Chapter Two

Tyson

The steering wheel is cool beneath my palms as I navigate the familiar streets of Becca Falls. At the same time, my mind flutters between anticipation and unease, like a bird caught between different skies. Annette's face, framed by waves of blonde hair, fills my thoughts, her deep-set blue eyes always hinting at more than she lets on. And then there's Beathan, with his mother's smile and an innocence that tugs at something in me I didn't know existed.

But it's the MacKenny brothers that knot my insides. How will they receive me—a suit-clad outsider in their close-knit world? I've crossed the threshold of high finance into the warmth of their family gatherings before, but the uncertainty never fades.

My car eases to a gentle stop outside the familiar two-story building, the engine's hum fading into silence. For a moment, I collect myself, breathing in through my nose, out through my mouth. The present moment stretches, thin and taut.

Then, the door bursts open, and Annette appears. Her movements are brisk, propelled by an energy that speaks of excitement and nerves. She descends the steps in a rush, her figure a blur of motion against the backdrop of her quaint home.

"Tyson!" Her voice reaches me, laced with a cocktail of emotions, and I can't help but mirror her smile.

"Annette," I reply, stepping out of the car to meet her halfway. There's a tremble in her touch as our hands clasp. Her gaze holds mine, brimming with questions and silent pleas as if she's searching my hazel eyes for the assurance I'm not sure I possess.

"Thank you for coming," she says, her tone is warm.

This feels like a dance we've done before, one step forward, two steps back, ever since my world collided with hers.

"Wouldn't miss it," I assure her, my voice steady despite the churn of my stomach. "How's Beathan?"

"Excited to see you," she responds, a flicker of maternal pride lighting up her features. "He's been talking about it all week."

"Good," I murmur, allowing myself a moment to bask in the simple joy of being wanted.

But the shadows of past mistakes linger, darkening the edges of this fragile happiness. Diandra's face flashes in my mind, her presence a ghost of what could have been, followed by the stern visage of Grayson Moore—reminders of doors closed and paths diverted.

"Come on," Annette beckons, squeezing my hand before releasing it, signaling it's time to move.

We walk toward the entrance together, side by side yet surrounded by invisible walls built from our respective pasts.

As the door swings shut behind us, sealing away the world outside, I take a deep breath, eager for the reunion and bracing for the unknown. Whatever lies ahead, I remind myself to stay present, to be here, now, with Annette and Beathan.

The living room is a tapestry of unfamiliar faces, all connected by the unspoken threads of family. Annette's hand on my back is a steadying force as we step into the fray of the MacKenny clan. I can feel their collective gazes, measuring and weighing my worth.

"Everyone, you remember Tyson?" Annette announces with an unwavering voice that fills the space. "Tyson, meet the MacKennys."

Kyle steps forward first, his handshake firm and his scrutiny palpable. "Welcome, Tyson," he says, and his tone carries the weight of responsibility for all those gathered.

Sean's nod follows, just as solemn, his eyes sharp but not unkind.

"Thank you," I reply, aware of the careful balance at play here.

They're guardians of their realm, these brothers, and I'm an outsider asking for entry—not just to their home but to their circle, one that now clearly holds Annette and Beathan in its protective embrace, but for five years, I let Annette and Beathan share my home in New York. How the tables have turned now that I'm on their turf.

"Come, sit down," Annette urges, her smile warm but laced with an alertness that tells me she's watching for any sign of discomfort from her kin or myself.

She guides me to a seat, ensuring I'm surrounded by conversation and subtle reassurances of welcome, a touch on the shoulder, a shared laugh, stories of Becca Falls spilling around me like an invitation.

As laughter echoes and the room breathes with life, Annette leans in close. "Would you like to take a walk?" she whispers, her blue eyes searching mine. "I'd love to show you the town."

"Sure," I answer, grateful for the reprieve from the intensity of this introduction.

"Kyle?"

He raises his chin at Annette. "Yes?"

"Could you watch Beathan for a while? I'd like to give Tyson a tour of the town. We won't be long."

The man's face lights up as a smile spreads across it. "We've got him. Take your time."

"Beathan, be good for your uncle."

"Yes, Momma."

We excuse ourselves, slipping out into the quiet calm of the outdoors. As we leave the house behind, there's a loosening in my chest—an easing of the tension that had coiled there. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine and the distant promise of spring.

"Becca Falls has its charm," Annette says, her voice softer now, intimate against the backdrop of the town's murmuring heart. "It's small but full of character. You'll see."

"Looking forward to it," I tell her, meaning it.

There's something about this place that feels honest, a stark contrast to the crowded streets of New York.

Annette's gaze meets mine, holding a depth of emotion that speaks of shared understanding. We've both known loss and betrayal. The shadows of our secrets mingle between us, yet here, in the simplicity of a walk, we find common ground.

