Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

Amelia

I'm sitting at the kitchen table, staring down at a piece of toast buttered so well it glistens, when Dad drops a kiss on my head. I try to arrange my face into a smile that doesn't look deranged or clownish. Or like a deranged clown.

He's pretending things are normal, I think in an attempt to help me heal from what happened with Drew.

I'm pretending I don't know about his deal with Van. And also like I didn't marry Van.

It's been almost two weeks since I left him in Florida and it still feels like someone took a rusty chainsaw to my heart.

Finding out my dad essentially traded a spot on a line—whatever that is—to one of his players in exchange for "babysitting" me is tough to stomach.

I mean, I know Dad had my best interests at heart. Always. Even in this.

Morgan told me all the things he did for me while I was gone, from calling lawyers to see if it's possible to legally hold Drew accountable for wedding costs to returning gifts to fielding phone calls—and all this at his busiest time of the year with playoffs around the corner.

I also know it's killing Dad to be at odds with his brother. And to see Becky, a niece he'd always adored, do something so disloyal and awful. He's hurting. I know he doesn't want me to see his pain. To worry about him when he's worried about me.

It makes me sad.

I am also still mad.

Which makes me feel guilty.

I am a quagmire of messy, ugly feelings. And that's without taking into consideration all the conflicting emotions I have about Van.

So, Dad and I are riding this weird carousel around and around. Playing parts, keeping secrets. Pretending we're both fine.

"I packed you a lunch," Dad says, pulling an insulated bag from the fridge. One I've never seen before and I bet he bought just for this occasion. It has Taylor Swift on it and sparkles as he sets it down in front of me.

A few months ago, I'd have laughed and tried to explain that loving Taylor's music and respecting her business savvy does not mean I want a Taylor Swift lunch bag. Especially not on my first day at a new job.

Eventually, though, I would have given up trying to explain, hugged him, and said Thank you, Daddy like a good daughter.

Now, my stomach clenches at his attempted kindness. "You didn't need to do that."

"Don't worry—I didn't cook."

"Let's hope not."

I'm not amazing in the kitchen, but between the two of us, my dad is the one most likely to start a fire in the microwave. He probably stuck a Lunchables and a cheese stick inside the bag like I'm seven again.

He chuckles, and I find myself smiling back for half a second before it falls. It's hard not to drop back into our normal back and forth. Even when nothing feels normal.

I watch Dad's face as he takes a sip of coffee. As my one little act of passive aggressive retaliation for the deal he made with Van, I've been watering down his coffee. Every day, I add a little more water, a little less coffee.

Stupid, I know. But I take the smallest bit of pleasure in this tiny, immature act. It's not like I'm hurting him. It's barely even a prank.

Actually, now that I'm thinking about it, I've never really played pranks. Even on April Fool's Day. Pranks are not for rule-followers. Morgan is the type to play pranks. I am the type to worry about getting caught or the consequences.

A stray thought hits me right in the gut—Van would approve.

Of this prank, of me doing something I've never done. The thought has me holding my breath and using all my mental fortitude to force my tears right back into the ducts from whence they came. I will not cry over Van.

Not again. Not this morning.

Dad takes another sip, and I swear he flinches, then frowns at his mug.

I want to have a silent celebration. And I also want to confess and make Dad a fresh pot.

Who even am I anymore? I swear, it's like Van shook something loose in me. As to whether this is a good or bad thing, I'm undecided. For now, my whole life feels like I'm wearing a sweater that went into the dryer one too many times when it was supposed to be air dried. It's familiar, but doesn't quite look or feel the same.

I glance down at my right hand, where I've moved Mom's ring again, and the tears threaten again.

"Excited about your big day?" Dad asks.

"Sure," I say, but my brain snags on his word choice.

My big day . You can say that again. But I can't think of "big day" without thinking of weddings, and the last thing I want to be thinking about today is THAT kind of big day.

Unfortunately, my new job is going to be one giant reminder. Because I took a job working for the Appies as a staff writer and content creator.

One can't be choosy when you're jobless and need money to move out of your dad's house as fast as humanly possible. And other than working in the same building as my dad and one particular hockey player I'd rather avoid, this is a dream job.

When Parker called me, gushing, and said I just had to work with her at the Appies doing longer form online content, I couldn't say no.

I mean, it's a full-time job writing . Finally.

A few weeks ago, I also would have been thrilled to work with my dad. Thrilled to have his approval, which, to my shock, he's freely given.

I thought there would be pushback because one—it's a writing job not a practical business one, and two—it's in the proximity of hockey players. Ironically, coming back seemingly unscathed after being with Van in Florida somehow convinced Dad that his precious daughter can be around hockey players and live to tell the tale.

