That's when I see it: Mulholland Drive. Of course. Where else would Vince live but tucked away in the hills, in one of those sprawling homes that look down on the city like royalty?My thumb finds the blue dot on my phone's map, tracing the winding road that snakes up the hillside.
I tap the screen, letting Google calculate the distance. Thirty minutes. Each way. Sixty minutes of driving just to spend an hour with me in the pre-dawn darkness, our breath pluming in the cold air as our feet pound against the pavement.
The phone slips from my grasp, clattering onto the passenger seat. My stomach twists, a slow, painful knot of realization tightening with each passing second. Every morning. The thought of him navigating those treacherous, winding roads in the dark, alone, just to meet me—
The olive green walls from yesterday flash in my mind. His confession about gambling, the weight of secrets we'd shared. His hand brushing against mine, the electricity that had sparked between us. And now this. This sacrifice of his time that I never knew he was making.
My fingers tremble as I pick up the phone again, staring at the blue line connecting our two worlds. One in the hills, one in the valley below. The distance between us suddenly feels vast and insurmountable.
Chapter 25
Nuclear Winter Toast
Vince
Sundaymorninghazesmysenses as I cook breakfast for the girls, and I know they'll notice. Two rounds of toast already burn because I set the toaster to "bagel," and the dishcloth nearly catches fire when I flip the bacon.
I feel like an idiot.
I grab four more slices and load them into the oversized toaster while stirring the eggs, absentmindedly grabbing a fresh fork instead of the one already used. It's right there on the counter next to the sink, but apparently, my brain isn't functioning.
Oh well. I'll probably be the one doing the dishes anyway. Kaitlynn always says I do too much for the girls, but how can I not spoil them? They're both moving out soon. This is it—the end of raising kids for me. The last few years fill with sporadic weekends and text messages, and now even that will slip away. I remember when they were little, how Malia would demand I make her pancakes in the shape of dinosaurs every Sunday morning, how Tina would refuse to eat anything unless I told her a silly story about her scrambled eggs being little yellow clouds. Those days felt endless then, stretching out like an open road before me.
Now I'm standing at the edge of that road, watching it disappear into the horizon. The thought of empty rooms, of silent Sunday mornings, of holidays spent alone in this house that's always been too big for just one person—it's a quiet ache that settles deep in my bones, a hollow space where laughter used to echo.
I feel like a bad father. I always feel like a bad father.
I would do anything for those girls. They could walk all over me, and I wouldn't care.
What was I doing again? Oh, right. Eggs.
And, shit! Not the bagel setting again! My third attempt at edible toast this morning. I launch myself across the kitchen, slapping the "cancel" button with enough force to make the appliance shudder. Four pieces of bread rocket out, doing a surprisingly graceful mid-air ballet before showering the counter like confetti. They've got that lovely shade of "nuclear winter" around the edges. Honestly, I know what's wrong with me.
Andy is what's wrong with me.
Somewhere along the way, I fall in love with Andrew Parker, and I can't stop thinking about him.
Initially, I'm drawn to his striking presence, a fact I admit with some self-awareness. I've always appreciated aesthetics, but Andrew disrupts my usual focus. His appearance—the way his hair falls, the form-fitting clothes that outline his lean frame, the intensity of his blue eyes—catches my attention. More compelling, though, is his complete indifference he's always had to my reputation or status.
That challenging attitude he projected when we first met... there's an undeniable appeal to it. In those early encounters, I found myself operating less on pure intellect and more on instinct. A deeper, more primal part of me responds to him, bypassing my usual filters.
Somewhere along the line, our friendship deepened, though I can't pinpoint the moment when the shift happened. All I know is that it's bad now: daydreams that won't quit, thoughts spiraling into fantasies that extend far beyond the bedroom, morphing into something far more dangerous.
Romance.
The way he laughs when I say something stupid—a condescending sound that somehow carries kindness. The way his eyes find mine afterward, wide and soft, as if surprised I could elicit such a response in the first place.
The way he genuinely listens when I go off about books, even when he clearly doesn't understand half of what I'm saying. How he crafts clever responses just to make me laugh, his mind working in ways that make my day.
The way he smiles. Smirks. Rolls his eyes like he's annoyed, though he can't suppress the grin that follows immediately after. Every smile, every smirk, every eye-roll melts me, playing in my head on an endless loop.
Did I put salt in the eggs? No clue.
I throw some in, then pepper for good measure, my hands moving on autopilot while my mind remains occupied elsewhere—with him.
I like the way he calls me a dork, the word landing with unexpected affection.
I like the way he tells me things, real things, trusting me to hold them. The way he listens to mine without flinching, no matter how awful they sound, no matter how deeply they reveal my flaws.
