Chapter 26
Maria
I stare at my phone, the strange text Tuck just sent glowing up at me, and my stomach coils tight enough to steal my breath.
Did he go home?
Did he see what I’d done?
Heat crawls up my neck as my mind races. If he saw it…did he hate it? Did it feel like too much? Like I’m trying to build something he doesn’t want, something he’s not ready for?
Is this his way of stepping back…without saying the words out loud?
My chest tightens.
Or maybe—maybe I’m doing that thing again. The spiraling. The bracing for impact before anything’s even hit. Maybe he just got busy. Maybe I’ve turned a simple text into a catastrophe because that’s what I’ve learned to expect.
I swallow hard, staring at the screen until the letters blur. I didn’t do it to trap him into something he doesn’t want. God, no. I did it because…because I wanted him to see it. To feel it. To understand that he’s not just orbiting our lives anymore—he’s in them. That he matters. That I—
I drag in a breath that doesn’t quite fill my lungs.
“That I want more,” I whisper under my breath, the admission too quiet for anyone but me.
“Everything okay?”
Kate’s voice cuts through my thoughts and I blink up at her, her dark lashes sweeping over eyes that miss very little.
I shift on the cold bleachers, the chill seeping through my jeans as the rink hums around us—skates carving ice, sticks tapping, the low murmur of the crowd building as warm-ups start.
“Yes.” The word comes too quickly. I paste on a smile that feels thin at the edges. “Tuck was helping Noah fix his fence today. I think he must’ve gotten tied up. He can’t make it.”
Even as I say it, something in my chest twists.
She frowns slightly, turning her gaze back to the ice. “That’s too bad. Josh will be disappointed.”
My stomach tightens further, guilt layering over anxiety.
It’s true. Josh will be disappointed. But there will be other games.
Other chances. It’s not like Tuck is…disappearing.
Not like he’s choosing someone else over them.
Not like— My thoughts hitch, veering somewhere darker before I can stop them.
Not like their father did.
I press my lips together, forcing that memory back where it belongs. Tuck isn’t him. He’s never given me a reason to think he would be. So why does this feel so off?
“Tuck’s not coming?” Nicklas leans around Kate, his brows drawn together.
“He must’ve gotten tied up,” I repeat, but this time the words feel hollow, like I don’t quite believe them myself.
He said he’d be here.
Tuck doesn’t break his word. Not casually. Not with the boys.
A flicker of unease sparks.
Maybe something happened. Maybe there really was some kind of fence emergency—I don’t even know what that would look like.
A broken post? A downed line? My brain scrambles for logic, for something that makes sense.
And then a colder thought slips in. What if he got hurt?
My fingers tighten around my phone. No. He would’ve said that…
wouldn’t he? Unless, he didn’t want me to worry.
I tuck my phone into my pocket like that might quiet the noise in my head, but it doesn’t. Not even close. Beside me, Kate pulls out her own phone, her expression unreadable as her fingers move over the screen. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to. She’s texting him.
I look back out at the ice, but I’m not really seeing it anymore. Just motion and color and noise layered over the steady drum of my pulse.
“Did you have a nice visit with your friend, Violet?” I ask, the words coming out a little too bright. A little too eager. I need something—anything—to grab onto that isn’t the tightening spiral in my chest.
She glances at me, then smiles. “It was so good to get caught up.”
“Is she a lawyer too?”
“No, we went to undergrad together at Dalhousie. She got married right after graduation. They moved here, and now she’s a full-time homemaker with two small kids. She loves it.” Kate lets out a soft snort. “I’m not sure that’s for me. It seems like a lot of work.”
A real laugh slips out of me this time. “You’re not wrong.” I shake my head. “I used to be a full-time homemaker too, before I moved here.” My smile turns wry. “Actually…I still am. Just with a job and school on top of it now.”
The words settle between us, and I can’t help but wonder how much Tuck knows about me. About what happened with Lucian…and Gina. About how everything I thought was solid just… cracked open one day and never quite fit back together the same way.
I don’t want to tell that story. Not here. Not now. But I can’t help wondering about Tuck’s story. About the parts of him he keeps tucked away so carefully. Nova Scotia. His past. The things he doesn’t say. Kate hasn’t offered anything, and I’m not sure she will. Whatever it is—it’s his to tell.
But it’s there.
