But could he?
Dating one of the biggest pop stars on the planet wasn’t exactly conducive to keeping his head in the game. Hockey fans were ruthless enough when it came to analyzing every play, every missed shot. Add Seraphim’s rabid fan base to the mix, and his life could become a 24/7 performance where every gesture, every word, every breath would be dissected for hidden meaning. One bad game and they’d blame it on relationship drama. One good game and they’d credit her as his “lucky charm.” Either way, he’d lose himself in the narrative.
“What do I do, girls?” he asked the kittens. They just purred, unconcerned with the complexities of human relationships and viral algorithms. Must be nice.
The cursor kept blinking, patient and relentless.
The worst part was, he knew Harriet wanted him to go through with it. Her eyes would light up with that familiar spark of pride and excitement she got whenever she talked about work. The same spark that made his heart skip every time he saw it. The same spark he might have to sacrifice if he wanted to be honest with himself—and with her.
In the end, he typed:I just want you to be happy.
He hit send before he could second-guess himself. It wasn’t quite a lie—seeing that spark whenever E.M.M.A. was mentioned made something warm unfurl in his chest. But there was a bitter irony in watching her push him into data-driven datingwhile never seeming to notice what was right in front of her. Or maybe she did, and just didn’t feel the same way. He stared at those three dots appearing on his screen, waiting for a response and trying not to hope for something he probably didn’t deserve anyway.
Chapter Thirteen
The phone’s shrill ringtone yanks me from my dream like a poorly timed fire drill. The sun barely peeks through the gaps in my blackout curtains. I grope across my nightstand and something topples with a hollow thunk—oops, at least the water glass was empty. My fingers finally close around the vibrating device, and I glare at the screen. My parents’ faces beam out from their caller ID photo—a selfie they took while at an ecstatic breathwork retreat in Big Sur last year. Retirement turned them into hippie nomads. I’m genuinely happy for them except for the part where they don’t seem to remember time zones exist.
I swipe to answer, mustering all the enthusiasm of a horror movie teen hearing a noise in the basement. “Hello?”
“Sweetie! You sound like a frog. Did we wake you?” Mom’s voice is far too chipper for—I glance at the clock—6:17a.m.On a Saturday.
“No, no,” I lie, stifling a yawn that threatens to dislocate my jaw. “How are you?”
“Happy birthday, sweetheart!” They harmonize like two enthusiastic but off-tune parrots, completely unaware of my sarcasm.
“Thanks! Where are you? I can’t keep up. Santiago?” I remember them telling me they had gotten some great online deal for a “Taste of South America” trip.
Dad’s booming laugh does nothing for my early morning grogginess. “It’s adventure o’clock, kiddo! We’re in Ecuador about to head to the Galápagos Islands. Your mother’s determined to make Facebooks with every species Darwin ever cataloged.”
“James,” Mom chides, “you know I’m on the Instagram now. I’ve been wondering if I should try to start making... what are those things? Reels? You know, dancing and whatnot.”
I resist the urge to suffocate myself with my pillow. “Please, for the love of all that is holy, do not twerk beside a giant tortoise.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Harriet,” Mom says, and I feel a brief moment of relief before she continues, “I can’t twerk. Yet. But why not learn? I’ve still got it.”
“You do, baby,” Dad says appreciatively.
I think I hear them kiss—a little too long and a lot too wet. Is it too early to start with a birthday mimosa?
“I love you both, but I refuse to bail you out of Ecuadorian prison for harassing innocent wildlife in the name of social media clout.”
“We’ll be helping with everything from feeding to habitat maintenance,” Mom explains excitedly. “Did you know that blue-footed boobies actually do have blue feet?”
“Fascinating,” I deadpan. “Be sure to tell me everything about boobies once you’re back.”
Dad chuckles. “There’s the birthday girl humor we know and love! Speaking of birthdays, what are your plans to treat yourself for the big three-oh?”
I sigh, thinking about the stark contrast between my life and my parents’. They were well-established free spirits by the time I came along—a surprise baby at forty after years of thinking they couldn’t conceive. My childhood was peppered with unconventional experiences: impromptu camping trips in our VWbus, learning to make kale smoothies before I could even spell “vegetable,” and bedtime stories about how my dad was so lucky to see the Grateful Dead when Jerry was still alive.
While I love their adventurous nature, I can’t help but feel I’ve overcompensated by clinging to the structure and rules of coding. My therapist once suggested it was a way of finding order in the chaos of my more unconventional upbringing.
“Oh, you know me,” I reply, my tone dry. “Probably spend the day debugging some code followed by an evening of Transcendental Meditation while I ponder the inevitability of death.”
“Sounds lovely, pumpkin,” Mom says, and I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or if she genuinely thinks that sounds like a good time. With my folks, it could go either way.
“You know,” Dad begins, and I brace myself for whatever well-meaning but ultimately misguided suggestion is coming, “if you want to take some time off work, you could pop down and join us for the next leg of the journey—Patagonia.”
As if life was that easy. “Thanks for the offer, but you know me, nothing is as much fun as work.”
