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I should never have doubted that.
I’m not sure I thought I’d ever fall in love with someone again. I dated, if I can call it that. But since my divorce, I haven’t even entertained the idea of a relationship again. I’ve steered clear of anyone that wanted to get too close.
Until Astrid.
Her quiet strength and gentle, warm presence shattered any reluctant reservations and went straight for my heart, winning me over long before I realized what was happening.
I grab another blanket for Astrid and tuck her in, careful not to wake her. She’s so beautiful, even asleep, snoring with a bit of drool on her chin.
I don’t know why she didn’t talk to me while I was gone, but I’m going to figure it out tomorrow. And if it’s my fault, I’m going to make it up to her. I tuck her hair from her face and kiss her forehead. Her hands curl around the blanket as she stirs and lets out a small huff. For a moment, I think I’ve woken her up, but she snuggles back into the cushions.
“Good night, Astrid,” I whisper, leaning over. I can’t help myself. I stroke her hair one last time. The silky, blonde strands slip through my fingers. I wish I knew if we were on better terms. I would carry her to my bed and tuck her in if I knew that’s what she wanted.
But I don’t, just in case her lack of response was her way of letting me know that she’s mad.
I sigh as I lift Violet into my arms and carry her to her bedroom. She doesn’t wake up either. They must’ve really partied hard without me.
I come back downstairs and pause to look at Astrid one last time. She’s perfect and deserves the world. And I can be the one to give that to her… right?
Coach’s words start to replay in my head. Am I overly distracted? And even if I am, is that so wrong?
CHAPTER 22
ASTRID
The morning sun lights the room, casting a gentle glow over me and my surroundings. I jerk awake, slightly confused as I yawn. I know immediately that I’m not in my own bed. But it takes me awhile to put together that I’m in the living room. I must’ve fallen asleep with Violet on the couch last night. I rub my eyes, sitting up straight as I yawn again. I was really tired. I must have just passed out. I blink, registering slowly that the warmth I feel is from being covered in more blankets than I went to sleep with.
Did Sean do that? Is he home?
I swing my feet off the cushions and pad towards the hallway that leads into the garage. I don’t even have to walk the rest of the way to the door to check for his car. I see his shoes are there. He is definitely home.
But if he saw me, then why didn’t he wake me up?
A subtle unease pulls at my attention. Is he mad at me?
I fold the blankets and leave them on the back of the couch and go downstairs to my room, only to realize that it is already five in the morning.
Ugh. That’s what I get for falling asleep on the couch. I feel like shit. I rub my eyes, contemplating skipping the run in order to go back to sleep for another half hour. But Sean is back. I sigh, already resigned to finding clean running clothes.
I can’t skip our run because it’s the one time of day that I really get to talk to him. And I need to talk to him. It is the only way I will feel better.
There is something about this routine that we’ve fallen into that I find comforting. So comforting I’m willing to forgo sleep.
And I don’t do that for anything or anyone.
By the time I get dressed and brush my teeth, Sean is in the kitchen. Perfect timing. As much as I don’t want to admit it, it is a nice feeling, seeing him like this. His presence is comforting. And it’s starting to feel like our normal.
But the way he’s dressed tells me that he doesn’t plan on running.
A pit forms in my stomach.
Instead of showing up in his running clothes, like he does every day, he has on his Devil’s t-shirt and his hockey bag is sprawled out on the table.
I chew the inside of my cheek, considering slipping away before he sees me. But he turns around and it’s too late to hide with dignity.
“Hey,” he says, startled, clearly caught off guard.
Was he trying to avoid me? Fuck. I guess I was wrong...this routine is my routine, not ours. Another thing I’ve made mean something that clearly doesn’t mean the same thing to him.
