8. Mallory

Iwake up as the sun rises at five-thirty in the morning, under a blanket I don’t recognize. The memories of the night before flood my brain and I spend an hour googling flights to Maine and almost booking one. Then finally I fall back into a humiliated sleep, tossing and turning. When my eyes flutter open again, the room is empty and bright. And the clock says nine-thirty and Dylan is not in his bed. But I can hear him screaming.

My heart rate takes off like a Red Bull car on an F1 track. My body does the same. I leap out of bed, fling open the door and rush down the stairs before my legs are actually aware I”m awake. I start to stumble, grab the railing, and bump into the wall and pain explodes in my side. ”Ouch! Fuck!”

“Mallory?” Tate appears at the bottom of the stairs as I right myself, hand gripping my side, vision blurry with pain. “What happened?”

Dylan is in his arms, every inch of his skin that isn’t covered in his onesie is blotchy red. He twists and reaches for me as soon as his watery eyes see me.

“I’m fine,” I lie and lift my arms to the traumatized kiddo. “How long has he been awake?”

“About an hour,” Tate says and lets me take him. “He’s been fussy the whole damn time. Even while eating the spinach omelet you said he loves.”

“He does love it.” I hold Dylan’s squirmy body up and sniff him mid-torso. “You just scooped him out of bed and fed him?”

”Yeah.” Tate looks defensive. ”I could hear him and you were dead asleep. I thought I needed to start handling this so no time like the present.”

“You have to change him,” I say bluntly and start back up the stairs. I hear Tate following behind me so I keep talking and try really hard not to sound annoyed, just informative. Tate’s trying, in his own way. “As soon as he wakes up, always check the diaper. Nine times out of ten he needs a change.”

“Oh.” Tate sounds dejected and when I glance over my shoulder at the top of the stairs, he looks as sad as he sounds.

“I never told you that so you aren’t expected to know.”

“Yeah. But I mean, it sounds like common sense,” Tate mutters and follows me into the bedroom.

“Grab me a towel please.”

Tate scurries to the bathroom and grabs a fresh towel from the shelves there. They are all tightly rolled and fluffy like a hotel thanks to his cleaner, Josie, who I met the day before. He holds it out to me, but I don’t take it. I give him instructions instead. “Lie it out on the bed, not too close to the edges. You should invest in a changing table. He’s got a while longer in diapers.”

Tate nods and lays out the towel. I drop Dylan onto his back in the middle of it. As I start unsnapping the onesie and changing Dylan, I give Tate step-by-step instructions. He’s very quiet so I glance up as I toss the used baby wipe into the trash beside my nightstand. Tate is facing the wall, not me or the baby. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Giving Dylan some privacy.”

A smile blooms on my lips. I can’t control it. His answer is too ridiculous. “You are giving an infant privacy?”

“I mean, he doesn’t need everyone looking at his junk.”

”Tate Garrison, have you lost it entirely?” I”m trying to sound stern but a giggle bubbles up and finally, Tate looks over at me.

“Don’t laugh at me. I feel weird seeing a kid naked,” Tate mumbles, his cheeks tinging with the slightest bit of pink, and it’s adorable.

“He is not just any kid, he’s yours,” I remind him and turn back to Dylan who is perfectly content, naked, and clean again. His chubby legs are in the air and he”s reaching for his toes. ”And do I have to remind you that you see, like, twenty men naked several times a week in locker rooms? This shouldn”t freak you out.”

“It’s not like I’m looking at those dudes,” Tate mutters. “And I mean, like, I’ve never cleaned a baby. I don’t want to hurt him or put my hands in the wrong place.”

“There is no wrong place,” I reply, still smiling a little. “I once had to clean poop out from between his toes because something he ate gave him diarrhea and it leaked everywhere.”

“That’s so gross.” Tate’s handsome face twists into a look of revulsion.

“It was,” I confirm and start to wrap a new diaper around Dylan. “But whatever, shit happens. Quite literally. He’s a baby. He’s helpless. He needs us to do the dirty work, Tate.”

