Chapter 16
sixteen
. . .
Maci
Sometimes the best way to know where you belong is to notice who makes room for you without being asked.
The letter is still in my purse. It’s Friday and I haven’t mailed it, haven’t thrown it away and I have not forgotten about it. I’m procrastinating.
It’s tucked into the inside pocket beside my lip gloss, emergency ibuprofen, and one granola bar that has been through enough emotional trauma to deserve its own support group.
Every morning this week, I’ve told myself I’ll mail it.
Every afternoon, I’ve passed Dara’s outgoing mail pile three times and I kept walking like the envelope has somehow gained fifty pounds in my bag.
I tell myself it’s because I’m busy.
That’s partly true. Synatrix has consumed my entire week in the best and most exhausting way possible. Between e-football launch prep, rookie-program implementation, and Witt’s apparent belief that problems are love languages, my brain has been running at full speed since Monday morning.
But busy isn’t the real reason.
The real reason is that mailing the letter feels like choosing.
And I’m not ready to admit what I’m choosing.
I mean, is there anything to choose?
I’m in Witt’s office late afternoon, sitting at the side table built into the side of the room while we go over updated launch projections.
This has become weirdly normal over the last few days.
Me with my laptop open, Witt standing near the glass wall with a tablet in his hand, Dara occasionally appearing with updates and iced coffee like a corporate fairy godmother.
After the gala, things were awkward at first. Professional and somewhere along the way this week, we became comfortable, which may be worse.
Witt hasn’t kissed me again. He hasn’t even come close, and if I’m being honest, that probably should make my life easier.
It does not. Instead, it makes every almost-look, every brush of our hands, every quiet moment in a room together feel like an unfinished sentence we’re both pretending not to read.
“The mentor dashboard needs one more filter,” I say, turning my laptop toward him. “New users should be able to sort by play style, and personality type, not just skill level.”
Witt studies the screen, eyes moving quickly over the mock-up. “Aggressive. Strategic. Personality matches. Unique.”
“Exactly.”
“Add casual.”
I blink. “Casual?”
“Some users want connection without intensity.” He says looking right past my ear.
I stare at him for a second longer than necessary.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“That’s inaccurate.”
A smile pulls at my mouth. “I just like when you prove my point for me.”
“I wasn’t proving your point.”
“You literally said users want connection.”
His jaw shifts. “I said some users want connection.”
“So you agree.”
“I agreed with one variable.”
“One very emotionally intelligent variable.”
He looks at me then, not fully in the eyes, but close enough that my stomach does the annoying little flip it now does whenever Witt gives me more than half a second of focused attention.
“Don’t make it weird,” he says.
I laugh. “Too late.”
The office door flies open without a knock.
Witt closes his eyes.
I don’t even have to turn around to know an O’Ryan has arrived.
“Pizza night,” Parker announces.
Witt opens his eyes. “No.”
“It wasn’t a question,” Parker states matter-of-factly.
“It sounded like one.”
“That’s because I was being polite for Maci’s sake.”
I glance over my shoulder to see Parker leaning in the doorway, sweaty from summer practice, hair damp, Armadillos shirt clinging to his chest like he jogged here straight from the field. He flashes me a grin.
“Hey, Maci.”
“Hey.”
His gaze flicks between me and Witt, and the grin immediately turns dangerous. “Working late?”
“It’s four,” Witt says.
“That’s quitting time on a Friday. And historically, I’ve never seen someone in your office going over… whatever it is with the door closed.”
Immediately, I understand what Witt is up against with his family. They don’t understand the intricacies of gaming. Sutton, yeah because she’s a big picture CEO.
“The door was open,” I point out.
Parker looks pleased. “Good detail.”
Witt sets his tablet down with more force than necessary. “Why are you here?”
“Witley’s birthday. She’s four today. Pizza, cake, games, chaos. You’re coming.”
“I have work.”
“You always have work.”
“Because people keep interrupting it.”
Parker ignores him completely and looks at me. “You should come too.”
My mouth opens, then closes. “Oh, no. I can’t intrude.”
Parker laughs like I’ve said something adorable. “There are so many of us no one will notice an extra.”
Without looking up, Witt says, “Then I don’t need to come.”
Parker grabs a small stress ball from Witt’s desk and throws it at him. Witt catches it one-handed without looking, which is both unfairly cool and deeply annoying because of course he can do that.
“You’re coming,” Parker says.
“I haven’t agreed.”