If he only knew …

Maybe it's because working in the same building means he can keep an eye on me?

As I study him now, I can see it in his expression. It's almost identical to his proud dad smile, one I've grown used to seeing over the years. But ever since I got back from Florida, it's been slightly forced, like he's trying too hard. Like he thinks I might break at any moment, and it's his job to hold me together with extra optimism, super wide smiles, and packed lunches.

His phone rings in his hand, and his expression turns thunderous. Which means it's Uncle Bobby. Again. Dad refuses to talk to him, though Bobby hasn't given up trying.

"What if he wants to apologize?" I ask.

Dad's head snaps up, and he clicks off the ringer, sliding the phone into his pocket. "He doesn't."

"But how do you know if you won't talk to him?"

"He leaves voicemails," Dad says.

"And?"

Dad shakes his head. "Let's just say we both share the same protectiveness when it comes to our daughters."

Becky hasn't tried to reach out. But I wouldn't want to talk to her any more than Dad wants to talk to his brother. They are in the wrong, they're family, and this rift is ugly. It feels wrong. One more addition to the strange tension in my life.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Dad asks. A daily question.

"I will be."

"I'm proud of you, Milly."

Would he still be proud if he knew about Van?

I could be mature and talk to him about it. All of it. I could tell Dad about my time in Florida with Van. And how it all came crashing down because I saw the text Dad sent Van.

How deeply he actually hurt me while he was trying to protect me.

But I won't tell him. I can't. At least for now.

I haven't told anyone what happened the last night in Florida. Not even Morgan. I did tell her Van and I kissed, but not about what else we did.

It's not healthy keeping such a huge secret, but I need time to process. Which means I'm shoving down all the negative emotions, letting my insides rumble and riot like an active volcano just waiting to blow. Dad seems to be chalking up any weirdness on my part to the wedding fiasco and then seeing Drew and Becky in Florida. I'd much rather him think that than know the truth.

You know—that I married his least favorite player.

"I'll pop in and see you in your new office later," he says.

"You don't need to do that. And it's a cubicle, not an office. Honestly, I'm surprised you're so excited," I say, keeping my voice level. "Seeing as how you wanted to keep me away from hockey players for so long."

Dad shrugs. "You'll be working with Parker. She'll keep you in line. And maybe I worried a little too much. I mean, you came back from Florida with Van unscathed."

Did I though? I stab my toast with a fork.

"And of all the guys on the team …" He shakes his head, and I decide to cut him off before he starts complaining again about Van's poor performance and attitude to match.

"I'm also surprised you weren't mad he went with me," I say innocently. "Seeing how you're always complaining about him."

Practically ripping the figurative door off the hinges to give him an opening to tell me that he asked Van to go with me.

No— bribed him.

"Should we carpool?" Dad asks instead.

Being trapped in a car with my dad and all this awkwardness for a twenty-minute commute? I'd rather be in a car filled with snakes. And the only one who hates snakes more than me is Indiana Jones.

"I'm not sure how my day will look, so I'll drive myself. Plus, you've been staying late," I remind him.

Like he could forget playoffs start at the end of the week. Last year, he was practically a ghost during this time. I'm honestly looking forward to it now.

"Right. Okay."

I can tell he's disappointed, and despite the simmering lava of anger inside me, the tiny part of me used to being daddy's little girl pinches uncomfortably. But only until I remember what he did.

The pain quickly swallows up the pinch.

"In that case, I'll head in a little early," he says. "You'll find me if you need anything?"

Nope , I think.

"Yep," I say.

Still, he hesitates at the door. "Well, I guess I'll see you at work."

Hopefully not. But I force another clenched-jaw smile and wave goodbye. Then he's gone. Leaving me alone to finish getting ready for my first day of a job I'm excited about.

So long as I can avoid my husband.

"I'm so excited you're here," Parker squeals.

An actual squeal. Accompanied by a boa constrictor hug, which is followed by a full body shake she gives me with both her hands wrapped around my upper arms.

This could be an invasion of personal space, overstepping to the nth degree. But there's something so wholesomely endearing about her that I don't even mind.

She makes it easy to forget all the anger I'm holding onto, which is a feat. But with her wide smile and sparkling, sincere eyes, she's like a black hole of happiness, sucking up all my negativity.

If she could find a way to bottle this up and sell it, she'd make millions.

"Sorry," she says, still beaming as she releases my arms. "I'm just happy to have another woman around here. Before Summer—you'll meet her later—it was just me, choking on the fog of testosterone in this building."

"I'll bet."

