Chapter 32 #2
Her eyes meet mine again, wet and stubborn. “I don’t want to be the reason you hate each other.”
“You’re not,” I say immediately. “You never were.”
She tries to shake her head, tries to argue, but her face crumples like the fight runs out of her.
And that’s the moment it hits me—how much she’s been holding alone. How long she’s believed love is something you lose if you ask for too much. I slide closer without crossing the pillow wall. I don’t touch her yet. I just let my voice do the work.
“Vesper,” I say, steadying myself on her name, “you didn’t ruin us. We did. We took something beautiful and got scared of it. We hurt each other because it was easier than admitting we wanted more.”
Her lips tremble. “And now?”
My chest aches at the question, because now is everything.
Now there’s her and a baby.
I swallow. “Now we have to do it differently. Fix what happened and learn from our mistakes if the three of us want to be happy—become a family.”
Vesper lets out a sound that could be a laugh, could be a sob. “That’s a bold statement.”
“I’m a bold guy,” I say softly, and then I let myself be honest in the way that scares me. “And I don’t want to lose you again.”
Her eyes shine. “Cally . . .”
“I know,” I whisper. “I know it’s terrifying. I know it’s complicated. I know you’re going to want to run because running is what you do when you care.”
“If you love each other,” she says, voice tight, “why not stay together? Why the rivalry?”
Because we turned love into competition and called it survival. Because we made the world believe it was about hockey when it was about heartbreak. Because it’s easier to hate someone than admit you miss them—you love them—when the world wouldn’t understand.
I shift a little, and the pillow between us feels like an accusation.
“We didn’t know how,” I say. “Men together isn’t a good brand in sports—especially hockey. Then you have Monty who doesn’t do closeness unless he can control it.”
“I thought,” she says, “you were both happier hating each other. Like it made things simpler.”
“Nope.
Her eyes search mine. “So why didn’t you fix it?”
I swallow, and the truth tastes like something I don’t want to admit. “Because I chose you and my career. If I tried anything and he rejected me . . . I didn’t know how to balance my love for you, the game and . . . him.”
She winces in sympathy.
“Also, I didn’t want to reach for him and get shoved away again,” I add. “I didn’t want to be the fool begging for a friendship or a love he didn’t want.”
Her voice is quiet. “Did he shove you away?”
“He acted like I was the mistake,” I say.
“Like I was the thing that ruined everything. And I told myself I didn’t care.
I told myself I could live without him. And maybe one day you’d choose me.
” I let out a breath. “And then it turned into a rivalry because . . . if I’m honest, it was easier to be mad at him than to miss him. ”
Vesper’s eyes soften, and that softness almost ruins me.
“Oh, Cally,” she says gently, “you’re such a dumbass.”
I huff a laugh, because I deserve it. “I know.”
“Do you still love him?” she asks.
“I thought I didn’t,” I begin, then sigh, adding, “But since we moved to Portland I realized I never stopped. I used the loathing to fight my feelings for him.”
Her eyes don’t widen like she’s shocked. They narrow like she’s been waiting for me to stop lying.
“And you love me,” she says, as if she’s testing the words.
“Yes,” I say again, and my throat tightens. “I love you. I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since I met you and you made me feel like I wasn’t alone in a place that didn’t feel like home.”
Her face shifts, and her chin trembles like she’s fighting tears.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Then why does it feel like everything has to explode every time we are together—the three of us?”
I shrug and take her hand, kissing the tip of her fingers.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she admits, voice thin. “I don’t know how to be someone’s . . . everything without breaking. It was easier when the two of you were far away.”
“You don’t have to be everything,” I say. “You just have to be you. We’ll learn the rest.”
She lets out a small, broken sound. “You say ‘we’ like it’s possible.”
“It is,” I say, because I need it to be. “Monty and I have to work on our parts. My resentment, the fear of losing our careers—losing you.”
Her eyes flick to the doorway like she can see Monty through walls.
“He needs to know,” she says softly, “that you love him.”
I nod. “I know.”
“And he needs to know,” she continues, voice firmer, “that you’re not going to abandon him.”
It’s my turn to wince.
“He’s never had a home,” she says quietly. “Not really. He acts like he doesn’t need it, but he does. He just doesn’t trust it. We have to convince him that we’re safe.”
I swallow. “I don’t know how to tell him without him thinking it’s pity.”
Vesper’s mouth tilts. “Yeah, well. Monty has the emotional range of a locked safe.”
I snort. She’s not wrong.
She shifts closer, the pillow between us sliding a little, not fully gone but less strict.
“What if,” she says slowly, “we don’t make it a speech? What if we show him?”
I look at her. “How?”
Her eyes hold mine, steady in a way that makes me want to believe in her even when she’s terrified.
“You stop treating him like an enemy,” she says. “You stop poking him like you want him to react. You stop making everything a contest.”
Ouch.
“And when he gets scared,” she adds, “you don’t punish him for it. You stay.”
I nod once. “Okay.”
Vesper exhales like she’s been holding something in for years. “Okay.”
I squeeze her gently, hand still on her belly. “And you.”
She blinks. “Me?”
“You stop trying to run,” I say, soft but firm. “You stop acting like you have to do this alone just because you’ve always done it alone.”
Her lips part, ready to argue.
I raise a brow. “Don’t.”
She glares. “I hate when you’re right, but I’ll work on it. Harvey is helping me find a therapist.” She smiles. “Just don’t get on my case and tease me, okay?”
“I’ll try,” I say, smiling a little. “But you love me anyway.”
Her eyes soften, and for a second she looks like the girl I met at camp—sunshine with teeth, brave in ways that scared me.
“I do,” she whispers.
The words land between us like a promise.
And somewhere outside this room, Alberto Montoya Navarro Wade is probably sitting in the dark with his own thoughts, telling himself he’s fine, telling himself he doesn’t need anyone, telling himself family is just another way to get hurt.
I don’t know how to fix everything I broke.
But I know I have to prove to him that I love him and he belongs.
Vesper’s fingers curl around mine, holding my hand.
“Tomorrow,” she says, voice quiet but certain, “we start doing this differently.”
I nod. “Tomorrow.”
She exhales, eyes fluttering closed. Exhaustion pulls at her fast.
Before sleep takes her, she murmurs, almost too soft to hear, “Don’t let him leave us.”
The request hits me like a vow.
“I won’t,” I whisper back. “Not again.”