"Let's start with the falls," she suggests, her hand brushing mine as we begin our journey through the streets of Becca Falls.

We meander along the sidewalk, Annette pointing out landmarks, a quaint bookstore, the refurbished theater, and a row of pastel-painted homes that could belong on postcards. The town unfolds like a storybook with each step, and I find myself caught up in its narrative.

"Most of these buildings are originals," she says, trailing her fingers along an ivy-laced railing. "They've been restored over the years, but the essence… it's still there."

"Timeless," I comment, and it feels like an echo of us, of the bond we're cautiously reweaving after these weeks apart.

"Exactly." Her smile is tinged with nostalgia as she glances back at me.

Our conversations drift easily from the mundane to the heartfelt work, Beathan's latest antics, and the books we've read. But we dance around the deeper subjects, the tender scars we both harbor.

"Beathan must love it here," I say, shifting the focus to her son, the spirited boy who reminds me so much of what I've lost and what I'm hoping to regain.

"He does. This town is good for him. For us."

The weight of her words carries more than just affection for the place. There's resilience and determination to rebuild what was once broken.

As we approach a bakery, the scent of fresh bread envelops us, warm and inviting. Through the large windows, I see two women bustling behind the counter, their laughter spilling out onto the street.

"Let's grab something sweet," Annette suggests, pulling open the door.

The bell above jingles, announcing our arrival.

"Annette," the taller of the two women exclaims, her apron dusted with flour. She comes around the counter to embrace Annette, then turns her bright gaze on me. "And this must be Tyson."

"Isabelle, Charlotte, this is Ty," Annette says, her hand resting briefly on my arm.

It's a simple gesture, but it grounds me, reminding me I'm not an outsider here, not with her by my side.

"Nice to meet you both," I manage, extending my hand to Isabelle and then to Charlotte, whose kind eyes crinkle as she smiles.

"Tyson owns the New England Warriors and lives in New York," Annette adds as if to explain my presence, to weave me into the fabric of her life here among these people who have become her family.

"Football must be quite different from running a bakery," Charlotte observes, her tone warm and curious.

"It has its moments…" I admit, "… but I imagine there's an art to what you do, which is very different from sitting down with players and coaches, trying to figure out how to make them better. It must be satisfying creating with your hands."

"Absolutely," Isabelle agrees, sliding a tray of pastries across the glass counter. "Please, try some. On the house."

"Thank you," I say, and it's more than politeness.

There's gratitude for the welcome and the sense of belonging that seems to come so easily to Annette here.

We choose a few delicacies and step outside, the paper bag in Annette's grasp rustling softly. As we resume our walk, I savor the sweetness on my tongue, a flavor rich with butter, sugar, and the subtlest hint of cinnamon beneath it all. It's comforting and familiar, like the town itself, like the woman beside me with her wavy blonde hair catching the light, leading me through the streets of Becca Falls and, perhaps, into her heart.

The sun's warmth is a gentle embrace as we leave the soft chime of the bakery door behind. Annette leads the way, her sandals clicking against the sidewalk that meanders toward the park. I follow, my eyes tracing the contour of her silhouette against the backdrop of Becca Falls, a picture of serenity painted in casual strokes.

"Here," she says, gesturing toward an empty bench nestled under the sprawling arms of an oak tree. Families sprawl across the grass while laughter from children chasing each other fills the air. We sit side by side, our bodies not touching, but the space between us thrums with unspoken words.

Annette tucks a strand of her wavy hair behind her ear and sighs, her gaze fixed on a young boy who reminds me of Beathan. "I come here to think sometimes," she begins, her voice tinged with the music of vulnerability. "It's peaceful, you know? Watching life unfold without complications."

"Complications have a way of finding us, don't they?" I observe, noting how the sunlight dances in her blue eyes, casting shadows of the past that linger there.

She nods, pulling her sundress tighter around her knees. "They do. And sometimes, Tyson, they make you wonder if it's worth it, allowing someone new into your life when all you've known is…" She trails off, letting her words hang in the air.

"Getting hurt," I finish for her. It's not a question. I've seen the scars on her heart and felt them resonate with mine.

"Exactly." Her eyes meet mine, holding a universe of fears within their blue depths. "I'm scared, Tyson. Scared for me, for Beathan. What if I let you in, and it all falls apart again? The thought of going through that kind of pain, of seeing Beathan go through it…" Her voice cracks, and she looks away, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as if to hold herself together.

"Annette," I say softly, touching her hand. She doesn't pull away, and the contact sends a current through me, charged with the gravity of her confession. "I understand. I wish I could promise you a future without hurt or risk. But all I can offer is this. I care about you more than I've allowed myself to admit. And I'm here, willing to face those complications with you if you'll have me." Taking a deep breath, I continue, "And I'm not going to cheat on you like Lochlan did. It's not how I'm made."