Once the diaper is on, I ask Tate to watch him and walk over to one of my still-not-really unpacked suitcases. I grab a clean shirt and elastic waist pants for Dylan. I make a note to add summer clothes to the ever-growing list of things Tate needs to buy for the baby. Diana didn”t need an expansive warm weather wardrobe for him in England, but Los Angeles is a different story.

“He needs some lighter clothes,” I say.

“I’ll leave you one of my credit cards while I’m on the road trip,” Tate offers. “And the car. Go get whatever you need. Food orders too. Just charge it all.”

“I…” I stop myself from arguing because what choice do I have? “Fine. Thanks.”

I walk over and dress Dylan. Tate isn’t watching the kid, he’s watching me. I confirm it with a glance, but I felt it before that. Suddenly my pajamas feel a little more revealing than they did before. The fabric is thin, the boy shorts are tight and, well, short. And I’m bent over. I think of last night and that psychotic break we both had that ended in a make-out session and his hands on my breasts. I feel a warmth spread through me and I straighten immediately, grab Dylan off the bed, and hand him to Tate.

Tate’s eyes flare but he takes his son and tries to get Dylan to settle on his hip. But Dylan starts fussing immediately. “Try bouncing him.”

Tate bounces. Dylan fusses more and reaches his little hands out toward me. I step out of reach grab a pair of sweatpants from my suitcase and pull them on over my pajama shorts, keeping my eyes averted from both Dylan and Tate. ”He doesn”t want me.”

”He”s uncertain,” I reply and rake my hands through my bedhead. ”Give him a minute.”

“During this minute I’m giving him, should you and I discuss the tonsil hockey session in the bathroom?” I look up at that question and find his gorgeous eyes focused on me with trepidation. “Or are we going to pretend it didn’t happen?”

”No,” I lie. ”Not pretend. Forget. We should forget it ever happened. Neither of us is in our right mind right now. And…”

I look up at him again. He’s staring intently. Dylan is wiggling in his arms and Tate rubs his big palm across his back, which doesn’t help ease Dylan at all. Now he’s starting to voice his discontent with frustrated squeaks. “And…?”

Shit. “We owe it to Diana to keep our focus on Dylan.”

As if emphasizing my point, Dylan’s arms and legs kick and punch the air and he lets out an ear-piercing wail. Tate grimaces and lifts Dylan, holding him out to me. I sigh and take him and he immediately simmers down. “He hates me.”

“He doesn’t know you, yet,” I argue. “And he’s been through a lot.”

“I’m not blaming him,” Tate replies quickly as he runs a hand through his thick hair, somehow creating a beautiful chaos with his locks. “I just… I wish this was easier for me. Maybe that would make it easier for him.”

“Probably not and you’re doing fine,” I assure him. Although I do wish he wouldn’t give up on Dylan and hand him off to me so quickly. “When you get back from the road trip, you can handle morning duties again and it will go better because you’ll know to change him.”

”And there”ll be a proper changing table here tomorrow because I”ll order it ASAP,” Tate replies and motions towards the door with a tilt of his head. ”Coffee? Donuts?”

“Donuts?”

“I have to really crack down on the diet after today so I wanted to go out with a bang,” he replies and a small smile quirks the corners of his lips. “I ordered Trejo’s Donuts from Uber Eats and I have Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles on its way, too. I got you the Carol C Special.”

My mouth starts watering immediately. “Amazing. Thank you.”

We ate at Roscoe’s when Diana and I visited. It was amazing and I have literally dreamt about those waffles with the perfect hint of nutmeg and that savory crispy-fried chicken breast. I wasn’t expecting to eat it again, but am thrilled with the prospect. We leave the bedroom and start down the stairs and he keeps shooting me weird glances. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “We got hormonal. I blame the intense emotions we’re dealing with.”

He smirks. “I meant your ribs, but you can keep making excuses for the kissing. I won’t believe a word of it though.”

His smirk deepens and there is the classic Tate Garrison twinkle in his eye as he changes the subject. “I asked the team doctor to swing by and take a look at you.”