Though I also bet she can't mind too much. I didn't miss the engagement ring on her finger. Her fiancé is one of the Appies, and I kind of regret not paying more attention so I'd know which one.

We're standing inside the staff entrance to the Summit—a building until now I've just driven past and never actually been inside. Already, my body is on high alert. It was even before I saw a mud-crusted Jeep in the parking lot and remembered a conversation we had about Van having two cars.

He's here. Like I knew he would be. But it's a whole different thing to know it and then be here knowing he is somewhere in the building.

I swear, the little hairs on my arms are standing at attention, like they're just waiting for a sighting.

Thankfully Parker pulls me away from my paranoia when she gives my shoulder a squeeze. "I'm also excited because you're you ," she says. "Have things calmed down with your articles?"

I shake my head, unable to stop myself from smiling. "It's still out of control. Awesome, but insane."

The silver lining to all the dark clouds in my life lately was having my "Rules for Runaway Brides" article blow up.

I spent the plane ride back from Florida channeling all of my energy into the final draft, writing in my little yellow Walmart notebook through the blur of tears. My forceful handwriting ripped the pages in a few places. That notebook and enough pain to fill a stadium were the only things I took with me when I snuck out of the hotel room. Then, locked in my room at home with Taylor Swift's Evermore album on repeat, I edited and hit publish.

What I did not expect was for the post—and my previously unknown little Substack—to go viral.

I mean, it was catchy. Full of dark humor and more relatable than I realized it could be. I had no idea how many comments and shares I'd get from women and friends of women who called off a wedding or had been left at the altar or just before a wedding. Even some runaway grooms reached out.

When I posted a storytime article giving the actual details with not real names, the momentum only grew. I had no idea how many people walked away from their weddings.

My inbox is overflowing. I'm trying to answer every single message and each comment, but it might take me a year. Or two.

While I wish so many people didn't relate to my experience or the posts, I'm so happy to help people feel seen and heard. Knowing my words did that—well, it's literally a dream.

The best part, though, was the influx of job offers. Some were just temporary things—writing part-time for various publications or penning paid guest articles, some of which I might still do.

But I couldn't turn down this job. An actual, full-time, with-benefits job for an organization that's nationally known. Most AHL teams don't have the kind of clout or name recognition the Appies do. It would be stupid to say no.

Even if it means being in the same building as the two men who are the focus for all of my volcano rage.

It's not lost on me the irony that Drew—the guy who cheated on me throughout our engagement and in the very church we were supposed to get married in—doesn't make the top two of people making me angry. He's barely a blip.

Honestly—while what he did sucks and I'm still hurt about Becky's involvement, I feel like I dodged not just a bullet but a whole firing squad. Marrying Drew would have been a colossal mistake.

Bigger than marrying Van? a tiny, nasty voice in my head asks. I drop-kick the thought right out of my head.

Parker hooks her hand through mine and starts to tug me down the long hallway, our footsteps echoing on the concrete floors. "Well, I am beyond stoked we get to have you. That I get to have you," she amends. "I promise not to work you too hard."

The evil laugh that accompanies her words makes me wonder if I've misjudged Parker's sweetness. Her enthusiastic smile and brown glossy waves give off cheerleader vibes, but there's clearly a dark little edge hiding under there somewhere.

It only makes me like her more.

"Paperwork first," she says. "Then I'll show you around and then we'll meet everyone."

I stumble a little, and she steadies me. "Everyone?"

She laughs. "I mean, everyone in the office. The players are kind of on their own schedule. Especially the next few weeks with the playoffs coming up. We'll still do some things with them, but I stockpiled a lot of content so they could focus."

"That's smart." I try to keep my voice even and not betray the thread of panic I'm feeling. "But since I'm focusing more on the writing, I won't need to interact with the players as much … right?"

"Not as much as I do, since you'll be working on posts and longer captions for our socials—stuff we've already done with the guys. Plus, we're a few days away from the first playoff game and your dad is keeping them busy."

"Okay," I say, relieved.

But then she keeps going.

"You will get some hands-on time with them, though, because we've got one project coming up where I'll need you to do some interviews and a few other things."

She waves a hand like this is no big deal. The panic tightening all my muscles would disagree with her about that.

I must not hide my horror well because Parker laughs.

"Don't worry—they'll behave. They're good guys for the most part, and even if not, they're all afraid of me. Plus, you're the coach's daughter. They know he'd kill them if they did anything rude."

She laughs. I pretend to, and my fake laugh sounds a little like a hyena with a case of asthma. I wish Dad hadn't bought me a lunch sack because I could really use a good, old-fashioned paper bag to breathe in right now.

