Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
“I still want those things. But lately, I’ve been thinking about other aspects of life too—things I always told myself would come ‘later.’” She meets my eyes. “Family. Kids. A life that isn’t just about work.”
“And what does ‘later’ look like now?”
“I don’t know. That’s the scary part.” She laughs softly. “I spent so long protecting myself, keeping people at arm’s length, that I never really thought about what I actually wanted—just what I didn’t want.”
“Which was?”
“To be hurt. To be the cautionary tale. To need someone and have them leave.” She sets down her glass. “But you can’t build a life around avoiding things. At some point, you have to choose what you’re running toward instead of what you’re running from.”
I reach across the table and take her hand. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you stopped running.”
“Me too.” She squeezes my fingers. “Even if you did make it very difficult to maintain professional boundaries.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She laughs, and I think I could spend the rest of my life trying to make her laugh like that.
Dinner stretches into dessert, dessert into coffee, and by the time we leave, the restaurant is nearly empty. I’ve learned more about Tori Wells in three hours than I did in three months of treatment sessions.
I learn that her favorite movie is The Princess Bride, and she can quote the entire sword fight scene from memory. She stress-bakes when she’s anxious and once made seven loaves of banana bread during finals week. It’s random and odd, and I love it.
I discover that she’s afraid of disappointing people and sometimes lies awake at night wondering if she’s good enough. (She definitely is.) I find out that she wants kids, which sends warmth spreading through my chest.
We linger over the check, neither of us making a move to leave. The restaurant has emptied around us, candles burning low, and I’m not ready for this to end.
“So,” I say, signing the receipt, “I should probably get you home.”
“Probably.” She doesn’t move.
“Or...” I set down the pen. “Hannah’s with Maisie until midnight. I could pay her, send her home, and we could... talk. At my place.”
Tori raises an eyebrow. “Talk.”
“Among other things.” I hold her gaze. “If you want.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I can see her thinking—the implications, the step we’d be taking. Then something shifts in her expression. A decision made.
“I want to.”
Three words. My heart slams against my ribs.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She reaches across the table and threads her fingers through mine.
· · ·
Hannah is waiting in the living room when we walk in, her crossword puzzle abandoned on the coffee table. She stands when she sees us, and her eyes flick to Tori with obvious curiosity.
“Hannah, this is Tori. Tori, Hannah—she’s the reason I haven’t completely fallen apart this season.”
“Oh, stop.” Hannah waves a hand, but she’s smiling as she extends it to Tori. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. Maisie talks about you constantly.”
“She does?” Tori sounds genuinely surprised.
“Are you kidding? It’s Tori this, Tori that. Tori knows all the dinosaur names. Tori let me paint her nails. Tori’s going to teach me to do a cartwheel.” Hannah laughs. “I was starting to think she made you up.”
Tori’s cheeks go pink, and I love it. “She’s a pretty great kid.”
“She is.” Hannah’s expression softens as she looks between us. “And it’s nice to see this one smiling for a change. He’s been a grump for months.”
“I have not been a grump.”
“You’ve been a grump,” Hannah confirms. She grabs her bag and coat. “Maisie went down easy, by the way. Out like a light by eight.”
“You’re a lifesaver.”
“I know.” She pauses at the door, looking between me and Tori with a knowing twinkle. “You two have fun.”
Then she’s gone, and we’re alone.
The house feels different at night—quieter. The city lights glow through the windows, casting everything in soft shadows. Tori moves to the living room, running her fingers along the back of the couch, looking at the photos on the wall.
“That’s Maisie’s first hockey game,” I say, pointing to a picture of her in a tiny jersey, face painted with team colors. “She was three. Cried for the first twenty minutes because the noise scared her.”
“She looks so little.”
“She was. She still is, but sometimes she seems so grown-up it scares me.”
Tori turns to face me. “You’re a good dad, Zayden.”
“I try to be.”
“You are.” She steps closer.
I can’t help it. I kiss her.
It starts soft—a question more than a statement—but she answers by pressing closer, her hands sliding up my chest to curl around the back of my neck. I pull her against me, one hand in her hair, the other at the small of her back, and the kiss deepens into something hungrier.
She tastes like wine and chocolate and everything I’ve wanted for months.
“Upstairs,” I murmur against her mouth. “My room. Unless—”
“Yes.” She doesn’t let me finish. “Yes.”
I take her hand and lead her up the stairs, my heart pounding, barely able to believe this is actually happening. At the top, I pause to check Maisie’s room—door cracked, nightlight glowing, the soft sound of her breathing confirming she’s asleep.
Then, I pull Tori into my bedroom and close the door behind us.
She looks around, taking in the space—the big bed with the gray comforter, the stack of books on my nightstand that I always mean to read. Her gaze returns to me, and the desire in her eyes makes my mouth go dry.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.” I cross to her, cupping her face in my hands. “We can slow down if you want. We don’t have to—”
She kisses me to silence my words.
And then we stop talking altogether.