Chapter Thirty-One
Told Ya So
Sydney
Lauren arrives on a Friday afternoon with two suitcases, a bottle of champagne, and an expression I’ve seen only once before—the night I told her I was flying to New York.
“Don’t,” I say as I open the front door.
Her mouth twitches. “I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re about to.”
She drops her bags in the hallway and begins to take in her surroundings—the kitchen, the living room, my shoes by the door next to Archer’s, and the twins’ backpacks hanging on their hooks.
“Your shoes are next to his,” she observes.
“I live here, Lauren.”
“I know you live here. I’m just, uh—” Her eyes brighten, and she presses her lips together. “I’m having a moment. Give me a second.”
“Oh my gosh.”
“I told you. On your last night in Minnesota, sitting on my couch, eating Thai food, I said you were in love with him, and you said, and I quote, ‘I am not in love with Archer Lockwood.’ I looked at you and said, ‘okay, Syd.’ Because we both knew.” She gestures at the house, at the shoes, at my entire life. “And here we are.”
“Are you done?”
“I’m never going to be done. I’m going to bring this up at every holiday, every birthday, and at your wedding.” She grins, satisfied.
“Nobody said anything about a wedding.”
“Yet.” She smirks. “Nobody said anything about a wedding yet.”
Lily comes barreling around the corner at full speed, barefoot and hair flying, and launches herself at Lauren’s legs.
“LAUREN!”
Lauren catches her, lifting her up as Lily wraps her arms around her neck and immediately starts talking about Jeffrey the giraffe’s latest adventure, which apparently involved a bathtub and a near-death experience.
Luke appears in the hallway, holding a book about cephalopods. He approaches Lauren at his own pace, assesses her for a moment, and then takes her free hand.
“Hi, Luke,” Lauren says.
“Hi. Did you know that cuttlefish can change color faster than any other animal on earth?”
“I did not know that.”
“Now you do.”
Lauren meets my eyes over Lily’s head and mouths I love them. I nod because I know, I know she does, and I love that she loves them. This is my life now—my best friend from Minnesota standing in my hallway in New York, holding my boyfriend’s daughter while his son shares marine biology facts.
My boyfriend. I still stumble over that word sometimes. Not because it doesn’t fit—it fits so well that my brain hasn’t caught up with it. But just because it’s still so new.
Bree picks up the twins on Sunday afternoon. She pulls into the driveway, and I walk them out, Lily’s bag slung over one shoulder and Luke’s over the other. Lily runs to the car, while Luke follows at his own pace.
Bree meets me at the trunk, and I hand her the bags.
“He left his shark blanket last time,” I say. “So I bought two. You can keep this one at your place.”
“Thanks.” She takes the bags and puts them in the trunk. “Just so you know, Lily has decided she wants French braids every day now. That’s your fault.”
“Guilty.”
“She told me mine aren’t as good as yours.” Bree shakes her head, but a faint smile lingers. “So thanks for that.” She pauses, looking past me into the house where Lauren is sitting on the couch with a glass of wine, waving. She turns back to me. “Lauren’s visiting?” she asks.
“For the weekend. Celebrating the end of the season.”
Bree nods. She knows the Knights lost in the first round of playoffs—five games against Boston.
Archer played well, but the defense fell apart in game four, and they couldn’t recover.
He took it hard, as he always does. After they were eliminated, he sat on the patio for two hours while I kept him company in silence because sometimes that’s what he needs—just someone beside him, not talking, not fixing, just being there.
“How’s he handling it?” Bree asks, her concern genuine. Despite everything between us, she still cares about the father of her kids.
“He’s okay. Disappointed. But the offseason will be good for him.”
“Good.” She turns to leave but stops. “Sydney.”
“Yeah?”
She stands on the porch, looking at me. “The kids are happy,” she says.
“I notice it every time I pick them up. Lily is, uh— calmer. And Luke talks more. He told me last week that you’re teaching him to dance, which, knowing Luke, means he’s doing his own version, and you’re letting him.