"Anyway. Today will be pretty boring office introductory stuff. But don't worry—soon I'll have you getting hands-on with both the writing and with the guys."

Cue the real panic.

But before I can run through the nearest wall and leave an Amelia-shaped hole, Parker pulls me through a doorway and into an office area. "Summer has all the boring paperwork ready for you. You'll love her too, despite the aforementioned boring paperwork. If you ever need to sue someone, she's got you covered."

"I already told you," a strong, female voice says. "I don't handle lawsuits."

Parker and I turn as a woman in a dark suit with a lemon-yellow shirt striding toward us. Her dark hair is pulled into a neat updo, and she somehow manages to look fashionable and effortless at the same time. Approachable, yet like you wouldn't want to tangle with her.

"Are you sure?" Parker asks. "Not even a tiny, baby lawsuit?"

"Nope. Who do you want to tiny, baby sue anyway?"

"I've got a list," Parker says. "Summer, this is Amelia. I don't want to sue her."

Summer smiles and steps forward to give me a firm handshake. "Glad to have you on board."

"Thanks," I say, both wanting to bask under the praise and hide under the nearest desk. "Nice to meet you."

"I'm part of the legal team. And while I do have your paperwork, I can't help with any lawsuits."

"I think I'm good for now," I tell her.

The moment I say it, I realize I actually do need legal advice. Specifically around how to undo a marriage.

It's been on my mind constantly, but I've avoided even a quick Google search. Like if I don't type the word annulment or how to get out of a mistake marriage into a search bar, the marriage needing to be annulled won't exist.

Similarly, I'm not sure about the validity of the marriage certificate. I didn't really question it when the officiant said they keep them on hand, and the waiting period is only if both bride and groom are Florida residents. That now sounds a little sus to me, but again—I've only gotten so far as to let my fingers hover over the keyboard while thinking about looking this up.

I wonder if this is the kind of thing I could ask Summer. But then I shake off the thought. It's my first day, and I don't exactly want to start by confessing to one of the other two women on the Appies' staff how big of a mistake I just made.

With an Appie no less.

Parker links her other arm through Summer's and steers us away from the reception desk, which is currently empty. "Come on. Let's get the boring stuff out of the way so we can get to the fun part."

"I resent that," Summer says. "What's boring to you is my Roman Empire."

Parker wrinkles her nose, releasing us so we can all walk through the doorway and into a small office. "Your Roman Empire is paperwork?"

"I do love a good contract." Summer gives a happy little sigh as she sinks down into her chair. Parker and I sit down across from her, leaving the door open. "But that doesn't make me boring, okay? I'm still super fun."

"When you're super fun, you usually don't have to tell people you're super fun," Parker points out.

The two of them go back and forth while I'm signing … and signing and signing. Summer briefly explains each document in a way I can understand, telling me I can take my time if I want to read everything. Which I definitely don't. She can keep her paperwork Roman Empire.

I'm just handing back the last page when someone walks right into her office, already talking. A someone whose deep voice makes all those alert hairs on my arms stand straight up.

"Yo, Summer. Got a minute?"

Van steps into the room.

I can't help but turn, like he's at the other end of a tether. One that just yanked me tight. I suck in a breath.

He jerks to a stop, blinking at me like I'm a mirage he hopes will disappear. The way his eyes go flat makes my chest hurt.

I wonder if he knew I was going to be working here. My dad probably told him.

Or, I think, watching a flurry of emotions pass over his face, maybe not.

The last time I saw him, he was asleep. Shirtless. I woke up the morning after our wedding draped over him, my cheek pressed to his dragon tattoo. I remember the sudden spike of panic, the Oh crap what did I do?

But after a moment of listening to his slow breaths and watching his lashes flutter on his cheeks, the panic subsided into a warm affection. A sense of rightness and peace about it all.

Then I slipped out of bed and saw the text.

Now, he's standing just a few feet away with his dark, messy head of hair. The broad shoulders and a jawline I've traced with both my fingers and my mouth.

He shaved.

Why his smooth, bare jaw feels like a betrayal, I'm not sure. But I remember telling him I loved his facial hair. Remember running my fingers over it. Kissing it.

I remember the way it felt against my skin …

His eyes slide away from me as his jaw clenches. Something deep inside me sinks, and I grab tightly to my anger with both fists. I've found that anger makes the very best shield against hurt.

As long as I ignore the little ugly voice asking me if Van might be hurting too. If me leaving while he slept had the same impact on him as reading Dad's text had on me .

"I already told you, Van," Summer says, rolling her eyes. "We're not going to trademark your face."

Parker snorts.