Her breath hitches at his name, and I wish I'd never said it. He's like a ghost that haunts her, not allowing her to be happy. Annette turns her hand beneath mine, our fingers entwining, a silent acknowledgment of the fragile thread that binds us.

The afternoon stretches on, shadows lengthening as we sit in shared silence, absorbing the weight of our confessions, the beauty of the park, and the possibility of what might lie ahead.

I watch a mother push her giggling child on a swing, the simplicity of their joy piercing the veil of my complex emotions. Drawing in a slow breath, I turn my gaze back to Annette. Her fingers are still laced with mine, a lifeline amid the turmoil stirring within.

"Annette," I start, my voice barely more than a whisper as I navigate the treacherous waters of my past. "There was someone before… Diandra and her son, Dawson." The words hang heavy between us, each syllable laden with memories I've locked away.

Her eyes lock onto mine, steadfast, urging me to continue.

"Diandra returned to Dawson's father, Grayson Moore. He's a former football star and was on my team with the New England Warriors." My throat tightens as I speak his name, a reminder of the life that slipped through my fingers. "It wasn't just losing her. It was losing the chance to be a part of a family. Dawson… he had started to look up to me."

The admission feels like shedding armor I didn't realize I'd been wearing, piece by agonizing piece.

"Tyson, I can't imagine how hard that must have been for you," she says, her voice a soothing balm to the raw wounds of my heart. "I did wonder if you two were ever an item."

Shaking my head, I say, "No, we weren't, but I did wish we were for a long time."

"Am I her replacement?"

A laugh escapes me. "Absolutely not. After being with you, I realized that Diandra was meant to be with Grayson. The upside is I still get to see Dawson from time to time."

We sit with our shared vulnerabilities hovering around us, the park's laughter and chatter receding into a hushed backdrop. Annette shifts closer, and her presence is a grounding force, pulling me from the shadows of my past.

"Sometimes I dream of a simple life," I confess, staring at the golden leaves rustling above us. "One where success isn't measured by wealth or accolades, but by moments of genuine connection. With you, with Beathan… it feels like that life could be more than just a dream."

Annette's smile is wistful. "And I dream of a future where fear doesn't dictate my choices. Where I can love freely without loss and betrayal looming over me."

The sun dips lower, casting an amber glow across the park, and I feel the shift in us—two people shaped by love and marred by betrayal, finding solace in the honesty of our broken pieces. Our conversation is a gentle dance, a slow progression toward something neither of us fully understands but both desperately crave.

"Tyson, I'm scared, too," Annette murmurs, her voice steady despite the confession. "But maybe… maybe we don't have to be alone with our fears anymore."

"Maybe not," I agree, feeling something inside me unfurl—a willingness to step out from behind the walls I've built if only to see where this fragile connection might lead.

The horizon bleeds crimson and gold as we shuffle to the stoop of her apartment, our shadows stretching long against the pavement. Annette's hand lingers in mine, warm and tentative. The air is thick with unsaid promises and the faintest trace of her floral perfume.

"Thanks for today, Ty," she says, her voice barely above a whisper as if afraid to break the spell that has settled over us.

"Thank you, Annette." I squeeze her hand, reluctant to let go. "For trusting me with your fears… and your hopes."

She leans forward, and for a moment, I think she might close the distance between us entirely. But instead, she brushes her lips against my cheek, a feather-light kiss that sears through me more profoundly than any embrace.

"Let's take this one step at a time," she offers, stepping back but still holding my gaze.

"Agreed." My throat tightens around the words as I'm done waiting. "One step at a time."

"Goodnight, Tyson," she murmurs, retreating into the safety of her home.

"Goodnight, Annette." The door closes softly behind her, and the warmth of her touch fades from my skin.

I turn, descending the steps to where my car waits. Pulling away from the curb, I glance back at her apartment window, half-expecting to see her silhouette. But the glass reflects only the dying light of day.

A hollow sensation gnaws at me, the familiar cloak of solitude settling over my shoulders once again. The road stretches before me, leading back to my life of structured isolation. But Annette's presence lingers, an invisible thread pulling at the edges of my carefully constructed world.

The sun dips below the horizon, leaving a melancholy purple in its wake. It's the color of bruised hearts and whispered secrets, of love cautiously rekindled against the backdrop of shared vulnerabilities. The car speeds on, carrying me into the gathering darkness, but a faint light flickers somewhere within. Maybe I can have the life I want with Annette and Beathan. But it won't be in New York City—that much is clear. I'll need to make arrangements to move to the sleepy town of Becca Falls.