Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Mya
T he invitation comes on a Tuesday, disguised as a casual text from my dad:
You and Kingston want to come by for dinner this weekend? It’s just one night.
Just one night.
That’s the kind of lie you tell someone before tossing them into the emotional equivalent of a house fire and telling them to “sit tight.”
I stare at the screen long enough for my phone to go dark. Then I reread the message like the second time might change the words. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.
“What’s with the murder-eyes?” Kingston asks from the kitchen, barefoot and shirtless, flipping pancakes like he’s auditioning for a wholesome husband-of-the-year award.
I hold up the phone like it’s a bomb. “My dad invited us to dinner in Newton this weekend.”
He glances over his shoulder, arching a brow. “Us?”
“Yep. As in me and you. He wants to play happy families, apparently. You know, despite the fact that ours is more nuclear than nuclear family.”
I drop onto one of the kitchen stools, the marble cool against my bare thighs. My stomach flips—whether it’s the twins or the thought of my mother’s resting bitch face, I can’t be sure. Probably both.
Kingston plates the pancakes and walks over like he’s not holding a breakfast truce in his hands. He sets them down, then plants himself beside me, hip to hip, and lets the silence stretch until it wraps itself around my ribs like a python.
“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” he says, voice low and easy.
I let out a breath, slow and shaky. “I know. But it’s my dad.”
He nods like he gets it. And he does. Of all the people in my life, Kingston has seen the mess behind my mask, has held me while I came undone, and still looked at me like I was worth the aftermath.
“I just…” I swipe a hand over my face. “He says he’s moved back in, but things are still tense. Which, duh. It’s my mother. There’s always tension. I could cut the air with a butter knife and still not get through all her disappointment.”
Kingston bumps his shoulder into mine. “You’re not going back for her. You’re going for him.”
“Yeah.” I pause. “And because I think I need to prove to myself that I can.”
We sit in silence for a while, the scent of maple syrup thick between us, the kind of sweet that doesn’t come without a little stickiness. Then Kingston does the thing he always does—he makes it make sense.
“Pros and cons?” he asks.
I grin, because of course he’d make me list them out like I’m choosing a college major, not potentially walking into the lion’s den.
“Pro: My dad gets see you again and you can tell him how you’ve been feeding me pancakes and rubbing my back through mood swings and heartburn.”
Kingston chuckles. “And pro: we get to leave when it gets weird.”
“Which it will.”
“Which it always does,” he agrees, kissing the corner of my mouth.
“Con: My mother will pretend everything is fine until it’s not. Then she’ll make some backhanded comment about how I should’ve married Fletch and saved everyone the shame.”
Kingston stiffens beside me but doesn’t say anything. Just threads his fingers through mine and squeezes.
“Con: My siblings will either ignore me or stare at me like I’m a soap opera plot twist. Or both,” I add with a dry laugh.
Another beat of silence.
“Still want to go?”
“No.” I rest my forehead against his shoulder. “But I think I need to.”
And that’s how we end up in his SUV three days later, a duffel bag in the back, snacks in the console, and my anxiety riding shotgun with one hand clenched tight around my chest.
The sky is a moody slate gray as we leave Manhattan behind, buildings blurring into trees and long, winding stretches of highway. Kingston’s hand finds mine somewhere past Stamford, and he doesn’t let go.
The air inside the car is warm and lemon-clean, the stereo playing some mellow playlist he swears isn’t curated for road trips but totally is.
We talk. About everything and nothing.
“My mom used to keep score like it was a sport,” Kingston says, one hand on the wheel, the other still gripping mine. “If my dad was late, she’d tally it. If he missed a parent-teacher night, she’d store it like ammo.”
I glance at him, quiet. “Did they fight a lot?”
“Not loud. Not the kind of fights you hear through walls. More like silence. Like… a glacier that’s always melting but never cracking.”
God. That hits a little too close to home.
“What about Lyken?” I ask gently.
He smiles, small but warm. “Kid’s got more natural talent than I ever did. Full ride for hockey. Some school up in Maine. He’s a forward, quick on the ice. Has that smart-ass charm, too. My mom calls him her golden boy.”
I raise a brow. “And what are you?”
He pauses. “The one who left.”
I don’t push, but I don’t have to. His grip on the steering wheel tightens, the muscle in his jaw ticks.
“Guess we both have complicated family trees,” I murmur.
He huffs a laugh. “We’re the whole damn orchard.”
By the time we cross into Massachusetts, my nerves have bloomed into something ugly and tangled in my chest. My palms sweat. My stomach twists. I stare out the window like the trees might give me answers I already know.
Because no matter how much I tell myself this is just dinner, just one night, just a simple visit…
It’s not.
It’s seeing my mom again.
It’s facing the echo of every word she’s ever used to cut me down.