“What? No. I have no insurance.”

“It’s a favor,” Tate says firmly. “And I won’t take no for an answer. I have to leave the state and you’re the only caregiver for Dylan so I need to know your own health is on track. What I saw last night looked pretty banged up.”

I freeze at the bottom of the stairs. He was behind me and I feel his whole body slide by mine, his chiseled torso against my back, as he squeezes by and comes to stand in front of me. His eyes are kind. Concerned, even. ”We played the Barons last night.”

“So?” It’s all I can manage to squeak out.

“Your dad traveled with the team,” Tate replies. “And he sought me out after the game to ask about you.”

I feel my heart seize in my chest. “He knows I’m with you?”

“No, but he knows you didn’t stay in London,” Tate replies. “I lied and said I didn’t know where you were, but I don’t know why. Why aren’t you telling him?”

“Because if he knows I’m here, he’ll know I’m with you,” I explain as I start walking again, mostly to get away from Tate and his intense stare. “And we all know how much he loves you and your family. Plus, he knows Diana had a baby, and I was the nanny. He thinks the baby was Felix’s, but… My dad is a lot of things. Stupid is not one of them. He will put this together quicker than a Mensa student with a child’s puzzle.”

“Oh. So you’re lying to protect me?” Tate seems utterly stupefied at the concept.

“Yes. Just like I was lying in London to protect Diana. Well, actually I just ghosted you so I didn’t have to lie,” I reply as I settle Dylan in the playpen Tate ordered for him. There’s a bunch of cool new toys in there that he also picked, all on his own. Sure, one is a plastic hockey stick and puck, which Dylan chews on more than plays with, but the other toys are all fancy, eco-friendly learning toys. I was impressed when the order arrived. “All I do I lie to help everyone else. Anyway, I will tell him I am State-side today but not where.”

“Okay.” Tate swallows and a look of guilt washes over him again. I’ve seen it on his face daily since I turned up here and I feel bad. “And you’ll let my doctor take a look at those ribs?”

“If you deduct his fee from my paycheck,” I reply tersely.

”Fine.” He rolls those pretty eyes of his. ”He is supposed to be here around eleven. I know that”s during Dylan”s nap so hopefully, he doesn”t see or hear the kid. If he does, will you…”

“I’ll tell him he’s mine, and I won’t let him see Dylan. If he cries, I’ll make the doc wait down here and go deal with it. More lies. My specialty.” With Dylan happily entertained with his toys I right myself and move toward the kitchen. “I need donuts, caffeine, and that Carol C Special.”

He pulls out his phone and glances at the screen. “It’s four minutes away.”

“Great.” I walk into the kitchen. He leans on the door frame and I try not to stare.

He looks gorgeous, which is insane. He”s just wearing a plain blue T-shirt with a small Quake logo on the breast and a pair of wrinkled charcoal-colored shorts. His hair isn”t brushed but yet, still perfect. There”s a dusting of stubble on his strong jaw. Some of the hairs hold more ginger in them than brown. He hates it because it”s patchy and he thinks it looks like a Calico cat. He once said the ginger makes him embarrassed to grow a playoff beard. I think it looks hot as hell, but I”ve never told him that.

“I’m worried about you,” Tate blurts out.

“I’m fine.”

“You deserve to be more than fine, Mallory,” Tate replies, which wasn’t what I expected to hear come out of his mouth so I’m thrown.

“I was there when my best friend died, up close and personal,” I confess, my voice soft and scratchy because it hurts to make this confession. “I was the only witness to her fiancé abandoning the perfect little boy he promised her he would look after no matter what. And then I was forced to fly that perfect little boy here to blow up your life. So yeah, I’ve had better days. But trust me, the broken ribs and concussion and this little cut are the least of my injuries.”

