Chapter 6 #2
“I know.” His tone softens and he lets out a long sigh. “I know he is. I see it. He’s incredible. He’s got so much talent. He’s a natural on the ice.”
“I made sure he knew the ice,” I cry. “I made sure he grew up with hockey in his life. I needed him to know and love the sport.”
“You gave him my middle name.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I wanted him to have a piece of you.”
He could’ve had all of me.
We sit in the quiet for a long, trembling moment, and the past hangs between us, full of everything we never said, everything we lost. Harrison exhales, a rough, uneven sound that breaks something inside me.
“I want to be in his life,” he says finally. “I need to be. I’m not asking. I’m telling you. I’m his father. I want to know him.
My chest tightens with anxiety over what his involvement might look like. “You are in his life. You see him at least once a week.”
His brows furrow and he stiffens beside me. “That’s not what I mean, Harper. I deserve to know who my son is on and off the ice. It’s the least you can do after—”
I nod quickly. “Of course. I don’t want to keep you from him. Not now. I never should have—”
He lifts a hand, not to touch me, but to stop the apology.
“I don’t think you understand.” His jaw flexes, eyes hard with a pain that twists through me like a blade. “I missed everything. His first steps. His first words. His first everything. I didn’t even know he existed. How the hell am I supposed to process that?”
“I know,” I whisper, even though I really don’t—not his side of it. Not the way it must feel from inside his heart. “I know it hurts. I’m sorry—”
“You’re sorry, but that doesn’t fix it.” His voice cracks down the middle—frustration, grief, disbelief all mixed in one raw edge.
“You being sorry doesn’t give me my ten years back.
” He tips his head back against his seat, his eyes squeezed closed again.
After a long sigh he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Harp.
I’m sorry I’m not much of a comfort right now.
I’m too…angry. Too confused. I don’t even know what to do with all of these…
” He winds his hand in a circular motion around his chest. “These feelings. These emotions.”
His words land like a physical slap, though I deserve every one of them. He finally opens his eyes but looks away, out toward the dark stretch of ocean like he’s trying to steady himself.
“I don’t trust myself to say the wrong thing,” he mutters. “Or the right thing. Or anything.”
I swallow hard. “Harrison…I didn’t keep him from you to hurt you. I need you to know that. I swear I didn’t.”
“I know you didn’t do it out of cruelty,” he says quietly. “But you still did it.”
Silence swallows the space between us. Not warm. Not familiar. Just…hollow.
He rubs the back of his neck, shoulders tight. “I need time. To wrap my head around this. To figure out how to be a dad without blowing up his entire world all at once.”
I nod, tears burning behind my eyes. “I understand.”
“I’ll be there for him,” he says firmly. “Whatever it looks like. I want to know him.” He pauses, swallowed once more by that raw confusion, and then exhales sharply. “But if you came here thinking you and I—”
“I didn’t,” I assure him, shaking my head adamantly.
I mean…I kind of did but this is not the time nor the place to talk about us. I know this is a lot for him to process. My heart twists, painful and unsurprised.
He finally looks at me again. His eyes, normally warm, teasing, and full of life, feel shuttered now.
Guarded.
Not cold.
Just…wounded.
And that’s somehow worse.
He gently pulls his hand from mine, like the contact itself is too much for him.
“We focus on him,” Harrison says softly. “That’s it. Anything else is…it’s too messy. I can’t.”
“Of course,” I manage. “Connor comes first. Always.”
A part of me—that part of my soul that has never stopped loving Harrison Meers—wilts at the thought of having to see him regularly for Connor but never for myself. Selfish, I know, but true, nonetheless.
“He deserved to have me from the beginning,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me. That’s the comment that breaks me. It’s not loud, and not angry, but quiet and full of a grief I put there.
I close my eyes because it’s all too much. Too honest. Too familiar. To painful.
“I’m so sorry, H. I wish I could take it all back. I wish I could do things differently, but I can’t.”
He waits, breathing slowly, giving me space.
When I open my eyes again, he’s looking at me, not like a stranger, not like a mistake, but like the boy who once memorized my laugh and the man who now knows the weight of what we lost.
“We’ll figure this out. We have to.”
I nod silently.