It’s standing across from the woman who made me feel like love was something I had to earn, and knowing she still thinks I failed.
My heart pounds like it knows a storm’s coming.
And maybe it is.
But Kingston’s still here, his thumb rubbing circles against my skin like it’s a spell, like he’s trying to magic away the past.
And maybe… maybe that’s enough to keep me grounded.
Even when the ground beneath me starts to crack.
We pull into the circular driveway, tires crunching softly against the stone like the house is exhaling its own kind of welcome—or maybe it’s a warning. Hard to tell with places like this. Grand and ghosted by old memories.
The house is exactly as I remember it: palatial, sprawling, the kind of place that makes your lungs expand just from looking at it. Three stories of old money and quiet intimidation, all framed by symmetrical landscaping and white-trimmed windows that catch the gray Massachusetts sky like framed ghosts. The stone exterior is stately, weather-worn but regal, the kind of structure that wasn’t built—it was established. Like it came with a legacy and a prenup.
I stare up at it, heart thudding. The anxiety sinks its claws deeper.
Kingston notices. Of course he does. He squeezes my hand across the center console. “You sure about this?”
“No.” My voice cracks on the word. “But I think I have to be.”
It’s been years since I came home. Years since I’ve been back to this house. Not since everything cracked and crumbled and I chose myself instead. My dad moving back into the same zip code as my mom? That was a plot twist I didn’t see coming. Especially not after all the ways they broke each other—and us—in the fallout.
But he invited us. And I said yes. Or maybe I said okay. It feels the same in his eyes.
The front door swings open before Kingston even kills the engine, and there he is—my dad—already waiting on the patio like he’s been pacing since sunrise. Dressed in slacks and a fitted black sweater that hugs his still-broad shoulders, he looks every inch the owner of an NFL team and none of the man who used to fall asleep on the couch in a worn Patriots hoodie with a half-eaten grilled cheese on his chest.
But his face lights up when he sees me.
“There’s my girl,” he says, making his way down the front steps with the kind of confident stride only a man used to walking locker room hallways can pull off. He doesn’t stop until he’s wrapping me in a hug that smells like Tom Ford and memories I don’t let myself visit too often. “Damn, sweetheart,” he murmurs against my hair, “look at you.”
I pull back and roll my eyes, but it’s a useless defense. His gaze drops to my belly and he whistles low. “You weren’t kidding. That baby bump is doing numbers.”
“Twins,” I remind him, not that he’s forgotten.
He smirks. “Guess I better start prepping my backyard for a mini combine in ten years.”
I snort. “You sound like Kingston.”
My dad glances over my shoulder at the man in question and smiles wide. “Good to see you, son.” He pulls Kingston into the same kind of hug, all firm palms and back slaps and that subtle fatherly approval you don’t get unless you’ve earned it. “Glad you could come.”
“Thanks for having us,” Kingston replies.
“Come on, let’s get you inside. Everyone’s already heading to the dining room—your brothers are probably halfway through the bread basket by now.”
I catch Kingston’s smirk as we follow my dad up the steps, through the massive double doors, and into a foyer that still smells like lemon polish and holiday tension. My stomach tightens.
The house is warm. Familiar in a way that makes my bones ache. There’s music playing faintly from somewhere—something classical and expensive—and the chandelier above the entryway glints like it knows too much.
We barely make it down the hall before two familiar voices call out from the formal dining room.
“Holy hell, look at that belly!” Carlos, my oldest brother, grins from where he’s perched at the head of the table.
“You sure you’re not carrying a whole offensive line in there?” Franky adds, already crossing the room to wrap me up in a hug.
I groan and wave them off. “You two are exhausting.”
“And you’re glowing,” Carlos shoots back, pulling me into his arms. “Seriously. You look good, kid.”
Franky gives me a one-armed hug and a wink. “What’s it like growing your own football team?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m just here to eat.”
They both laugh, and it’s the first real breath I’ve taken since we got here.
Then their attention shifts.
“Kingston,” Carlos says, surprise coating his voice. “Man, didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Didn’t know you could show your face around here in Giants blue,” Franky adds, mock-serious.
Kingston grins. “Only for your sister.”
That earns him a round of back slaps and a chorus of “traitor” jokes, but the energy’s good. Warm. Familiar. Almost enough to dull the buzz of dread under my skin.
Almost.
Because I know who’s still in the other room.
And I know this peace is temporary.
But for now, I let myself bask in the ease of my brothers’ teasing, the warmth of my dad’s welcome, and the solid presence of Kingston beside me.
Even if my stomach is in knots.
Even if my hands won’t stop shaking.
Even if seeing my mother again might undo me completely.
Even if seeing my mother again might undo me completely.
Kingston greets her first, ever the charmer, leaning in with a polite kiss on the cheek like he’s walked onto the set of a holiday special where everyone pretends dysfunction isn’t dripping off the chandelier. “You look lovely, Mrs. Sequera.”