I just—” She swallows. “They’re happy. And I know that’s partly because of you. ”
My throat tightens. “Bree—”
“I’m not great at this. The sharing thing. The co-parenting with the new girlfriend thing. It’s, uh—a work in progress.” She pulls her keys from her bag. “But I’m glad they have you. You’re good for all of them.” She gives me a small, slightly sad smile.
“Thanks,” I say, returning the smile.
She walks down the steps, gets in her car, and drives away while I stand in the doorway, watching her taillights fade down the street.
Lauren appears behind me with her wine glass. “How’d that go? Was it awkward?”
“No,” I say, realizing it’s true. “Not at all, actually. She said the kids are happy.”
Lauren wraps her arm around my shoulder. “They are, Syd. Everyone can see it.”
That evening, Archer fires up the grill and the backyard fills up.
Banks and Winnie arrive with wine and a cheese board. Ollie arrives alone with a six-pack of craft beer.
The backyard is warm with early spring air and the string lights I hung last week because the patio needed something and Archer said “whatever you want, it’s your house too.”
Lauren steps outside with a fresh glass of wine and surveys the scene—Archer and Ollie at the grill, Banks in a chair with Winnie on the armrest.
“So this is the hockey world,” she says, settling into the chair next to me.
“This is the hockey world.”
“It’s very attractive. As a collective. You failed to mention that.”
Ollie materializes next to us like he was summoned by the word attractive. He has a beer in one hand and flashes his most charming grin, his eyes locked on Lauren.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” he says. “I’m Ollie. Oliver St. Brown. I play with Woody.”
“Woody?” Lauren glances at me before turning back to him. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“Archer,” I tell her.
“They call him Woody?”
Ollie’s grin widens. “It’s a hockey thing. Everybody gets nicknames—mostly last names. Archer’s last name is Lockwood, so he’s Woody. Or Lockdown if he’s having a good night between the pipes, which is most nights, the smug bastard.”
“Lockdown. Okay.” Lauren takes a slow sip of her wine. “Lauren, by the way. Syd’s best friend from Minnesota.”
“Minnesota,” Ollie says. “Great lakes.”
“That’s literally all we have.”
“And you.” He drops into the chair on her other side without being invited. “Minnesota also has you.”
Lauren looks at me. I press my lips together and shrug because watching Ollie try to charm Lauren is going to be the entertainment of the evening.
“Does this work for you?” Lauren asks, turning back to him. “The Minnesota line?”
“I don’t know. Is it working?”
“Not even a little.”
“I respect that. Can I try again?”
“You can try.” She tilts her head at him. “And what do they call you?” she asks, sweet as anything. “Saint? Brownie?”
Ollie’s grin slips slightly. “…Sometimes Saint.”
“Sometimes.”
He sighs. “Also Big Bird. There’s a photo from rookie year that—okay, I had a yellow jacket on, the lighting was bad, and the group chat ran with it for about a year.”
“Big Bird.”
“It’s not even accurate. I’m not that tall.”
“You’re six-three,” I say.
“I’m six-two, Syd.”
“Big Bird is taller than that,” Lauren says thoughtfully. “I think Big Bird is like eight feet.”
“Thank you,” Ollie says. “Finally. Someone who has done the research.”
Lauren laughs. “Anything else?”
He hesitates, takes a long drink of his beer. “Eggplant,” he says.
There’s a beat.
“…Like the vegetable?” Lauren asks.
“It’s not—it’s not about the vegetable.”
“Okay.”
“More like the emoji.”
“The emoji.” Her eyes widen.
“Yeah.”
Lauren is quiet for a moment, and I can see her piecing it together in real time. Then her eyebrows lift slightly. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “There was an incident in the locker room involving a towel and bad timing, and the guys are visual learners, so—”
“They named you after the emoji.”
“They named me after the emoji. I have been the eggplant in our team group chat for four years. I get tagged with it. I get sent it. Last Christmas, somebody bought an actual eggplant from the grocery store for the team gift exchange, and I had to open it in front of everybody and their wives. The guys were howling.”
Lauren bites the inside of her cheek, trying very hard not to laugh. “You poor thing,” she says.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“I would never.”