“You don’t have to. Birdie already marked you down as attending.”
“That is not legally binding.”
“In this family, it is.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
Parker points at me. “Six-thirty. Casual. Wear something you can beat him at arcade games in.”
“I never said I was coming,” I say not knowing if that will interrupt Witt and his family. Does he even want me there?
“You’re coming.”
I look at Witt, expecting him to give me an out. Instead, he’s watching the tablet again, expression unreadable.
Parker grins. “Great. See you both there.”
Then he’s gone, leaving the office somehow louder even after the door shuts behind him.
I turn back to Witt. “Does your family always make plans for you?”
“Yes.”
“And you go?”
“No.”
“Except when you do.”
His mouth twitches. “Unfortunately.”
I close my laptop halfway. “Did you get Witley a gift?”
He looks almost offended. “Yes.”
“Of course you did.”
“Her birthday is today.”
“I know, but most people realize they need a gift the day before. Maybe the morning of if they’re brave.”
“I bought it in April.”
I stare at him. “It’s August.”
“She mentioned dinosaurs.”
“In April?”
“Yes.”
“And you remembered?”
“She said triceratops are superior because they have defensive architecture.”
I blink.
Witt says it like this is a perfectly normal sentence uttered by a four-year-old.
“So what did you get her?”
“A buildable dinosaur habitat with magnetic terrain pieces, a triceratops nesting area, and sound integration.”
My heart does something soft and inconvenient.
Of course he did. Of course Witt O’Ryan, billionaire gaming genius and emotionally confusing boss-roommate, kiss-me-once boss, bought his four-year-old niece a dinosaur gift four months early because she made one comment about defensive architecture.
He probably has every family birthday memorized, along with favorite colors, allergies, preferred snacks, and possibly Social Security numbers.
Not because he’s nosy, but because noticing is what he does when he loves people.
He just doesn’t call it love.
He probably calls it data retention.
“That’s really sweet,” I say.
His eyes flick up. “It’s age appropriate.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s educational.”
“Obviously.”
“And she likes dinosaurs.”
I smile. “Witt.”
“What?”
“It’s sweet.”
He looks back at his tablet. “If you say so.”
I do.
I absolutely do.
The pizza place is loud before we even get inside.
Not normal loud.
O’Ryan loud.
The kind of loud that spills through the front doors in bursts of laughter, children shrieking, arcade machines beeping, and someone—probably Parker—arguing about whether skee-ball requires athletic skill.
The whole place smells like melted cheese, garlic butter, birthday candles, and the sugary fog of a million kids running on soda.
I pause just inside the entrance.
The party room is packed. Long tables are shoved together and covered with paper plates, pizza trays, pitchers of soda, wrapped presents, and dinosaur decorations in shades of purple and green.
A banner that says HAPPY BIRTHDAY WITLEY hangs slightly crooked on the wall.
Kids weave between chairs with arcade cards clutched in their fists while adults talk over each other like volume is a family love language.
It should be overwhelming and it is. But it’s also warm in a way that hits me right in the chest.
Noelle spots me first and waves like she personally invited me. “Maci! You came!”
“I was drafted.”
“That’s how most of us got here,” Matt says dryly from beside her.
Witt appears at my side, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes mine. He doesn’t say anything, but somehow his presence steadies me. That is new and probably dangerous.
Witley comes running toward him in a sparkly dinosaur dress and purple sneakers. “Uncie Witt!”
He crouches before she reaches him, and she launches herself into his arms with complete confidence. He catches her easily, one arm around her back, the other keeping her from knocking them both over.
“Happy birthday,” he says.
She squeezes his neck. “Did you bring my present?”
“Yes.”
“Is it big?”
“Yes.”
“Is it a dinosaur?”
“Yes.”
“Is it better than Parker’s?”
“Statistically likely.”
Parker shouts from across the room, “I heard that.”
Witley giggles and kisses Witt’s cheek. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t stiffen. He simply holds her like this is one form of chaos his body already knows how to accept.
My chest warms again.
The man is impossible.
For the next hour, I am folded into the family like there was always a space left open for me. Birdie hands me a plate and tells me which pizza is the best. Sutton introduces me to three people whose names I immediately forget because two kids run between us screaming about tokens.
J.D. asks about the e-football league launch and if he can help. “I can have guys come sign jerseys to bring in more people to watch the digital game. Is that what I call it?”
Witt shakes his head. “It’s the EFL, e-Football League.”