She accepts the greeting with a tight-lipped smile. “Kingston. Welcome.”
And then her eyes land on me, those sharp brown irises flicking over my bump like it personally offends her. “Hello, Mya. You look… well.”
Not radiant. Not glowing. Not happy. Just… well. As if well is a compromise between pretending to care and outright disgust.
My spine stiffens, stomach a tangled knot of nerves even though I knew—knew—this was coming. My dad watches the exchange like a referee with a whistle on standby, lips twitching as if debating whether to step in. When the awkward silence stretches like old elastic, he clears his throat and gestures down the hallway.
“Dinner’s about to be served. Let’s head in.”
The dining room looks exactly the same as I remember. Polished oak floors, towering French windows dressed in winter white curtains, and a table long enough to host a royal banquet. Except tonight it’s just the usual suspects—my family. Which somehow makes it feel less formal and more… loaded.
My father glances between us, jaw twitching, before he steps in like he’s guiding cattle to safety. “Let’s all move to the dining room, yeah?”
We follow the scent of roasted garlic and herbed stuffing, stepping into the cathedral of awkward silences and unfinished arguments. The table is a culinary masterpiece, centered around a turkey so golden it might file taxes as a trophy. I know my mom made everything herself—she always does. For all her coldness, she’s never handed off the kitchen to anyone else.
And tonight, the food is the only thing warm.
Sofia and Isabel are already seated with Isabel’s husband, Chris, who greets me with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. My sisters? Less welcoming.
“Wow,” Isabel drawls, appraising my bump like she’s deciding whether to bid on it at an auction. “You weren’t kidding. Twins.”
Sofia hums in agreement. “It’s giving future football franchise vibes.”
I press my lips together, fingers tightening around the back of the nearest chair. “Good thing I’m not raising quarterbacks.”
Their fake laughter makes my skin crawl, but I hold my ground—until Kingston steps behind me, his hand splaying across my lower back. A silent reassurance. A subtle line in the sand.
We take our seats. The plates are filled. The conversation begins safe—football, weather, holiday plans. Then, like always, someone opens a door better left shut.
“I still can’t believe you’re having babies before getting married,” Isabel remarks mid-bite, like the sentence isn’t dipped in acid. “But I guess standards have… shifted.”
My fork freezes. The twins squirm in protest as my pulse spikes.
Sofia joins in, her smile saccharine. “I mean, I get it. Not everyone needs a ring to feel validated.”
My mother says nothing. Not a word. Just passes the cranberry sauce to Chris like this isn’t happening.
It’s my dad who snaps. “That’s enough.”
“Oh please,” Isabel scoffs. “Of course you’d defend her. She’s always been your favorite.”
“She’s pregnant,” he says tightly. “And we are having dinner, not a public shaming.”
Carlos chimes in. “Seriously, leave her alone.”
“Why?” Sofia shrugs. “She obviously doesn’t care what people think.”
They don’t stop. They never stop.
And for once, I don’t have a comeback.
Not because I’m weak. But because I’m exhausted. Because I’m pregnant and hormonal and all I want is to eat in peace without being dissected like a frog in a freshman bio lab.
Then Kingston leans in.
“We can leave at any time,” he whispers, voice a velvet anchor. His hand finds mine beneath the table and squeezes, solid and warm.
But Isabel just won’t quit.
“I just think it’s interesting,” she adds, reaching for her wine, “that Mya gets a standing ovation for making all the same mistakes we would’ve been crucified for.”
I flinch. The words dig in deep, old wounds screaming under new skin.
Then Kingston clears his throat and stands.
“Mya,” he says softly. “We’re leaving.”
“What?” my father frowns. “Let’s just cool down?—”
“I said,” Kingston repeats, calm but steel-spined, “we’re leaving.”
Carlos and Franky rise too, voices raised now, defending me while Isabel and Sofia shout over them. My mother finally speaks up—shocking the whole table.
“That’s enough,” she snaps. “This isn’t good for Mya. She’s pregnant, for God’s sake.”
The silence that follows is so loud it’s deafening.
But it doesn’t matter. The damage is done.
Kingston takes my hand and helps me up. My chair scrapes against the floor like a gunshot.
“Thank you for the food, Mrs. Sequera,” he says, perfectly polite. “And thank you for having us, sir.”
Then he walks me out the same way he walked me in—shoulders square, grip steady, like a man who’s done being polite to people who don’t deserve my presence.
We don’t say anything until we’re back in the car. My throat is raw. My heart aches in ways I can’t name.
And for once, I don’t pretend I’m okay. I let the tears come.
Because tonight wasn’t just awkward.
It was war disguised as family dinner.
And I survived it.
Barely.