“But Harper,” he adds softly, “I’m not walking away from this. From him. You brought him here for a reason, whatever that reason is and now that I know he’s mine, I’m not walking away. Do you understand me?”
“I understand.”
The ocean crashes against the cliffs, echoing in the silence.
And even though nothing is simple, even though everything feels impossibly fragile, I feel slightly freer than I have in years.
Good or bad, for better or worse, the cat’s out of the bag. I’m no longer holding onto a painful truth on my own.
He clears his throat, blinking hard. “I think we should head back. Before I say something I might regret.”
I nod again because there is nothing else to say or do. I feel small, guilty, and foolishly devastated for reasons I have no right to be.
Harrison starts the engine and we say nothing on the ride back.
He says nothing when he stops in front of my building.
And nothing as I open the door.
Just as I step out, he speaks softly. “We’ll talk again soon. For Connor’s sake.”
I nod and shut the door.
And this time, he doesn’t wait to see if I make it inside before he drives off.
By the time the elevator doors close, I’m already blinking too fast, trying to keep my vision from going blurry.
Don’t cry. Not again. Not here.
But the moment the elevator starts to rise, something inside me snaps. My throat tightens, my chest caves, and the tears return with a vengeance, spilling over before I can stop them. I press my hands to my face, trying to be quiet even though I’m completely alone.
I hate crying in public, even if technically an elevator isn’t public.
It still feels like a spotlight. Like any second someone could step on and see me falling apart in full HD.
My shoulders shake as I ugly cry into my sleeve while the elevator hums its way up.
My reflection in the metal doors is blotchy and red-eyed.
Great.
Perfect.
Exactly the look I want when walking into an apartment with a ten-year-old who asks fifty questions in under a minute.
By the time I reach my floor, I’ve managed to swipe away most of the evidence. My eyes sting and my breathing is uneven, but it’s the best I can do. I push open the apartment door, hoping, praying, Connor is in his room.
Nope.
He and Antoni are on the couch, video game controllers in hand, laughing at something on the screen. The second the door clicks shut, both their heads snap my way.
And just like that, I’m exposed.
Connor’s whole expression changes—like someone hit pause on him—eyes widening, brows pulling tight with concern.
“Mom?”
He scrambles to his feet so fast he nearly trips over the cords to his video game console. He doesn’t even seem to notice. He just runs over, stopping right in front of me, staring straight up with that serious little-kid concentration that always makes my heart twist.
“Why are you crying?” he asks, his voice small and worried.
“I’m not—” I try, but my voice cracks, so the lie dies instantly. “I’m okay. I just had a long day.”
Connor frowns visibly confused and concerned. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with one missing piece. Antoni stands too, video games forgotten.
“Sweetheart,” he says gently, “you look like someone kicked you in the shins and told you croissants were discontinued.”
I let out a pathetic laugh. “It’s…it’s been a day.”
Connor inches closer, hesitating like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to hug me or give me space. “Did someone say something mean to you? ‘Cause I can fight them.”
“Absolutely not,” Antoni says, horrified. “We do not condone violence unless it’s verbal and fabulous.”
Connor shoots him a very unimpressed look, then turns back to me, lower lip trembling just a little. “Is it…is it about me? Did I do something?”
Oh God. That breaks me in half.
“No, baby,” I whisper immediately, crouching down so we’re eye level. “You didn’t do anything. None of this is about you. I promise.”
That’s a lie.
He throws his arms around my neck without waiting for permission and I fold into him, breathing in the familiar smell of laundry soap and crayons and little-boy warmth, and something inside me steadies.
Antoni walks over and rests a hand on my shoulder, not pushing, not prying, just present.
Always the supportive and quiet anchor.
“Do you want tea?” he asks. “Or a blanket? Or for me to dramatically insult whoever made you cry?”
Connor nods like this is an excellent plan. “Yeah, we can get the blanket. And maybe Mom needs her fuzzy socks. She likes those when she’s sad.”
I laugh into his hair. It comes out wobbly, but real.
“That sounds perfect,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
Connor squeezes me harder. “It’s okay, Mom. I’ve got you.”
And just like that, the worst day of my life feels just a tiny bit less heavy.