"Uh, it's not that," he says, already starting to back out of the office. "I'll come back later. When you're not, you know, busy."

"No, it's fine. We're almost done," Parker says, getting to her feet and waving Van toward the empty chair right next to me.

I should get up, but instead, I grip the arms of my chair tighter. Everything in me is screaming that I should run right out of the office. Okay, not everything . Because another tiny part—one which clearly suffered a lobotomy—wishes I could run right into his arms.

Van freezes, his mouth opening and then closing again before dropping into the chair next to me. So close I can feel the heat of him and smell the familiar masculine scent.

I wish this chair had an eject button to shoot me straight through the roof of the building and out into space. Apparently, a secret marriage supplies my brain with cartoon solutions—like running through walls and being shot out of my seat.

Actually … tying Van down to a set of train tracks doesn't sound so bad right now.

Summer frowns as she looks between me and Van and then back to Parker. "Do you know Amelia?" Summer asks, gesturing toward me. "She's new, and she's awesome."

Oh, he knows me all right.

I will my cheeks not to blush, like I can consciously control the most subconscious reactions.

"We've met," I say, trying to smile even though my voice sounds like a blade.

There is a beat of silence. Then Parker blurts out, "They just took a trip together."

Summer startles, glancing between a now-frozen Van and an even more frozen me.

Parker spins to face me and then words start falling out of her mouth like she's a malfunctioning vending machine.

"I'm so sorry. I'm not even supposed to know. Your dad slipped up and mentioned it and said not to say anything to anyone but especially not to say anything to you. I was doing so well not talking about that or the wedding or anything wedding-adjacent"—her eyes are now comically, anime wide— "and oh, shoot, now I've said wedding twice— three times!!!—and I should totally just shut up before I talk about how the trip was supposed to be your honeymoon?—"

" Parker. " Summer's firm voice, probably her courtroom lawyer voice, has the power to stop the broken dam of words rushing out of Parker's mouth. "Stop talking."

"Sorry," Parker squeaks, slapping a hand over her mouth but continuing to talk around it. "I'm done. I swear. I'm so sorry."

For the briefest moment, my eyes meet Van's. Regret is a rusty anchor sinking down and down and down in my stomach.

"It's fine," I manage.

"Is it?" Van asks, cocking his head and looking at me with a look that's almost lazy and definitely infuriating. Because he knows it's absolutely not fine.

Now both Parker and Summer are staring at the two of us. Parker still with wide eyes. Summer with narrowed ones.

"The real question," Summer says, and I just know this is about to go somewhere I don't want it to go, "is how did you survive a trip with the guy who wants to trademark his face?"

"It took a lot of mental fortitude," I say dryly, hazarding another glance his way.

Van's eyes spark with something. Challenge, maybe? It makes me sit up straighter in my seat, something in me shifting awake like a lazy lion suddenly deciding it's no longer nap time but meal time.

"It is hard to resist this face." He makes a lazy circle around his head with one hand.

"Yet somehow I managed," I say.

There's the tiniest lift to one side of his mouth. "Did you, though?"

I lift a shoulder. "Looks that way."

"You know what they say about looks being deceiving."

"Does that also apply to your looks?"

He smirks, and I wish it didn't have an almost seismic impact on me. "Aw, did you just call me handsome?"

"Definitely not."

"Are you sure? Because I think a compliment was buried in there somewhere."

"Keep digging. Maybe you'll find it."

Van flexes. "These arms were made for digging."

"Digging yourself into a hole?" I suggest sweetly. "What I meant was about your looks being deceiving ."

"Guess you'd know about that, huh?"

"Nope," I add, with sickening sweetness. "I don't know the first thing about lying right to someone's face."

His neatly shaven jaw hardens at this, and I swear I hear the sound of his teeth grinding.

I won this round of verbal sparring. So … where's the sense of celebration?

"Time out. The two of you"—Summer leans forward in her chair, dramatically swiveling her head between the two of us— "spent days together?"

"Was it like this the whole time—with the fighty words and the snappy back and forth?" Parker asks. "I'm shocked you both survived."

Honestly, I'm not so sure I did. Not in one piece, anyway.

"Me too," Van mutters, getting to his feet. "I'll come back another time, Summer."

And then he's gone, and I'm left facing a two-person firing squad which shoots questions, not bullets.

"What was that ?" Summer asks.

"Do I need to beat Van up?" Parker crosses her arms. "He's got a mouth on him, but he's a good guy underneath all the cocky bluster."

Great. Now I'm thinking about Van's mouth.

And the good guy I thought he was underneath it all.

But I was wrong. Again. Now I'm zero for two in picking the right men to marry.