Chapter 20 TALIA
TALIA
Till Death Do Us Part
The second we step out of my father’s house and the door closes behind us, I exhale so hard it feels like I’ve been holding my breath for a year.
“Well,” I say faintly as we walk toward Jake’s car, “we’re alive.”
Jake lets out a short breath that might be a laugh. “Barely. I was honestly ready to grab you and make a run for it at one point.”
I let out a quiet chuckle.
Jake unlocks the car and we slide inside.
He starts the engine.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then, without looking at me, he reaches across the center console.
His hand finds mine.
My fingers curl around his automatically.
We drive like that in silence.
It’s strange how quickly his hand in mine has started to feel familiar.
We’ve only been pretending for a short while, and somehow this already feels easy.
Worse, it feels real.
I stare out the window at the passing streetlights, but my mind drifts back to something Jake said at dinner.
I like knowing there’s one person I would do anything for. And knowing she would do the same for me.
It almost makes me tear up. Because I wish he had meant it. I wish it were true.
But I know it was all for show.
And I can’t even resent him for it, because I’m the person who created this mess in the first place.
When we pull into the driveway, neither of us lets go immediately.
The headlights wash over the front of the house. The garden. The porch steps.
Home.
Jake cuts the engine.
He turns slightly toward me and looks as if he wants to say something.
His mouth opens just a fraction.
And panic flares in my chest for absolutely no logical reason.
So I jump in first.
“So,” I say too quickly, already reaching for the door handle, “I’m gonna go to bed. I’m tired.”
The words tumble out in one breath.
Jake pauses. I can feel his eyes on me.
He clears his throat. “Of course. It is late.”
His voice is neutral. Calm.
“Okay then,” I say, nodding like we’re in some kind of business meeting. “I will.”
“Okay, great.”
We sound like two coworkers clocking out of a shift.
There’s a half-second of silence where neither of us moves, like we’re waiting for the other to go first.
Then we both reach for our doors at the exact same time.
And somehow we both speed up slightly on the path to the front door.
It feels like we’re racing each other to the safety of our own bedrooms.
Weird.
This is so weird.
The second we’re inside, I’m already halfway up the staircase when I toss a quick, “Night,” over my shoulder.
“Night,” he echoes.
His voice follows me up the stairs.
I take them a little too fast.
By the time I reach the hallway, my heart is pounding harder than it should.
I shut the bedroom door and lean back against it.
What the hell was that?
***
The next morning, I wake up early, but I know Jake is already at practice.
I slip out of bed and pad downstairs.
The house is quiet.
I make coffee and step into the garden with my mug.
The air smells like damp earth and rosemary.
I love this garden.
I love how peaceful it is in the mornings.
I set my mug down and run my fingers over the leaves of the lavender bush.
I didn’t expect to love living here so much.
I love the quiet hum of the house. I love the way the kitchen fills with sunlight in the afternoon. I love that there’s always fresh fruit in a bowl on the counter because Jake insists on it.
And I love painting here.
I love standing at the easel in the late-morning light, brush in hand, music playing softly, knowing he’ll come home eventually.
Grumpy.
Exhausted.
And I’ll be the one who makes him smile.
With that thought, I turn back to the canvas. It’s almost finished.
I paint for hours.
Losing myself in color and movement and the quiet scratch of bristles against canvas.
Time slips by unnoticed until I hear the front door open and the soft thud of Jake’s bag hitting the floor.
A low sigh.
Then his voice. “It smells like paint.”
I smile and turn.
He’s leaning in the doorway, still in practice gear, hair damp, expression tired.
And then he sees me fully. His mouth curves.
There it is. The smile. Warm. Unfiltered.
I did that.
“How was it?” I ask.
“Long.”
“Did you behave?”
He snorts. “Mostly.”
I set my brush down and wipe my hands.
“Hungry?”
“Starving.”
Jake takes a quick shower while I start dinner.
A few minutes later, without a word and like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he grabs a cutting board and a knife and starts chopping vegetables.
While he works, I occasionally steal pieces from the board.
“Stop,” he says, laughing.
“They were too small to use,” I protest. “You cut them in the perfect size for me to snack on. They’re not even proper soup-size.”
He hums under his breath, already sounding in a better mood.
We talk while we cook.
About practice.
About the garden.
About nothing and everything.
After yesterday ended on such a strange note, this feels easy again.
When we sit down at the table, plates steaming in front of us, the house feels warm. Lived-in.
We eat slowly, conversation flowing easily between us.
At one point, Jake tells a story about a rookie messing up a drill and reenacts the guy’s expression so dramatically that I nearly choke on my water.
Who would have thought he could be this funny?
He grins at me across the table.
I can’t help but grin back. “You know what I can’t stop thinking about? When my dad thought I was pregnant last night. I know he would’ve been shocked if we’d said yes, but I also wouldn’t be surprised if he starts asking for grandkids soon.”
I expect Jake to laugh. To play along.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he takes a long gulp of water. “Yeah. That’s never going to happen.”
I give a small laugh. “Yeah, I know. It’s not like we’re actually married.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Something in his tone makes me still.
“I mean,” he says evenly, “I don’t want kids.”
I already know this. He told me that the night of the charity dinner.
I try to keep my voice light. “Okay.”
Jake’s gaze drops to his plate. The muscle in his jaw works once, like he’s chewing something he can’t swallow.
