Epilogue Part 2
Conor
“No.” I don’t even bother looking up from the paperwork spread across my desk. I’ve already answered this question twice. The answer hasn’t changed with repetition.
“Aww, come on, Pops.”
Cillian leans against the doorframe, deploying what he believes are his best puppy-dog eyes.
“Please?”
I finally look at him. Then point directly at his face.
“You know that”—I wag my finger—“only works on your dad.”
His grin widens. Exactly the reaction I was trying to avoid.
“Then maybe,” he says in a sing-song voice, “I should go ask him.”
I sigh. He takes that as encouragement.
“If I get Dad on my side, you can’t say no.”
I stare at him. Fucking kid logic. The crazy part is he’s absolutely right.
Jaxon has an uncanny ability to make me reconsider decisions I’d already made.
Usually without saying much at all. One look.
One hand on my arm. A quiet, “Are you sure?”, and suddenly the hill I was prepared to die on isn’t nearly as important.
Cillian knows it too. The little traitor. He inherited Murphy’s stubbornness despite not sharing a drop of Murphy blood. Then again, blood has never had much to do with family in this house. He pushes off the doorframe.
“So… should I go get Dad?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “No.”
“Is that your final answer?”
“Yes.”
“Really final?”
“Yes.”
“What if—”
“No.”
“I didn’t even ask the question.”
“You were going to.” He grins. I point toward the hallway.
“Out.”
“Yes, sir.” He turns to leave. Then pauses. “I’m still going to ask Dad.”
Of course he is. I hear him jogging toward the kitchen. Not ten seconds later, Jaxon’s laugh echoes through the house. The sound makes the corner of my mouth lift despite myself. I’m about to lose this argument. Again. And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I let out a long sigh. The battle is already lost. Somewhere in the kitchen, Jaxon is probably listening to Cillian’s carefully rehearsed argument while pretending he hasn’t already decided to say yes. Traitor.
I open another tab in my browser.
Best beginner dirt bikes for teenagers.
Another.
Most effective motorcycle safety gear.
Another.
Youth neck braces.
Another.
How dangerous are dirt bikes really?
The answer is far more dangerous than I would prefer.
I open another tab.
Can you put a roll cage on a dirt bike?
No. Apparently not. Shame. I lean back in my chair, rubbing a hand over my face. Maybe if I wrapped him in bubble wrap. Several layers. A helmet. A chest protector. Elbow pads. Knee pads. Riding boots. Maybe two helmets.
The image of Cillian waddling around like an overstuffed marshmallow has me snorting to myself. Jaxon appears in the doorway a moment later. One look at my screen and he smiles.
“You’re researching already, aren’t you?”
“I am assessing the risks.”
“You’re shopping.”
“I am mitigating unnecessary danger.”
His smile grows. He crosses the room and rests a hand on my shoulder.
“He’ll be okay.” I cover his hand with mine.
“You’re still buying all the gear, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“The expensive gear?”
“Yes.”
“The airbag vest?”
I blink. “There are airbag vests?”
Jaxon’s eyes close. For a brief moment, I think he’s regretting telling me. Too late. I open another tab.
Best motorcycle airbag vest for teenagers.
Behind me, Jaxon laughs. The deep, genuine laugh I once thought I’d never hear.
It still catches me off guard. Five years later, and the sound still feels like a victory.
I turn my chair and hold out a hand. He doesn’t hesitate.
He settles into my lap as though it’s the most natural place in the world. The chair protests immediately. Loudly.
“The fudging chair, Conor.”
I bark out a laugh. “Fudging?”
He points a finger at me. “We have children now.”
“We do.”
“They repeat everything they hear.”
“They do.”
“So stop saying bad words.”
I arch an eyebrow. “You’re the one who just said fudging.”
“It counts less.”
“According to who?”
“Me.”
I smile against his temple. The man who once punctuated every sentence with military-grade profanity now polices my language.
Not because the kids are in the room. He does it because somewhere along the way, it became a habit.
He wants our children to grow up hearing kindness more often than anger.
He wants them to have the childhood he never had.
I wrap my arms around his waist. The chair groans again. Louder this time. Jaxon sighs dramatically.
