16. Jaxon
Jaxon
"Uncle Jaxon, is my costume okay? Emily's mom made hers from scratch, and it has real sequins." Lily twirls in her solar system costume, planets wobbling precariously on their wire orbits around her Saturn-ringed middle.
"You look stellar," I assure her, adjusting Neptune before it can slide into her shoulder. "Literally."
She rolls her eyes at my dad joke, but I catch the smile she tries to hide. "Is Vivienne coming?"
The question I've been dreading all day. "I don't know, kiddo. She's really busy with work right now."
"But I told her about it last week. She promised she'd try." Her bottom lip quivers slightly. "She's still mad at you, isn't she?"
"It's more complicated than that," I say automatically, then catch myself using the adult evasion Lily hates.
"You didn't tell her to stay," Lily says with the devastating directness only children possess. "Mrs. Patterson says you're being stupid."
I nearly choke. "Mrs. Patterson said that?"
"Not to me," she clarifies. "I heard her talking to Maria from the cleaning service. She said you're being stupid and stubborn just like your father was."
Great. Even my household staff is discussing my romantic failings.
"We should get going," I say, desperate to change the subject. "Don't want to be late for your big debut as the solar system."
The drive to Lily's elementary school is mostly silent, her earlier excitement dampened by thoughts of Vivienne's impending departure.
I can't blame her. For the past two days, I've been walking around in a fog of regret and indecision, replaying our last encounters in my mind, searching for what I could have said or done differently.
Congratulations. Well deserved. The most cowardly text I've ever sent. Three empty words when what I wanted to say was Please don't go. I love you. I'm terrified, but I want to try.
But I didn't say any of that. And now Vivienne is leaving a week from Sunday, bound for London and a new life without the complications of me and my baggage.
The school auditorium is already packed with parents when we arrive, the particular blend of excitement and anxiety that accompanies elementary school performances hanging in the air.
Mrs. Patterson has saved us seats in the third row, and I help Lily navigate to the backstage area before joining her.
"She's nervous," Mrs. Patterson observes as I settle beside her. "But she'll do wonderfully."
"She always does," I agree. "She's fearless on stage. Gets that from..." I trail off, realizing I was about to say "me" before remembering that Lily and I don't actually share DNA.
"From you," Mrs. Patterson finishes firmly. "Blood doesn't make family, Mr. Hart. Love does."
I nod, touched by her certainty. "I hope the judge at next week's hearing feels the same way."
"Speaking of love," she continues, deliberate casualness in her tone, "have you spoken to Ms. Clarke?"
"Not since she accepted the London position," I admit, discomfort creeping up my spine. Mrs. Patterson has never been one to meddle in my personal life.
"Hmm." She fusses with her program, the disapproval radiating off her in waves. "Such a shame. She was good for both of you."
"Mrs. Patterson—"
"Forgive me for overstepping, Mr. Hart, but I've watched you since you were a boy. You've always run from connection, from vulnerability. Just like your father did. Look how that turned out for him—wealthy, respected, and completely alone inside."
Her words hit with unexpected force. My father, for all his business success and social standing, died estranged from both his sons, isolated by his own inability to connect. Is that the legacy I'm choosing to continue?
Before I can respond, the lights dim and the principal steps on stage to welcome everyone.
The typical elementary school production chaos ensues—forgotten lines, askew costumes, the occasional child freezing in stage fright.
But the parents eat it up, phone cameras raised to capture every endearing moment.
I'm so focused on watching Lily's scene that I almost miss the movement at the end of our row. A latecomer, slipping into an empty seat on the aisle.
Vivienne.
My heart stutters, then races. She's here, elegant even in simple jeans and a soft blue sweater, hair pulled back in a casual knot. She hasn't seen me yet, eyes fixed on the stage where the kindergarteners are finishing their song about healthy eating habits.
Mrs. Patterson notices my sudden tension and follows my gaze. "Ah," she says softly. "Perhaps not all hope is lost."
"She's just here for Lily," I whisper, though hope flares despite my best efforts to temper it.
The first and second grade classes perform their space-themed songs, planets and stars bobbing as they move. Then it's time for Lily's third-grade class and their "Journey Through Our Solar System" presentation.
Lily spots Vivienne immediately, her face lighting up with pure joy. She waves enthusiastically, nearly dislodging Mars from its wire orbit. Vivienne waves back, and for a moment it feels so normal, so right—the three of us connected by this child's joy, a family in all but legal documentation.
