Two weeks of keeping it professional.
Two weeks of meetings, calendars, school pickup logistics, design revisions, dinner schedules, and the particular kind of self-control that starts to feel less like discipline and more like slowly strangling myself with my own tie.
I've told myself over and over that it was the right move. It still is.
What happened with Carly cannot happen again.
That thought is easier to hold onto in the office, where there are people around and work to do and a dozen ways to remind myself who I’m supposed to be. At home, it's murkier. She moves through the kitchen in leggings or shorts and oversized shirts, laughs with Penelope over cartoons, ties her hair up when she’s concentrating, and turns my entire fucking house into something warmer than it used to be.
I glance at her sitting beside me.She’s looking out the passenger window, one boot tucked under her thigh, bundled into a cream sweater, her dark coat discarded in the back seat. Her hair is down today, brown waves falling loose over one shoulder. She’s gone quiet on me again, guarded and hard to read, always different with me than she is with everyone else.
I don't know what I expected bringing her to Cole's party. I'd wanted her to feel comfortable, but it had been a surprise that she hadn't clung to the wall, smiled politely, and only spoken when prompted. She'd been nervous at the start, but she'd melted like butter into that funny, easy version of herself so quickly it almost gave me whiplash.
Everyone liked her.Of course they did.
Cole liked her immediately, which should have irritated me, but unfortunately didn’t. Mandy practically adopted her into the circle. Even Wade was weirdly normal and chummy with her. By the end of the night, Carly looked like she belonged there.
I accepted the invitation to Colchester for sensible reasons.Mostlysensible reasons.
Ski towns burn through athleisure like college programs do. Layers, thermals, gloves, training gear, branded winter lines. Aweekend up there with Wade isn’t a waste of time, professionally speaking. There are conversations worth having, opportunities worth feeling out, and if I'm honest with myself, I need a break— abreak from work, from routine, from emails, from being needed every second of the day by employees, partners, coaches, staff, and a four-year-old with the negotiating tactics of a hostage specialist.
Penelope is staying with Halsey this weekend, which is miracle enough on its own that I don’t want to be too grateful for fear the universe will realize it's gone easy on me and ruin it.
Two quiet days in the mountains should be enough, and it should feel simple. But the only complication is one I brought on myself, and she's sitting close enough that I could wrap my hand around her thigh if I gave in to my instincts.
We leave Boulder behind, the roads starting to wind and the air feeling thinner, cleaner, a sharp incline up the side of a mountain to our right and a sloping cliff of snow-coated spruce trees on our left.
Carly shifts in her seat and glances at the stereo screen. “You listen to a weird amount of nineties music for someone so grumpy.”
I look at her. “I’m sorry, are you under the impression that grumpy people don’t appreciate Nirvana? I'm pretty sure I'm exactly the target demographic.”
Her mouth twitches. “That's fair. Guess it suits you since you act like the idea of fun is personally offensive to you.”
I huff a chuckle before I can stop it. “That right?”
“Mhm.” She gestures vaguely toward me. “You’ve got a very specific...energy.”
I try to keep the grin tugging at my lips at bay. “And what energy is that, exactly?”
“Divorced football kingpin who hides how much he cares from everyone but his kid, and secretly enjoys being miserable.”
A real laugh punches out of me, low and surprised, and her head turns toward me fully.“Wow,” I say, keeping my eyes on the road to avoid looking at her. “That’s annoyingly specific.”
“I pay attention.”
The conversation should die there. To my absolute surprise, it doesn’t. The claws of tension loosen around it instead.
“What did you listen to in college?” she asks.
I glance at her. “Why?”
“Because you seem like you’d either say something impossibly cool or something deeply embarrassing. I'm desperate to know which.”
I exhale through my nose. “Fine. There was a bad country phase. Not even the good stuff or the classics, but more like,‘She thinks my tractor’s sexy.’”
She turns in her seat so fast it’s almost violent. “No.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