“You’re laughing at me.”
“I’m not laughing.” She takes another careful sip of wine. “I’m filing.”
Ollie’s mouth opens and closes, then opens again. He looks at me like he’s drowning and I’m the lifeguard.
I take a sip of my own wine and watch this happen, and yeah. This is going to be a thing.
He leans back and recovers. Takes another sip of his beer.
“Okay. New approach. No lines. You’re beautiful, I’m single, and your best friend is dating my best friend, which means we’re going to see each other at every holiday and team event for the foreseeable future.
So we might as well figure out now if we like each other. ”
Lauren stares at him for three full seconds, takes a sip of wine. “Buy me dinner first.”
“Done. Tomorrow night?”
“Sure. I fly home Monday.”
“Then tomorrow’s perfect.” He grins, stands, and walks away like the conversation is settled.
Lauren watches him go and then turns to me. “Is he always like that?”
“That’s Ollie.”
“He just—”
“Yep.”
She takes a long sip of wine and looks at the chair where he was sitting. “I’m not going to dinner with him.”
“Okay.”
“Stop smiling, Sydney.”
I’m smiling. I can’t help it.
Later, Winnie pulls me aside near the cooler while the guys are at the grill debating something about sear times that I’m fairly certain none of them actually understand.
“So we set a date,” she says. “September ninth. It’ll be here in the city. Small, nothing crazy.”
“Win, that’s amazing.”
“And I—” She tucks her hair behind her ear, which is how I know she’s nervous, because Winnie is never nervous.
“I want you to be a bridesmaid. If you want to. You don’t have to.
But you’re, like, one of my favorite people now, and I didn’t have that many friends in New York before you got here, and—”
“Yes.” I grab her hand. “Obviously yes.”
Her face breaks open into a grin. “Yeah?”
“Winnie, I would love to.”
She hugs me, and over her shoulder I can see Banks watching us from his chair with the faintest trace of a smile, which for Banks is basically fireworks.
“I’m going to be the worst bridesmaid,” I warn her. “I’ll cry during the ceremony and probably trip walking down the aisle.”
“You’re a dancer. You won’t trip.” She laughs.
“I’m so happy for you, Win.”
“I’m happy for all of us.” She squeezes my hand.
Archer catches my eye from the grill. He’s holding a spatula and wearing the old Knights t-shirt I’ve stolen and returned a hundred times, and he tips his beer toward me—just a small lift, just a look—and I tip my wine glass back.
After the burgers and the cleanup and the goodbyes—after Ollie has somehow gotten Lauren’s number despite her insisting she wasn’t interested, after Winnie has shown me fourteen potential bridesmaid dresses on her phone, the house is finally quiet.
Lauren is asleep in the guest room by nine-thirty. The champagne and the wine and the Ollie situation wore her out.
I’m on the back porch with a glass of wine, my feet on the railing, listening to the neighborhood settle.
Archer comes outside and sits next to me. I lean into him, his arm comes around my shoulders, and my head finds his chest.
“Good night,” he says.
“Really good night.”
“Ollie seemed interested in Lauren.”
“She’s going to dinner with him.”
“Wow. Didn’t see that coming,” he says.
We sit in the quiet together replaying the day.
“Arch?”
“Hmm.”
“Do you ever think about what would have happened if you’d said something back then? After that night?”
He’s quiet, his thumb moving along my shoulder. “I think we would have been a disaster. We were kids.”
“And now?”
He gives me a soft look. “And now I’m ready.”
I kiss him, and he pulls me into his lap, and the porch chair creaks under both of us and I laugh against his mouth and he holds me tighter.
“I love you,” I say. “I’ve loved you since you walked into my ballet class looking cute and clueless and couldn’t do a plié to save your life.”
“I love you too.” He presses his forehead against mine. “And for the record, I could do a plié.”
“You absolutely could not.”
He grins against my mouth and kisses me again, and the city hums around us and the house is warm behind us.
This is my life. Not borrowed. Not temporary. Not a guest room and a suitcase and a story I told myself about helping a friend.
Mine.
And it was worth every year of getting here.