The silence on the ride to the hotel is thick enough to chew on—like the aftermath of a thunderstorm, heavy and sour and too damn loud. I lean my forehead against the window, watching Newton’s lights blur by, the ache in my chest making it hard to breathe. Kingston doesn’t push. Doesn’t prod. Just drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the gearshift like he’s trying not to crush it under his grip.
By the time we pull up to the Four Seasons, my jaw is locked so tight it might snap.
The penthouse suite is a literal dream—double-height ceilings, windows that frame the city like a love letter, and more plush than anything I should have access to right now. But I barely look at it. I’m barely in my body at all. My nerves are shot. My voice boxed up and shoved somewhere behind my ribs, right next to the bruised piece of my pride.
Kingston keys us in, then drops our overnight bag by the sofa. “Mya.” Just my name. Quiet. A question and an answer and a prayer.
“I’m fine.” The lie tastes like vinegar. He doesn’t call me out on it.
Instead, he crosses to the oversized marble bathroom, turns on the taps, and disappears behind the pocket door. I hear the water rush to life, echoing off tile. Then the door creaks open. “Come here.”
I should argue. Should say I’m too tired, too raw, too strung out. But I don’t. My limbs move before my brain can catch up.
The tub is an ivory clawfoot monstrosity—wide enough for two, deep enough to drown in. Steam curls in the air like ghosted apologies. My pulse stutters when I see Kingston standing there, shirtless, tugging off his sweatpants like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“Will you join me?” I ask, voice small.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Always.”
I shed my clothes like armor. Peel away the day. The barbs. The restraint. Kingston climbs in first, easing back with a hiss, and then I slide in between his legs. The heat is a shock—then a balm. His arms come around me, steady and sure, like the rest of the world doesn’t get to touch me as long as he’s here.
We sit like that for a long while. My back pressed to his chest, the soft swirl of water lapping against skin. His hands move gently over my shoulders, his thumbs working out knots I didn’t even know I had.
“You okay?” he murmurs eventually, breath brushing my ear.
I nod. Then shake my head. “I expected it. I just… didn’t expect it to hurt this much.” My voice cracks down the middle. “Especially not now.”
Kingston presses a kiss to the curve of my shoulder. “The twins don’t make you weaker, Mya. They make you braver.”
A watery laugh escapes me. “Tell that to my hormones.”
His hands still, then resume their slow path up and down my arms. “You said Isabel’s been trying?”
“For over a year,” I whisper. “They don’t talk about it openly, but it’s written all over her. The resentment. The heartbreak. And I get it, I do. But tonight… it felt like she was aiming to gut me with it.”
“She was,” he says flatly. “And so was Sofia.”
I suck in a shaky breath. “They’ve always had a problem with me. I was the youngest, the most rebellious, the one who disappointed Mom the most.” My fingers trail through the water. “I thought maybe being pregnant—being older—might change something. But it’s like I’m still the same screw-up in their eyes.”
Kingston pulls me tighter. “They don’t get to define you.”
“Funny,” I murmur. “Kyle tried that too.”
Kingston stills.
I don’t usually talk about Kyle. My ex-fiancé is like a shadow I refuse to chase. But the words come anyway. “He cheated. A month before our wedding. With someone he worked with. When I confronted him, he said I made him feel like an accessory. That I wasn’t enough—too intense, too independent, too much. So I packed my bags and left. Never looked back.”
Silence stretches between us.
“I’m sorry,” Kingston says eventually, his voice like gravel laced with regret. “You didn’t deserve that.”
I lean my head back, resting it against his shoulder. “Horseshoe Bay was supposed to be a reset. A chance to breathe. And then Fletch happened.”
His arms wrap around me like a fortress. “You don’t have to talk about him.”
“I know.” My chest tightens. “But I’m glad I am. Because he doesn’t take up space in my head the way he used to.” I turn slightly, enough to see Kingston’s eyes. “Not now that you’re in there.”
His expression softens. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know,” I whisper. “That’s what scares me.”
He presses his lips to my temple. “Let me help you build something different, Mya. Something safe.”
A lump wedges itself in my throat. “Then let’s start with the nursery.”
He grins, lazy and lopsided. “Tell me what you need.”
“Everything,” I admit, laughing through the ache. “I need everything.”
“Good thing I’ve got a bye-week.” His hand slides over my bump, gentle and reverent. “We’ll start tomorrow. Paint swatches. Furniture. Name lists. Diaper warmers and all that other weird shit we’re going to Google at 2 a.m.”
“And blackout curtains,” I add, eyes fluttering closed. “For me. Not them.”
Kingston chuckles, deep and low. “You got it.”
We fall quiet again, the hush wrapping around us like a second skin. My body relaxes, the tension melting into the water between us. It’s not perfect. It’s not easy.
But it’s something.