Chapter Fifteen Kelly
Chapter Fifteen
Kelly
I'm on the porch with my laptop when the car pulls into the driveway.
It's Wednesday afternoon, the day after Travis left for practice with the team.
I've been trying to write—keyword trying—but mostly I've been staring at the same paragraph and thinking about our phone call last night.
The way his voice sounded when he said he wasn't sure if he wanted hockey anymore.
The way he said "I miss you" like it cost him something to admit.
The car is a silver SUV, shiny and new, a vehicle that looks out of place on my grandmother's gravel driveway. I don't recognize it. I'm not expecting anyone.
I close my laptop and stand up as three people climb out.
A woman in her fifties with highlighted hair and a puffy jacket.
A man around the same age, tall and broad-shouldered, with gray at his temples.
And a younger woman—late twenties, maybe—with the same build as the man and a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
They're walking toward the house like they belong here. Like they know exactly where they're going.
"Can I help you?" I call from the porch.
The older woman's smile widens. "You must be Kelly. I'm so glad we finally get to meet you."
I frown. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"
"Oh, forgive me. I should have introduced myself." She climbs the porch steps with her hand extended. "I'm Patricia Howe. Travis's mother. This is my husband, Richard, and our daughter, Savannah."
Travis's family. Here. At my house. While Travis is three hours away and has no idea they're coming.
I shake Patricia's hand because I don't know what else to do. "It's nice to meet you. I didn't realize—Travis didn't mention you were coming."
"It was a spur-of-the-moment thing." Patricia waves a hand dismissively. "We were in the area and thought we'd stop by, see where Travis has been hiding himself all these months. He's told us so much about you."
He has? That doesn't sound like Travis. Travis, who keeps everything close, who took weeks to tell me his real name. I can't imagine him volunteering information about me to anyone, let alone his family.
"Would you like to come in?" I ask, because my grandmother raised me with manners even when something feels off.
"We'd love that. Thank you so much."
I lead them inside, hyperaware of how the house looks through their eyes. The worn furniture, the old photographs, my laptop and coffee mug still sitting on the kitchen table. It's not fancy. It's not impressive. I wonder what they expected.
"What a charming place," Patricia says, looking around. "Very... cozy."
"It was my grandmother's house. I inherited it when she passed."
"Yes, Travis mentioned that. I'm so sorry for your loss." She says it smoothly, automatically, the way people say things they don't really mean. "It must be nice to have someone nearby to help out. Travis has always been so handy."
"He's been very helpful," I agree carefully.
Richard has wandered over to the bookshelf, examining the spines with his hands clasped behind his back. Savannah is perched on the arm of the couch, scrolling through her phone with practiced boredom. Neither of them has said a word since we came inside.
"Can I get you anything?" I ask. "Coffee? Water?"
"Coffee would be lovely." Patricia settles into my grandmother's armchair like she owns it. "We've been driving for hours. You know how it is."
I don't, actually. I have no idea where they came from or how they knew where to find me. But I go to the kitchen and start a pot of coffee, grateful for something to do with my hands.
While the coffee brews, I pull out my phone and text Travis.
Your family is here.
The response comes almost immediately. What?
Your mom, dad, and sister. They just showed up. Said they were in the area.
A pause. Then: I'm so sorry. I had no idea they were coming. What did they say?
Nothing yet. They're being friendly. It's weird.
Don't tell them anything. About us, about me, anything. I'll explain when I get back.
Okay. Should I be worried?
Another pause, longer this time. Just be careful.
That's not reassuring. But before I can respond, Patricia appears in the kitchen doorway.
"Need any help?"
"No, I've got it. Almost ready."
She leans against the counter, watching me pour coffee into mugs. "So, Kelly. Tell me about yourself. Travis hasn't shared much, and I'm just dying to know more about the woman who's captured his attention."
"There's not much to tell. I'm a writer. I moved here a few months ago to work on a book."
"A writer! How exciting. What kind of book?"
"A thriller."
"Oh, how fun. I love a good thriller. Maybe I'll read it when it's done." She accepts the mug I hand her and takes a sip. "And how did you and Travis meet? He's been so secretive about everything."
"He was already living in the cottage when I inherited the house. My grandmother had an arrangement with him."
"An arrangement." Patricia's eyebrows rise. "How interesting. And you just... let him stay?"
"My grandmother trusted him. That was good enough for me."
"Of course. Eleanor always did have a soft spot for strays."
Something about the way she says it makes my hackles rise. Strays. Like Travis is a stray dog she's discussing, not her son.
I carry the other mugs to the living room and hand them to Richard and Savannah. Richard nods his thanks without making eye contact. Savannah doesn't look up from her phone.
"So," Patricia says, settling back into the armchair with her coffee. "How long have you and Travis been together?"
"I'm not sure I'd say we're together. We've been getting to know each other."
"But you're dating. He mentioned he was seeing someone."
He did? When? "We've been on one date. It's still very new."
"One date." Patricia exchanges a glance with Richard that I can't interpret. "And yet here he is, living in your backyard, spending all his time with you. That seems like more than just getting to know each other."
"He was living here before we started... whatever this is. It's not like I moved him in."
"Of course not. I didn't mean to imply anything." But her smile has sharpened, just a little. "It's just that Travis has a history of getting attached quickly. We worry about him, that's all. He's been through so much this year."
"I know. He told me about his grandmother. And the... incident."
"Did he?" Patricia's eyes narrow. "What exactly did he tell you?"
