Page 24 of Mending Hearts
I do the voices. The dinosaur voice. The brave hero voice. The ridiculous villain voice that makes Mina giggle even as she tries not to.
For a little while, my world is just paper pages and warm kid weight and a lamp casting soft light across the room. No cameras. No Rafe. No eight years of silence.
When the story ends, Mina yawns hard enough to make her eyes water. Tucker’s already halfway asleep, dinosaur tucked under his chin.
I tuck Mina’s blankets up and kiss her forehead. “Night, kiddo.”
She catches my wrist before I can pull back. “Are you sad?” she asks quietly.
My lungs constrict. Kids are terrifying. “I’m… tired,” I say truthfully.
Mina nods like that makes sense. “Mom says when you’re tired you have more feelings.”
Carol, from the hallway, makes a small sound that might be a laugh.
I brush Mina’s hair back gently. “That’s true.”
Her grip loosens. “Okay. You can have a hug tomorrow too.”
My chest aches. “Deal.”
Once they’re asleep, Marco and Carol usher me to the kitchen. Dinner is leftovers—pasta, garlic bread, salad—and it should feel normal. It almost does, if I ignore the way my appetite is a distant concept.
We sit around their kitchen table, the same one we’ve sat at countless times over the years. The same one where Marco told me he was proposing to Carol, where Carol showed me Mina’s ultrasound pictures, where Marco told me he was retiring, jaw tense like he expected me to judge him.
I’ve never judged him. Not for choosing peace.
Marco retired last year—quietly, on his terms, with his body still intact. He’s been doing youth coaching ever since, and I’ve watched him become something softer without losing any of his edge.
I envy him too.
Maybe envy really is everywhere.
Carol pours me water like she knows I need it. She doesn’t ask about my expression. She doesn’t pry. She’s always had the kind of emotional intelligence that makes you feel seen without being cornered.
Marco, however, is Marco.
He stabs a piece of garlic bread with his fork—which let’s be honest, is really weird—and points it at me. “Okay,” he says. “Tell me what happened.”
“I saw him,” I say, because there’s no point pretending. “Rafe.”
Carol’s hand stills around her glass. Marco’s expression hardens in the way it always does when Rafe’s name enters aroom. Protective. Furious on my behalf. Like he wants to fight someone and doesn’t know where to put the energy.
“Where?” he asks.
“Tonight,” I say. “At the studio.”
Marco’s eyes widen. “No way.”
“Yes way.”
I stare at my plate because if I look up, I might break. “He was there with the band. They were on the same show I was on.”
Carol’s lips part. “Ollie….”
“It was the first time in person in almost eight years,” I say, voice too calm, even though they both know everything. “And it felt like I’d stepped into an alternate universe.”
Marco swears under his breath. “And?” he presses.
