People were angry at first that she moved on. Angry that I helped her write the story, and the angriest are usually the loudest. The book spent weeks on all the bestseller lists, and slowly but surely people started to see we were real, that our love wasn’t just something born out of loneliness or publicity, but something real. It helped that we did almost all of the press tour for her book together, holding hands, explaining how we fell in love, much to the joy of every single person who interviewed us and was moved to tears by the time the interview was done.
The response after our little girl was born was more gentle, maybe because people saw that what we had wasn’t a fling, or maybe they just sensed our love for each other wasn’t fleeting but forever.
I proposed when she was six months pregnant, and married her when Leila was old enough to attempt to be the best ring bearer in the city.
And I let go of the guilt.
It didn’t happen fast.
It was a slow unpacking of years’ worth of guilt for not being there for my mom, for caring more about my dad, and it was becoming a dad myself that helped me realize that fathers are still human, still struggling to do the best we can in a world that doesn’t make it easy.
And I found out that Keaton was right. Love grows; it grows until it can’t be contained, and then it grows some more.
Another snowball went flying. I sent Keaton a helpless look. “Are you going to watch me protect Winterfell all by myself?”
She rolled her eyes. “You and that show . . .”
“HEY!” Bridge stood like he was offended.
Bingo.
Direct hit as my snowball sailed into his face, covering him in snow. “Hey, you okay, man?”
“That’s it.” He started charging toward me, only to slip on more snow and get it in his pants. More shouting, cursing as both moms covered tender, young ears. And rather than feel guilty that I was missing out, I was thankful for the time I had now.
To not just make things right with my brother.
But to make my mom truly proud, by being a good father.