I’ve felt it from the beginning. In the way he use to hesitate just a fraction too long before stepping in. In the way he showed up so fully after the car accident. In the way he looks at the boys like they’re something precious he’s afraid to mishandle.
Disappoint.
Fail.
And in that quiet moment Kate and I shared, when she told me he’s spent most of his life trying to earn his place…
I knew.
That kind of weight doesn’t just disappear. It settles in your bones. Shapes your choices. Follows you into every almost, every maybe, every what if.
A heavy past that lingers at the edges of something good…and makes you wonder how long it’ll last before it slips through your fingers. My hand drifts back to my pocket, to the phone I’m trying not to check.
Waiting.
For an answer.
For him.
Kate looks at her phone for a beat longer, her thumb hovering like she might try again, like she could will a response into existence if she just waits long enough. When nothing comes, she exhales softly and turns back to me.
“It couldn’t have been easy moving here with two boys and doing it all on your own,” she says, her voice gentler now, thoughtful.
“But look at you, Maria. You’re in college.
” She gives a small shake of her head, her lips pressing together like she’s genuinely impressed.
“What you’re doing is hard. Raising a family, taking classes, working full-time…
” She trails off, her brow creasing slightly.
“I don’t know much about raising kids.” Then, quieter, almost like the words slip out before she can stop them, “Not like Tuck.”
Something in me stills.
“Not like Tuck?” I ask, my voice careful, but my heart kicks a little faster, a sudden, sharp rhythm against my ribs. “What do you mean by that?”
For a split second, her expression cracks. It’s quick—so quick I almost miss it—but it’s there. A flash of something raw and unguarded. Regret? Panic? Like she’s said too much.
Then it’s gone.
She smooths it over with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, pulling herself back together piece by piece. “Oh—ah—your boys,” she says, waving a hand lightly, too lightly. “He’s good with them.”
She turns toward the rink like the conversation is over, like nothing just shifted between us.
But I don’t look away. I watch her for a second longer, something uneasy curling low in my stomach.
The noise of the arena swells around us—skates carving ice, sticks cracking, parents shouting encouragement—but it all feels a little distant now, like I’ve slipped just slightly out of sync with everything.
She’s not telling me something.
And worse…
Tuck isn’t telling me something.
My throat tightens. I reach for my Thermos, unscrewing the lid with fingers that feel just a little unsteady, and take a long drink of water. It’s cool, but it doesn’t settle the thoughts spinning inside my head.
There’s something more in those words…not like Tuck.
Her gaze drifts back to me, and this time she seems more composed, like she’s locked whatever that was safely away again. Her chin lifts slightly, her usual confidence sliding back into place.
“But if you ever need help with your classes,” she says, her tone warm. “I’m just a call away.”
I nod, forcing my expression to stay neutral even as my mind races. “That means a lot. Thank you.”
“What if I need help with something?” Nicklas cuts in, leaning across Kate with a grin, clearly oblivious to the undercurrent threading through the conversation.
She turns to him, rolling her eyes, and fires something back that makes him laugh. Their voices blur together after that, light, easy, flirtatious, but I’m not really listening anymore.
My attention drifts—back to the ice, back to the empty seat beside me, back to Tuck. Always back to Tuck. I consider pulling my phone out again, my fingers itching with the need to do something—text him, call him, ask—but I stop myself.
If he’s pulling away…
If that text was his way of creating distance…
I don’t want that conversation to happen in a few typed words on a screen. I want to see his face. I want to hear it in his voice. I want to know what he’s afraid of, what’s holding him back.
Josh glances up at us from the ice, his helmet slightly askew, cheeks flushed pink from the cold.
His eyes go straight to the empty space beside me—and linger.
Then he scans the bleachers. Hope flickers there for just a second.
My chest aches as I watch it fade. His gaze lands on his brother and Ari instead, and even from here I can see the shift—the subtle drop in his shoulders, the quiet disappointment he tries to hide.
He just nods once, like he’s accepting it, and turns back toward the play.
I force myself to focus on the game, tracking the movement of the puck, the rush of players up and down the ice—but my attention keeps slipping, snagging on the doors at the top of the stands. Every few seconds, my eyes flick up.
Waiting.
Half-expecting—
No.
Needing—
—to see Tuck come sauntering in, a little late, maybe apologetic, maybe breathless, but here.