“Why?” I ask gently.
There’s a long moment where I can see him deciding whether to shut down or stay in it with me.
“There’s just no place for kids in my life,” he says.
I swallow. “Because of hockey?”
His mouth twists. “Partly.”
“Then because of what?”
“I never had a good father figure. There wasn’t room for me in my dad’s life,” he continues. “He had his career. His… priorities. And when it got hard, he walked away.”
My throat burns.
Jake’s eyes flick to mine briefly. There’s a brutal kind of honesty in them.
“I would never do to my family what he did to us,” he says. “But I also couldn’t stay. So I decided a long time ago I’d never have to make that choice.”
He exhales.
“When my dad left, it was just me and my mom. And she did everything. She worked. She showed up. She held it together even when she shouldn’t have had to.”
He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“And I saw what it did to her,” he adds. “How tired she was. How she still tried to make life feel… normal.”
I reach for my water just to have something to do with my hands.
His voice drops lower.
“So when people talk about kids like it’s this sweet little dream, all I can think is… yeah. Until it isn’t. Until you’re the one failing them. Until you realize you can’t be what they need.”
My heart pounds.
“I’m gone all the time,” he says. “Travel. Games. Practice. Media. Sponsors. And when I’m home, half the time my head’s still at the rink. Planning. Fixing. Containing.”
He releases a slow breath.
“My priority is my career, Talia.”
He hesitates, then continues.
“I don’t want a kid who has to wait for me. I don’t want to be someone’s father and then realize I’m not capable of being there.”
His eyes drop to the table.
“And… my mom is gone,” he adds, his voice rougher now. “So now it’s just me.”
Something tightens painfully around my heart.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” I say softly.
My voice comes out smaller than I mean it to.
I draw in a breath.
“I didn’t exactly grow up with the warm-and-cozy version of family either,” I admit.
Jake’s eyes lift to mine.
I look down at the pattern on the rug, gathering the right words.
“My dad was gone a lot too,” I say. “He was always… working. Coaching. Recruiting. Traveling. Hockey was the center of everything.”
I swallow.
“My mom tried to balance it,” I continue. “She was the one who made it feel like a home. Like we mattered.”
My chest tightens.
“Then she died when my sister Katia and I were teenagers,” I say quietly.
Jake’s posture shifts immediately. The edge in him softens into something alert and focused.
“How old were you?”
“Fourteen,” I whisper. “Katia was sixteen.”
Jake’s hand tightens on the arm of the chair.
“And after that,” I continue, voice getting shakier, “my dad got worse. Not in a mean way. In a… disappearing way. Like the only thing he knew how to do was work, and grief just made him double down.”
I blink hard.
“It was like we became… background noise,” I admit.
Jake’s expression darkens.
“And Katia,” I say, the name tasting like pain.
I hesitate.
Jake waits.
“Katia and I were close,” I say. “We still are. Or… we were. She was the one who snuck into my room at night when I couldn’t sleep and made me laugh even when everything was awful.”
My throat tightens.
“But after Mom died, she started… slipping,” I say. “At first it was little things. Parties. Older friends. Coming home late. Then it was stronger stuff.”
“My dad didn’t know how to handle it,” I continue. “He’s a control person. He understands rules. Discipline. Consequences.”
I let out a small, broken laugh. “He doesn’t understand addiction.”
Jake’s eyes stay on me. Steady.
“Recently,” I say, my voice barely there, “he threw her out.”
I force the words out.
“He said he couldn’t support her lifestyle anymore. That he wouldn’t be an enabler. That she was choosing drugs over family.”
My eyes burn.
“And maybe she was,” I add quickly, because I hate how guilty I feel even thinking it. “But it’s not that simple. It’s never that simple.”
Jake’s voice stays low. “When did you last talk to her?”
My stomach twists.
“Not since she moved out,” I admit. “I called. I texted. She never answers. I don’t even know where she is. If she has somewhere to stay.”
My hands curl into fists in my lap.
“When my dad kicked her out, I thought she’d come to me,” I whisper. “I always think she’ll just show up at my door one day. Or at least call.”
I swallow hard.
“She hasn’t. I haven’t seen her. And I’m terrified she’s out there somewhere and something’s happening and I don’t even know.”
A single tear slips down my cheek.
I stare at my hands because if I look at Jake I might fall apart completely.
Then I feel movement.
Jake stands abruptly. His chair scrapes softly against the floor.
For a split second I think he’s leaving the room, and my stomach drops.
But he comes around the table and crouches beside me.
His big body folding down until he’s level with mine.
He pulls me into him, wrapping his arms around me in a tight, protective hug that steals my breath.
His chest is warm. Solid. Safe.
My face presses into his sweatshirt, and I breathe him in. Soap. Clean laundry. Something that feels like home.
I fist the fabric at his back like I’m anchoring myself.
He holds me like he knows exactly what it feels like to be left behind.
His hand moves slowly up and down my back. Steady. Reassuring.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice rough near my ear.
The words crack something open inside me.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“I don’t know what to do,” I whisper.
His arms tighten just slightly around me.
And as I sit there in my accidental husband’s embrace, my heart cracked wide open and still somehow steady, I realize the scariest truth of all—
I don’t just want him here tonight.
I want him beside me for whatever life throws at us.
For better or worse.
Till death do us part.