Amelia. Because I’m so deep in love with her too, and I can’t stay away.
Now I’m the one who’s crying. Christ, I’ve cried more in the past week than I have in the past ten years combined.
I never saw Daddy cry. He only moped or raged.
I suddenly see what I didn’t before—that my life is my own. That it’s more important to raise a son who knows it’s okay to cry than it is to raise a son who’s obsessed with money and winning.
That my present is more important than my past.
I want to do better for my son. I want to teach him things I was never taught, and that begins with setting aside this bullshit idea that money equals power equals respect. He’ll never be happy believing that, and neither will I.
I want to do better by Amelia too. I just don’t know how.
I have no idea how I’m going to clean up the mess I’ve made. How do I convince Amelia I’m for real? That the new contract is dead and so am I without her?
I rock and I think. And I thank God Liam came into my life when he did. Clearly, I needed a swift kick in the ass, and boy did this kid deliver.
I just hope it’s not too late to fix things with Amelia. Because this right here—my little family? It’s not complete without her.
I have a call with Miguel in the morning. We’re supposed to hash out the details of my new contract, but obviously, the agenda for this meeting has changed since we last spoke. I’m nervous, but more than that, I’m relieved. I wake up tired as hell—I’m beginning to learn this is just how it is when you have little kids—but the weight I didn’t know was on my chest has lifted.
I can finally breathe, which clears my head and allows me to see the future. It’s a year in Vegas, learning how to make family life work, learning how to say goodbye to football. It’s helping Amelia make whatever new dreams she cooks up for her career come true. It’s settling down right here on Blue Mountain after that. It’s badminton and night swimming and waking up way too damn early with Liam, mainlining caffeine in the kitchen beside Amelia (coffee for me, tea for her). It’s trying to give up booze because it’s long past time I stopped drinking. It’s taking up an instrument because I want my son to be well-rounded, and I might as well learn to play the guitar alongside him (will Hank give us lessons, I wonder?). If only so we can have musical accompaniment to the dirty nursery rhymes Amelia and I write.
It’s the three of us‚—her, me, and Liam—building a whole new life together.
I can’t fucking wait.
I think I’ll always wonder what if. I’m only human. Making this choice doesn’t magically erase all my fears and doubts. But maybe that’s just, well, life. There is no such thing as complete certainty, and if I wait for that, I’ll be waiting forever.
There is, however, such a thing as being completely in love.
Love wins.
Maybe I do too. It’ll be a quiet victory, quieter than winning a Super Bowl. But it already tastes so much sweeter.
Only problem? That victory is far from guaranteed. Everything hinges on Amelia accepting my apology and giving me another chance. Not likely, considering the way I’ve behaved.
Still gotta try.
“Yo.” Samuel breezes into my kitchen and goes right for the refrigerator. “You got food, right?”
“Not likely,” Milly says, hot on his heels. She sets her bag and laptop on the kitchen counter and straightens her pencil skirt.
“What the hell are y’all doing here?”
Milly looks at me like I just shot her. “We’re here to babysit, dumbass.”
“Beau is babysitting because Mom is at the dentist,” I say slowly. “I told him, and only him, that I needed help for an hour tops today. Just gotta get through a call. Liam’s still asleep, anyway.”
Samuel frowns at the contents of my fridge. He points at a Tupperware container. “That ravioli comes from a can, doesn’t it?” He shakes his head. “Tragic.”
“Not as tragic as your outfit,” I shoot back. He’s wearing pink and purple plaid shorts, a white Louis Vuitton belt, and a pink polo shirt that is inexplicably embroidered with tiny naked mermaids. He’s topped it all off with Givenchy pool slides and round sunglasses with studded frames that he’s hiked onto his head. “You look like a gigolo.”
Milly laughs. “A very expensive, very large gigolo.”
“Hey,” Samuel snaps. “This is a five-star resort. I have to set my prices high in keeping with Blue Mountain’s clientele. I also have a sizable bag of tricks, so. Yeah. You get what you pay for.”
I glance longingly toward the front hallway. “Beau is still coming, right?”