“I want to.” I meet her gaze, trying to convey everything I can’t say in front of the kids. That I’m sorry about the photo. That I won’t let her face Evan’s threats alone. That skipping team dinner is the easiest decision I’ve made all day.
Something in my expression must convince her, because she nods. “Okay. Thank you.”
The drive to Golda’s house is filled with Blythe’s non-stop commentary about the game, the snacks, and her theories on why certain players skate faster than others (“IT’S BECAUSE ROMAN HAS LONGER LEGS THAN EVERYONE ELSE ON THE PLANET!”). Tyson occasionally interjects with more technical observations, while Golda remains quietly thoughtful in the passenger seat.
I reach over at a red light, taking her hand in mine. She startles slightly, then offers a small squeeze in return.
“We’ll figure this out,” I say quietly.
“I know.” But her voice lacks conviction.
Once at her house, the kids’ energy finally begins to flag. The excitement of the day catches up with them as they trudge inside, Blythe’s volume decreasing to merely conversational levels.
“I should get them ready for bed,” Golda says. “School tomorrow.”
“I’ll stay.” It’s not a question. “If that’s okay.”
Her relief is palpable. “Thank you.”
I help with the bedtime routine as if I’ve been doing it for years rather than minutes—finding Tyson’s favorite pajamas, listening to Blythe’s elaborate theories about why teeth need to be brushed in a specific pattern, and generally trying to maintain the illusion of normalcy while Golda holds herself together through sheer force of will.
Once the kids are settled in their rooms—Tyson reading a hockey statistics book, Blythe mercifully unconscious mid-sentence about glitter—I join Golda in the kitchen where she’s mechanically loading the dishwasher.
“Hey.” I gently take the plate from her hands. “Sit down. I’ll do this.”
“You don’t have to take care of me,” she says, but allows herself to be guided to a chair.
“I know I don’t have to.” I find mugs after checking multiple cabinets. “I want to.”
She watches me move around her space, a small furrow between her brows. “You missed the team dinner.”
“There will be other team dinners.” I set the kettle to boil. “This was more important.”
“Evan texted again,” she says after a pause. “While you were checking on Tyson.”
My hands still on the mugs. “What did he say?”
“That his lawyer already has an emergency hearing scheduled for Wednesday. With Judge Willis.”
The name sends a spike of anger through me. The golf buddy. The connection that’s made this entire situation so precarious.
“Your lawyer?”
“Jessica’s preparing our response.” She rubs her temples. “But without something concrete to counter his claims about stability and the children’s well-being...”
The kettle whistles, giving me a moment to collect my thoughts as I prepare the tea. I set a mug in front of her, then take the seat opposite.
“We’ll figure it out,” I say, even as I wonder how. “One step at a time.”
She studies my face, something shifting in her expression. Then she rises from her chair, walking around the table toward me with a determination that makes my heart race.
“Golda—”
She cuts me off by straddling my lap, her knees on either side of my thighs, and kisses me with an intensity that catches me completely off guard. Her hands cup my face, her body pressing against mine as months of tension ignite between us.
I respond immediately, hands finding her waist, pulling her closer. She tastes like tea and something I can’t get enough of. We break apart, both breathing hard.
“I need you,” she whispers. “Tonight. Right now. I need to feel something other than fear.”