The realization hits me with the force of physical impact. This is what I want. Not just custody of Lily, not just professional success, but this connection. This belonging. This woman who challenges me and sees me and loves my niece with a fierceness that matches my own.
Lily delivers her lines flawlessly, explaining Saturn's rings with scientific precision and childish enthusiasm. I record it all, heart swelling with pride and a strange kind of grief—grief for the family we almost were, for the connection I was too afraid to fight for.
After the performance, parents and children mingle in the auditorium, exchanging congratulations and arranging playdates. Lily rushes to us, still in her costume, planets wobbling dangerously.
"You came!" she exclaims, throwing herself at Vivienne with such force that Uranus detaches completely.
"Of course I did," Vivienne says, kneeling to hug her properly. "I promised, didn't I? You were amazing up there, space girl."
"Did you see when I did the Saturn spin? I practiced it a hundred times!"
"It was perfect," Vivienne assures her, retrieving the fallen planet and attempting to reattach it. "You're a natural performer."
"Like Uncle Jaxon," Lily says proudly, turning to include me in the conversation. "He's teaching me guitar too."
The moment stretches, awkward and weighted as Vivienne finally meets my eyes. "That's wonderful," she says softly. "You have a good teacher."
"The best," Lily agrees, oblivious to the tension. "Are you coming home with us? Mrs. Patterson made celebration cupcakes."
Vivienne's expression falters. "I don't think—"
"Please?" Lily's voice holds a note of desperation that tugs at my heart. "Just for cupcakes? Before you go away to London?"
I watch the conflict play across Vivienne's face—the desire to spare Lily pain warring with her need to maintain distance from me.
"Just for cupcakes," I hear myself say. "For Lily's celebration. If you have time."
She hesitates, then nods. "I have time."
The drive back to the house is filled with Lily's excited chatter about the performance, each child's costume, and the backstage drama involving a missing moon prop. Vivienne responds with appropriate enthusiasm, but I catch her glancing at me, questions in her eyes that I don't know how to answer.
At the house, Mrs. Patterson seems unsurprised by Vivienne's presence, setting an extra place at the table with a knowing smile that makes me wonder if she orchestrated this somehow. We gather around for cupcakes—chocolate with blue frosting and edible glitter, "like stars," Lily declares.
"When do you leave for London?" Mrs. Patterson asks Vivienne directly, ignoring my warning look.
"Next Sunday morning," Vivienne replies, carefully neutral. "Early flight."
"So soon," Mrs. Patterson says with exaggerated concern. "Hardly time to say proper goodbyes."
"I've said most of them already," Vivienne says, gaze flicking to me briefly. "Just a few loose ends to tie up."
"Is that what we are?" The words escape before I can stop them. "Loose ends?"
Lily looks between us, confusion evident. "What's loose ends?"
"Nothing, sweetheart," Vivienne says quickly. "Grown-up talk."
"About you leaving?" Lily persists. "Because you don't have to go, you know. You could stay here with us."
An awkward silence descends on the table. Mrs. Patterson stands abruptly. "Lily, why don't you come help me get the ice cream from the freezer? I think we need some to go with these cupcakes."
Once they've left, the kitchen feels too large and too small simultaneously. Vivienne stares at her half-eaten cupcake, fingertip tracing the edge of her plate.
"I didn't mean to make this harder," she says finally. "Coming today. I just couldn't bear to miss her performance after I promised."
"I'm glad you came," I tell her honestly. "It meant everything to her."
"And you?" she asks, finally meeting my eyes. "What would mean everything to you, Jaxon?"
The question hangs between us, the opening I've been waiting for and dreading simultaneously. But before I can formulate an answer, her phone rings—the specific tone she's set for work emergencies.
"I'm sorry, I have to take this," she says, stepping away from the table. "Gerald? What's wrong?"
I watch her expression shift from personal to professional, concern creasing her brow as she listens. "How bad is it?... When did this happen?... No, of course, I'll be right there."
She ends the call, already gathering her things. "I have to go. There's a crisis with the Lumina launch—someone leaked confidential concepts to a competitor, and they're rushing to market with a knockoff version before our announcement."
"Tonight?" I ask, disappointment coursing through me.
"The ad is scheduled to go live at midnight," she explains, already heading for the door. "If we don't counter it somehow, months of work will be undermined. I need to call a car."