The garage. I hurry downstairs, check the door, even though I know it’s unlikely Jaxon left it open. But I don’t want to be wrong, not with this strange anxiety twisting in my chest.
I stand there for a second, letting out a slow breath. Nothing. It’s all quiet. No one’s here.
I let myself relax, the tension in my shoulders loosening. A small smile curves my lips as I take in the familiar mess in the garage Jaxon’s homemade ornaments still scattered across the work bench, some unfinished.
I head to the kitchen, about to toss the key back into my purse. But as I do, something catches my eye. Mud. A smear of it, dark and streaked across the metal. I wipe my hands on a paper towel before reaching for the tap.
I twist the handle with my elbow, not wanting to get more dirt on my hands, and let the water run. The key’s muddy from the lawn, but it’s odd. The mud is sticking to it, like it’s thicker than usual, like something’s wrong. I scrub harder, the water splashing against the sink, but it’s still there, stubbornly clinging.
I grab another piece of paper towel and it takes me a minute to scrub it clean, but even then, I pause, my fingers rubbing over the surface. It’s not just dirty—it’s sticky, almost like something else is mixed into it. I’ll give that more thought later. Right now I need to get moving.
After dropping the key back into my purse, I check my phone, more out of habit than hope. Still, a part of me holds my breath, waiting for a message from Jaxon. A text. A missed call. Anything that says he’s thinking about me in the middle of all the chaos.
Nothing.
I knew there wouldn’t be. They’re busy. It’s game five of the freaking finals, but the tiny sting of disappointment still hits, because yes, I’m in deep here.
I make my way to the fridge, pulling out everything I need to make my stuffed mushrooms, my contribution to game night. I put on some music to fill the silence. Something soft, something that lets me sway a little as I slice and stir. It’s comforting, the rhythmic motions of cooking, the space around me warm and alive with spices. But my mind isn’t here, not on the mushrooms, not on the noise that will erupt later if the team wins, not on the flutter of nerves constantly swirling around tonight’s game.
Tonight, my thoughts settle on something else entirely. Something fragile. Something I never let myself hold long enough to examine.
A dream.
A quiet thrill spreads through me as I think about combining my two hobbies—drawing and writing—and how ridiculous but wonderful it feels to even imagine it. The idea is small, soft, delicate…but it sparks something real inside me. Something bright.
A children’s book.
God, even thinking it makes my heart thud differently.
I’ve never admitted it to anyone, not even Jaxon, and certainly not to myself without following it up with a laugh or an eye roll. What do I know about children? Absolutely nothing. Zero. And yet…I love to draw. And I know I’m a good writer. I always have been, even when I wrote stories growing up and my mother called it ‘a nice little hobby’.
But after spending time with little Grant—reading him stories, watching his eyes light up, hearing him giggle at the characters—I remembered. I remembered how much I love storytelling. How much I miss creating worlds, sketching characters.
And for the first time in a long time…I believed I might actually do it. That maybe I should.
I can practically hear my mother’s voice—sharp, practical, unimpressed. She was the only family I ever had, and pleasing her became my compass, even when it pointed me in the wrong direction. It still does, if I’m honest. Part of me wants her approval like oxygen.
But now…after being around Jaxon’s world—the WAGs, their support, their warmth—they’ve opened a door inside me I don’t want to close again. They support each other in a way I’ve never seen. They support me. They believe in me without me ever giving them a reason to. And that kind of acceptance does strange, wonderful things to a person.
Maybe my mother would be proud if I wrote a children’s book. Or maybe she wouldn’t.
I don’t know anymore. But what I do know is this: I can’t spend the rest of my life trying to be her version of ‘acceptable’ while I shrink myself into shadows.
I catch my reflection in the microwave door and notice the dark smudges under my eyes. I’m tired. Tired of working myself to the bone. Tired of coming home empty. Tired of pretending this life, as it is, is enough.
My mother warned me that men leave, that I’d end up alone, lonely, with nothing. But before Jaxon, I was already alone and lonely—the very thing my mother insisted I’d be if I ever dared to want more than work.
Marriage. Children. Love.
She made them sound like traps. Doors that only close.
But God…they don’t feel like traps when I think of them now. Not when I’ve seen the families in Jaxon’s circle. Men whose careers demand everything from them, yet every night they come home—to wives, to partners, to kids—because that’s where they want to be.
It isn’t perfect. Nothing ever is. Some men stray. Some women do too. There are no guarantees in anything worth having.
But isn’t it better to try for love than to live your whole life avoiding it?
I stir the mixture for the mushrooms and feel it again—that tiny burst of courage, soft but persistent.