Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
MYA
B y the time we get back to the penthouse, Reese is yawning into the collar of her coat and mumbling about regretting not stealing one of those lemon tarts from lunch. Her flight’s early, her visit’s short, and she’s crashing with us tonight instead of dealing with hotel check-ins and overpriced mini bar snacks.
Kingston opens the door for us, and the scent of cedarwood and cinnamon drifts through the space like a memory wrapped in comfort. There’s a soft jazz playlist humming in the background and warm lighting spilling from the fixtures like melted honey. He’s lit a few candles, because of course he has. The man might not know how to boil an egg, but he knows how to set a scene.
“Welcome to the jungle,” I tease, stepping aside as Reese slips off her coat. “Population: one very tired fashion mogul.”
“Speak for yourself,” she murmurs, kicking off her sneakers. “This place is a vibe.”
Kingston appears from the kitchen with a bottle of red and that easy, lazy grin that’s starting to feel dangerously like home. “You must be Reese.”
“And you must be Kingston,” she says, tilting her head. “The infamous quarterback-slash-pancake artist.”
He chuckles and offers her a glass. “Only the best for Mya’s best friend.”
“Oh, smooth,” she drawls, accepting it. “But just so we’re clear—if you hurt her, I’ll break both your legs and make it look like an accident.”
There’s a beat of silence before Kingston laughs, deep and genuine, like the threat amuses him more than it unsettles him. “Fair enough,” he says. “Noted.”
Reese arches a brow, pleased. “Good. Now that we’ve established the rules, let’s talk football.”
They settle onto the couch, and I perch on the armrest, watching them like a spectator at the world’s weirdest game of social ping-pong. To my absolute relief, they click instantly. Reese is all sass and snark, throwing out stats and asking about his last shoulder injury like a seasoned sports journalist. Kingston answers every question with that quiet confidence he wears like armor, but he’s softer around her, somehow. Less guarded. More himself.
And I sit there, exhaling a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding.
Because this could’ve gone so wrong.
If Reese hadn’t liked him… If he’d thought she was too much…
But instead, she laughs at his dry humor, and he listens when she talks like what she’s saying actually matters.
It’s easy. Seamless.
And I think… maybe this is what safe feels like.
Maybe this is what possible feels like.
Dinner shows up twenty minutes later—Kingston ordered pasta from my favorite little place in SoHo, because he remembered. Reese teases him about being a terrible cook, and he just grins and tells her he has other talents.
Reese chokes on her wine.
I roll my eyes and kick his shin under the table.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like a girl who’s holding her breath waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I just feel… lucky.
Dinner’s barely been cleared when Reese curls one leg under her and levels me with the kind of look that says she’s about to stir chaos and call it casual conversation.
Wine in hand. Lip gloss perfectly intact. Trouble.
Kingston offers to refill her glass from the kitchen, moving with that effortless confidence that makes expensive sweatpants look like a tailored suit. “Another?” he asks, already reaching for the bottle.
Reese tips her glass toward him with a grin. “Please. If I’m spending the night in this high-rise penthouse like a spoiled socialite, I intend to drink like one.”
He chuckles, pouring her a healthy amount while I sink into the corner of the couch, toes tucked under Kingston’s throw blanket. My back aches from too much walking and too much pasta, but for the first time in days, my shoulders aren’t up around my ears.
Reese and Kingston clicked so fast it’s disorienting.
And also a freaking relief.
The way they’re vibing—Reese asking him questions about training camps and playoff pressure, Kingston actually answering without deflecting—makes my chest unclench. I didn’t realize how tense I’d been about this. If Reese hadn’t liked him… or worse, if he’d written her off? Awkward wouldn’t have even scratched the surface.
They’re still talking when she changes gears without warning, like a turn taken at 90 mph with no signal.
“So,” she says, twisting to face me, “Eli’s first birthday is next weekend and I still have no idea what I’m doing.”
I blink. “I thought you said you were keeping it simple.”
“I did. I lied.” She lifts her wine glass. “Now I’m knee-deep in Pinterest boards and wondering if it’s too much to order a miniature petting zoo.”
Kingston makes a low sound, like a laugh smothered in his throat. “He’s one, right?”