I think about the cottage, the confession, the way Travis's voice cracked when he talked about missing his grandmother's death. Those details feel private. Sacred, almost. Not something to share with this woman who calls her son a stray.
"Enough," I say. "He told me enough."
Savannah finally looks up from her phone. "Mom, can we go? I'm starving."
"In a minute, sweetie." Patricia sets down her mug.
"Kelly, I want to be direct with you. Travis is in a very vulnerable place right now.
His career is uncertain, his reputation is damaged, and he's been hiding out here instead of dealing with his problems. I'm concerned that he's using this—" she gestures vaguely at the house, at me "—as an escape. "
"An escape from what?"
"From reality. From his responsibilities. From his family, frankly." Her voice hardens. "We haven't heard from him in months. He doesn't return our calls. And now we find out he's been playing house with some woman he barely knows instead of facing the consequences of his actions."
Some woman he barely knows. Playing house. I feel my jaw tighten.
"With respect, Mrs. Howe, I don't think Travis is escaping anything. I think he's trying to figure out what he wants. That's not the same thing."
"Is that what he told you?" Patricia lets out a small laugh.
"Travis has always been good at telling people what they want to hear.
He's charming that way. But the reality is, he has obligations.
A career, a contract, a family who's been worried sick about him.
And instead of coming home and dealing with any of that, he's been hiding here. "
"He's not hiding. He's healing."
"From what? A PR problem? Some bad press?" She shakes her head. "Plenty of athletes have dealt with worse and come out fine. Travis just needs to apologize, do some community service, show the public he's changed. Instead he's been wallowing."
I think about what Travis told me. His grandmother dying while he sat in a meeting with lawyers. The photographer who asked if God was punishing him. The guilt he still carries for a moment when he wasn't able to be the bigger person.
Wallowing. That's what she calls it.
"He lost his grandmother," I say quietly. "Did you know he wasn't there when she died? He was in a meeting about the lawsuit, and she died alone."
Something flickers across Patricia's face. Surprise, maybe. Or discomfort.
"That was unfortunate," she says. "But it wasn't anyone's fault. These things happen."
"These things happen?" I stare at her. "Your mother-in-law died, and that's all you have to say?"
"She wasn't—" Patricia stops herself, pressing her lips together. "Margaret was Richard's mother. We weren't close. But that's beside the point."
"Is it? Because from where I'm standing, it seems like the point. Travis was grieving, and instead of supporting him, you're—what? Showing up at his girlfriend's house to interrogate her? Accusing her of being a gold digger?"
"I never said—"
"You didn't have to." I stand up, and I'm surprised by how steady my voice sounds. "I think you should leave."
Patricia's eyes go wide. Clearly she's not used to being asked to leave. "Excuse me?"
"You came here without telling Travis. You asked me questions about our relationship that are none of your business. And you insulted me in my own home." I gesture toward the door. "So yes. I think you should leave."
"And what is it that you want, Kelly?" She tilts her head, studying me. "A man with money? A famous boyfriend? Because I should warn you, Travis's situation is complicated. The settlement cost him a great deal, and his contract—"
"I didn't know who he was until two weeks ago." I keep my voice steady, but something hot is building in my chest. "I didn't know about the money or the hockey or any of it. He was just a guy who lived in the cottage and fixed my sink. So whatever you think I'm after, you're wrong."
The room goes quiet. Richard is staring at the floor. Savannah has put down her phone for once, watching us with something that might be interest.
Patricia's smile returns, but it's different now. Thinner. "I didn't mean to offend you. I'm just looking out for my son."
"Are you? Because it seems like you're looking out for yourself."
I don't know where the words come from. But they're out before I can stop them, and I don't regret them.
Patricia stands up slowly, smoothing her jacket. "I think we've taken up enough of your time. Richard, Savannah, let's go."
They file toward the door without another word. I follow them, arms crossed, watching as they climb back into their shiny SUV.
Patricia pauses before getting in. "Tell Travis we stopped by. And tell him to call his mother. It's been too long."
"I'll pass along the message."
She holds my gaze for a moment, and I see something in her eyes that I can't quite name. Not anger, exactly. More like calculation. Like she's filing me away for later.
Then she gets in the car, and they're gone.
I stand on the porch until the SUV disappears down the driveway. My hands are shaking, I realize. Adrenaline, probably. Or anger. Or both.
My phone buzzes. Travis.
Are they gone?
Just left.
What happened? Are you okay?
I think about how to answer. About Patricia's smile and her pointed questions and the way she called Travis a stray. About the accusation underneath her politeness—that I'm after his money, that I'm taking advantage, that I'm the problem here.
I'm fine, I type. But we need to talk when you get back.
I know. I'm sorry, Kelly. I'm so sorry.
Don't apologize. Just come home.
I put the phone in my pocket and go back inside. The house feels different now, like their presence left something behind. A residue of suspicion and judgment that I can't quite shake.
Travis's family. This is what he's been dealing with. This is why he holds them at arm's length, why he never talks about them, why he came to Longshore to be invisible in the first place.
I understand so much more now. And I'm angrier than I've ever been on someone else's behalf.
I text Nicole: You're not going to believe what just happened.
Then I sit down at the kitchen table, open my laptop, and try to write. But all I can think about is Patricia Howe's face when she said "some woman he barely knows."
She has no idea who I am. She has no idea who her son is, either.
But I do. And that's what matters.