“We’re going to break another one.”
“Then I’ll buy another.”
“You said that five years ago.”
“And I meant it then.” I tighten my hold just enough to make him lean back against me. “I’ll keep buying chairs for the rest of my life if it means you keep sitting in my lap.”
His head falls against my shoulder. I kiss the side of his head. The chair creaks ominously beneath us. Neither of us moves. Some things are simply worth replacing.
A throat clears, bursting our little bubble. I look up to find Dad standing in the doorway. Behind him, I catch the top of Cillian’s head peeking around the corner.
The kid still hasn’t figured out that half his body sticking into the hallway negates the concept of hiding.
“Dad.”
“So, Cillian’s birthday is next month.” He folds his arms across his chest. “Your mother and I wanted to discuss what we’re getting him.”
“Cillian,” I call without taking my eyes off Dad, “get in here and stop lurking in the hallway. I can see you.”
Slowly, Cillian shuffles into the office. Busted. I really need to work on that kid’s stealth. Thomas, on the other hand, routinely appears in rooms without any warning whatsoever. I’m convinced the child can teleport.
“As I was saying,” Dad continues, completely unfazed, “your mother and I are paying for riding lessons.” He rests a hand on Cillian’s shoulder. “Cade Walker has an opening next month.” He nods toward Cillian. “It would be a shame to pass that up.”
“Who is Cade Walker?”
The question barely leaves my mouth before Cillian makes a sound somewhere between a gasp and a wounded animal. His eyes go impossibly wide. Dad pinches the bridge of his nose. Jaxon slowly turns to stare at me. I glance between them.
“What?”
“You don’t know who Cade Walker is?” Cillian asks, sounding genuinely horrified.
“I have managed to survive this long without that information.”
“He’s only a five-time national champion!”
I shrug. “So?”
“So?” Cillian repeats, clutching his chest. “So?”
Jaxon buries his face against my shoulder. His body shaking. The traitor is laughing.
“You’re killing him, Conor,” he mumbles.
“I don’t see how.”
Dad sighs the sigh of a man questioning every decision that led to this moment.
“Son… Cade Walker is the biggest name in dirt bike racing.”
“Oh.”
Cillian brightens. “You know him now?”
“No.”
The hope drains from his face. Jaxon loses what little composure he had left. His laughter fills the office. Cillian throws both hands into the air.
“My Pops lives under a rock.”
I turn my monitor so Cillian can see the screen. He takes one look. His mouth falls open. Then he lets out a sound that can only be described as a war cry.
“YES!”
He throws his arms around Dad in a hug so enthusiastic it nearly knocks the old man off balance. Dad laughs. “You’re welcome, kid.”
Cillian spins toward us. My instincts scream at me to move.
The kid launches himself across the office.
Straight at me and Jaxon. For one brief, glorious second, I think the chair might survive.
The crack echoes through the room. Then gravity takes over.
The three of us disappear backward in a tangled heap of arms, legs, and laughter.
I hit the floor first. Jaxon lands across my chest. Cillian sprawls across both of us. The remains of my office chair scatter in every direction. Jaxon groans.
“The fudging chair.”
I bark out a laugh.
Cillian lifts his head. “Was that my fault?”
“No.” Jaxon and I answer in unison.
He narrows his eyes.
“You’re lying.”
“We’re absolutely lying.”
He grins. Then, to my complete lack of surprise, Thomas appears in the doorway. Just… there. The little menace looks at the pile of bodies and broken furniture. Looks at the chair. Then at me.
“Papa breaked it.”
The room erupts into laughter. Jaxon shifts enough to look at me. His smile is soft. Content. The kind that still catches me off guard after all these years.
Five years ago, I promised him family. Safety.
A home. Lying on the floor beneath my husband and our son, surrounded by laughter and the wreckage of another office chair, I realize something.
I kept every promise. And somehow, he gave me even more than I ever gave him.
After all these years, after all the chaos, after every battle fought and every promise kept, I finally understand what Mom meant when she called it imprinting.
Some people spend their lives searching for the one thing they can’t live without.
I found mine.
My fixation.