“Yes,” she says solemnly. “But he’s also my godson. Which means I’m morally obligated to go overboard and emotionally bankrupt myself trying to prove that I’m good at this.”
I snort. “You already are.”
She shoots me a look. “Tell that to the overpriced party planner who keeps trying to sell me on balloon arches the size of small countries.”
Kingston raises a brow. “Can Eli even walk yet?”
“Barely,” Reese sighs. “But he claps now. And eats puffs like he invented carbs. That’s enough to warrant celebration, right?”
I grin, warmth blooming in my chest. Reese may not be his biological mom, but Eli’s got her wrapped around his little fingers like a Hallmark plotline. It’s kind of beautiful to watch her care this much—fierce and funny and full of love she didn’t even know she had until life handed her a boy with stormy eyes and a story no one saw coming.
She sips again, then—of course—pivots. “Speaking of babies… how’s the nursery planning going?”
My breath catches, caught between amusement and panic. “Wow. Subtle.”
“I’m sorry, did you think I was going to tiptoe around it? Please. You know me better than that.”
Kingston glances over at me, his hand brushing my leg beneath the throw. “We’ve talked about a few things,” he offers.
“Mmhmm,” Reese says. “And by talked, you mean…?”
I roll my eyes. “We’re not rushing it, okay? I just found out I’m having two boys. I’m still emotionally recovering from that information.”
Reese gasps. “What’s wrong with boys?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Except I’m pretty sure I’m growing two future linebackers who are already conspiring to destroy my bladder from the inside out.”
Kingston chuckles, low and warm. “We’re keeping things neutral. Soft greens, warm woods. Cozy, not chaotic.”
“I approve,” Reese nods, swirling her wine. “You don’t strike me as the polka-dot wallpaper type.”
I exhale slowly, the pressure behind my ribs easing. “We just want something that feels like peace. Not a Pinterest board on steroids.”
She softens at that, her teasing grin fading into something gentler. “You’ll give them that. You already are.”
My throat tightens, unexpected. Maybe it’s the hormones. Maybe it’s the truth.
Because the thing is… I want that too.
Not the party. Not the pressure. Just… a space where these boys—my boys—can exist safely. Loved. Held. Wanted.
Everything I never had.
Kingston’s fingers curl around mine, grounding me. Solid. Steady. Present.
And Reese? She just clinks her glass against mine with a small smile and says, “Well then. Here’s to the nursery. And the boys. And the future peewee football team you’re apparently building.”
Reese corners me the second the dishwasher hums to life. There’s a look in her eye I’ve come to recognize—part protective older sister, part private investigator with a badge that says I know you’re not telling me everything. She props her hip against the counter and crosses her arms, the sleeve of her oversized NYU hoodie slipping down to reveal one tanned shoulder.
The moment feels still. Heavy with unspoken things.
“Okay,” she starts, soft but sure. “Now that dinner’s done and Kingston’s off doing whatever it is guys do when they need space from girl talk, how are you really doing?”
Her voice dips, quiet and careful, like she’s afraid the wrong word might unravel me. “And don’t give me some cookie-cutter, ‘I’m fine’ bullshit. I want the truth, M.”
I drop onto one of the barstools and pull a throw blanket tighter around my bump. My stomach has its own zip code now, a permanent, round reminder of everything I’ve lost… and everything I’ve found.
The confession bubbles up like carbonation, fizzy and fragile. “Sometimes… I feel guilty.”
Reese frowns. “About what?”
“About him,” I say, voice thin as tissue paper. “Fletch.”
Even saying his name feels like picking at a scab I swore I’d leave alone. “On the rare occasion I think about him—like when Kingston’s at practice, or I’m alone in the shower—I get this pang in my chest. Not because I miss him, but because I wonder if I should. Or if thinking about him at all somehow makes me disloyal.”
Reese’s brows pinch together as she comes over and crouches beside me. “Mya… thinking about someone who broke your heart doesn’t mean you want them back. It means you’re human.”
I rest my hand on the swell of my belly. Two tiny kicks echo beneath my palm, perfectly timed. “It’s taken me time to breathe again, Reese. Like—really breathe. But I am. Slowly. And I’m… I don’t know. Settling. In a way I didn’t think was possible. Not this soon.”
