“You don’t have to tell me everything all at once. I trust you will.”
I study this devilishly handsome man. The version of Parker I knew in college would’ve pushed, teased, and deflected.
This Parker, well, he waits until he knows I won’t say any more. Until I’ve let it sink in. That’s what surprises me the most.
You know what surprises me even more? That I want to tell him everything. Not the polished version. Not the parts I’ve told myself to keep from shaking. The whole ugly truth. The words have been there—waiting, like they’ve been trapped there for years and suddenly found a door and Parker is the one holding it open.
“I got my first letter during senior year,” I admit, my voice scratchy, “Right before graduation.”
He pulls me closer. “Like the one you showed me?”
“Similar. I thought it was a mistake at first. Or a prank. It didn’t make sense.” My shoulder lifts as I suck in a breath. “It just said… enough to make me realize someone knew who I was.”
His jaw tightens. “And that’s when you changed your name?”
“That’s when Annika died.”
The word sits heavy. Died.
But it’s the truth.
“Parker, I didn’t just change my name. I had everything erased in America about Annika Pencheski. Records. Schools. Hockey. Anything that tied me to the scandal or that version of me.”
He watches me carefully. “And you’ve been looking over your shoulder ever since.”
It’s not a question. It’s the truth, but I nod once anyway.
I murmur, “I just didn’t want to deal with the past,” letting him absorb it.
“You were a kid,” he says in a tender tone.
“That didn’t stop it from happening.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
I look at his big, beautiful eyes and his messy chocolate brown hair. “Easy for you to say.”
“Is it?” he asks, something shifting in his tone.
Quieter.
Deeper.
“What does that mean?” I feel my brows knitting together.
He exhales through his nose, the air warm on my neck. His hand moves from my arm to the space between us. Likehe’s preparing himself for an important revelation. At least that’s what I would think if we were in a session.
“My mom died giving birth,” he says, unable to look me in the eye.
His words are soft and low, but they carry an immense amount of weight.
I know how heavy simple sentences can be.
“Most people don't talk about it,” he continues. “It’s one of those things that exist in the background.”
I try to read him and look for a reaction he’s trying to hide.
He’s not looking at me now. He’s looking past me. Somewhere else.