. It's a deal, Andy. We'll talk then."
His eyes light up at that, and for a moment, I think he might lean in. The space between us crackles with possibility, the air thick with everything we're not saying. But then he pulls back, his fingers slipping from my shoulder.
"I should go," he says.
"See you tomorrow," I say, though I don't want him to leave.
He finally opens the driver's side door, the sound breaking the spell that's held us captive.
As he slides into the seat, I notice the way his jeans hug his hips, the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders—details I've noticed a hundred times before but that suddenly feel different now that I've acknowledged what's been growing between us.
The engine rumbles to life, and I step back as he pulls away from the curb.
I watch until his taillights disappear around the corner, my heart going with him, leaving me standing alone in the gathering darkness of the driveway, wondering how I'm going to survive the next week without telling him how I really feel.