She smiles then, a slow bloom of relief and pride. “Good. That’s so good.”
For a moment, we sit like that—her on the floor, me in the chair, the air thick with layered history and the scent of leftover garlic bread. Then she clears her throat and shifts.
“I think Fletch is starting to realize what he’s done,” she says, almost reluctantly. “Thorin says he’s not himself lately. That he’s distracted in the studio. Doesn’t talk much. You come up more than you probably should.”
I snort. “A little late for soul-searching, don’t you think?”
Reese shrugs. “Maybe. But the band’s going to be in New York in two weeks. Are you… ready to see him?”
The question slices through the air like a scalpel. Clean. Brutal.
I shake my head slowly. “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.” My voice wobbles, and I don’t bother hiding it. “He walked away from me, Reese. From us. From his sons. He didn’t fight. Didn’t even look back.” I blink fast, but one treacherous tear makes a break for it anyway. “How do you come back from that?”
“You don’t,” Reese says gently. “Not really.”
“But then there’s Kingston.” I say his name like a prayer. Like it’s laced with all the quiet, steady things I’ve never known. “He’s… here. Always. He holds me without expecting me to be okay. He talks to the twins when he thinks I’m asleep. He makes pancakes shaped like dinosaurs and gets pissed when they come out looking like blobs. And he wants me.” My throat tightens. “All of me. Even the broken parts.”
Reese exhales, eyes glassy. “It’s rare,” she says, voice hoarse. “Given the circumstances. A man who sees your worst day and still chooses you anyway? That’s… that’s rare, M.”
I nod. “I know.”
There’s another beat of quiet before she asks the inevitable. “Do you think you’ll ever go back to Horseshoe Bay?”
My laugh is small. Sad. “I don’t know. I mean, that place raised me. It ruined me, too. But here… this apartment, this city, this life?” I glance around Kingston’s penthouse, which still smells like paint and cedarwood and the start of something new. “It wasn’t what I planned. But it’s mine. And I want to make the most of it.”
Reese rises and tugs me into a hug that smells like lemon shampoo and unshed grief. She doesn’t say anything else, and neither do I.
Because sometimes the loudest kind of healing is the kind you don’t need to put into words.
Reese doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at me like she’s trying to memorize the way my face settles when it’s not pretending everything’s fine. And we stay like that for a second—no filters, no facades. Just two girls in sweatpants with too many emotions and not enough time.
We stay up later than we should, talking about everything and nothing. Baby names we don’t hate. Celebrity crushes. Why chocolate chip cookie dough will always beat out rocky road. It’s the kind of girlhood chaos I didn’t realize I missed until now. The kind that doesn’t apologize for taking up space. The kind that lets you breathe without holding your breath.
By the time I finally crash, it’s well after two.
The next morning hits harder than it should.
Maybe it’s the way the apartment feels quieter without her voice cutting through it like sunlight. Maybe it’s just the way goodbyes never really get easier. Not the real ones, anyway.
I walk Reese to the curb, keys in one hand, her suitcase in the other. It’s misty out, not quite raining, but the kind of air that clings like memory.
Reese wipes under one eye. “Ugh, I swore I wasn’t gonna cry. It’s only two weeks.”
“I know.” I smile, watery and raw. “But still.”
She pulls me in, arms tight around me like she’s holding the version of me she’s proud of and scared for all at once. And maybe she is.
“I’m so happy for you, Mya,” she whispers into my hair. “I just need you to know that. You’re allowed to be okay again. You’re allowed to want more.”
I pull back just enough to meet her eyes. “It’s taken a while to feel settled, but now that I have… I don’t want to let it go. It’s not the life I planned, but it’s mine. And I want to make the most of it.”
She nods. “Then do it. Be here. Be in it. Don’t second-guess it just because it looks different than you thought it would.”
I give her a shaky laugh. “Who are you, Dr. Phil?”
“Dr. Reese, actually.” She smirks. “Now go home before I start ugly crying and embarrass us both.”
I watch her go until the Uber disappears down the block, standing there like a cliché in a hoodie and slippers, stomach twisting with something that feels like hope.
And maybe—for the first time in a long time—I let it in.