Page 89 of Mending Hearts
“When?”
“End of season. After playoffs.”
It’s February, All-Star week. He has, what—three months? Four if they go deep? The timeline hits me harder than I expect.
Three months left of him being who he’s always been. Of arenas chanting his name. Of that version of his life. And then what? Then us? The thought both steadies and terrifies me.
“What are you going to miss?” I ask.
He considers that. “The game. Not the noise. The actual game.”
“Good,” I say. “Noise is overrated.”
He smiles faintly. “I’m serious about the charity,” he adds. “Not as a vanity project. As work. I want to sit in meetings. Push policy. Show up.”
“I know.”
“I’m committing a week a month in person,” he continues. He’s already shared some of this, but I listen like it’s the first time, because if this is real, if we work out, then these futureplans affect me, right? “While there’s just the program in San Diego at the moment, I’m hoping there’s chance for expansion at some point.”
“You’ll be good at it,” I say, and I mean it. A week a month from each other I can handle. And if not, there’s no reason why I can’t join him.
He glances at me. “You don’t think I’ll get bored?”
I almost laugh. “You? With purpose? No.”
He absorbs that.
“Thanks,” he says quietly.
I reach past him for a plate, and my hand brushes his hip. Neither of us moves away.
Chemistry hums under the surface. Not frantic. Not urgent like earlier.
Alive.
We plate the food, sit at the island, and eat. At one point, he reaches across and wipes a smear of sauce from my lip without thinking. The touch lingers half a second too long.
I meet his eyes. There’s a question there and an answer. We don’t push it. Not tonight and not after everything.
Later, when the sun starts dipping and the light turns gold across the windows, I lean back in my chair and watch him talk—hands moving, voice animated—about paint swatches and flooring choices.
He’s excited. About a home. About a future. About work that matters.
And about us.
I feel something inside me loosen in a way I haven’t let it in years. I still need to protect my heart. I still need to see consistency. Time. Follow-through. But watching him here, sleeves rolled up in my kitchen, talking about building something real? I can hear the shred of paper as I imagine tearing them up.
The front door opens with a burst of cold air and Lindy’s voice drifting in ahead of her. “Okay, but next time, we’re picking somewhere indoors,” she’s saying, laughter threaded through her words. “I can’t feel my face.”
Phil follows her in, Amelia curled against his chest, pink hat half askew and fast asleep. Her small hand is fisted in the front of his sweater like she fought sleep and lost.
Ollie’s whole face softens the second he sees them. “You wore her out,” he says, already stepping forward.
Phil grins quietly. “She insisted on seeing the sea lions. Apparently they’re ‘very important.’”
“They are,” Ollie says gravely.
Lindy rolls her eyes affectionately. “She lasted ten minutes at Fisherman’s Wharf before declaring it ‘too fishy’ and demanding hot chocolate.”