He blinks. His eyes move from my hand, which is pointing to the little scab on my forehead where the stitches used to be before they dissolved. And then, before I can change the subject and reach for the coffee pot, my nose is buried in his pecs. His thick arms are wrapped around my shoulders and his neck is bent so his face is pressed into the top of my head. And it feels so fucking good I start to cry. And I hate him for it so I shove him away and wipe at my eyes. ”Don”t do that.”

“Sorry,” Tate whispers. “I just… you’ve been through so much and I wanted to comfort you.”

“Thanks but don’t, okay?” I choke out and take a deep shuddering breath to calm myself. “I’ll deal with myself later. Just work on bonding with Dylan and figuring this out so I can walk away, okay?”

“I’m trying,” he whispers.

I pour my coffee. He walks around the counter and grabs a mug from the ones hanging next to his fancy coffee maker and I pour him one too. He slides a box across the counter to me and I flip the lid and see a colorful delicious-looking assortment of donuts. I pluck up one covered in powdered sugar as the doorbell rings.

“Roscoe’s,” Tate winks at me and heads out of the room.

I take a deep breath… well, as deep as I can with my ribs. Every moment of every day that Tate and I are in the same space I feel heavy. There’s so much weighing on us. The things we still have to talk about, the things we are talking about, and the stuff we will never talk about.

He arrives back in the kitchen with a bag that smells like heaven. ”Oh my God, I should have asked you to order this the very first night.”

Tate smiles. “I would have, but I was busy having my life turned upside down.”

I glance at him and he shoots me a quirky little smile. I can”t help but smile back. He opens the bag and quickly dishes up my breakfast and his. He got the same thing, only he ordered an extra chicken breast. We both devour the delicious waffles and chicken in a nearly comfortable silence. As I”m licking the last of the syrup off my fingers he tears into his second chicken breast and asks, ”Can I ask you to interview your replacement while I”m on this road trip. I talked to a local agency and they”ve got four candidates they can send over this week.”

I hate that he used the word replacement, even though it makes sense. I reach for what’s left of my coffee, walk around the island, and peer into the living room. Dylan is happily chewing on a teething ring, on his back kicking his feet in the air. “Shouldn’t you be the one who interviews them?”

“I will, as a second interview, if you think they deserve one,” Tate replies. “But you’re better suited to vet their actual skills. You know what Dylan needs more than I do, at the moment.”

”Okay, I guess,” I say with resignation because I hate the idea that someone else will be with Dylan. And Tate. I mean some strange woman will be living in that bedroom, right across the hall from him. ”This is a live-in position?”

“Yeah, but not here,” Tate replies and I turn to face him, stunned. “This place is too choppy for a kid. All the stairs and no grassy outdoor space. I mean if I don’t move now, I’ll end up moving next year anyway. I have a realtor looking into stuff for me. Also, a lawyer writing up an NDA for the nanny.”

Wow. He has been handling more than I realized. Had I been getting frustrated with him for no reason? “Okay yeah, I will do the preliminary interviews.”

“I’ll set it up at the coffee shop around the corner,” Tate says. “Safer there than having strangers here. Also, if you need help with Dylan while I’m away there’s this married guy on the team, MacFarlane and he says his wife has a really good babysitter. I got her info.”

“You told a guy on the team about Dylan?”

He shakes his head squashing the little bloom of hope in my chest. “I told them I had a friend visiting with a kid.”

Oh. My heart sinks.

And then his phone rings and he makes everything worse. He grabs it off the counter and his eyes find mine. He looks mildly panicked. “It’s my sister.”

“Okay.”

“If I don’t answer, Tenley will go all Olivia Benson on my ass and hunt me down,” Tate explains. “She may even show up here or something nuts. She once broke into my place at two in the morning because I ignored her calls and texts for two days and she thought I was dead or kidnapped or something.”

“So answer it,” I prompt and Dylan coos loudly from the living room. He’s sitting up now and getting bored, I can tell. He’s also a little tired judging by the way his eyes are dropping.

Tate looks at me and then at Dylan. “Can you guys… give me some privacy.”

“You haven’t told her.”

“Not yet.”

I inhale deeply, swallowing down the disappointment and frustration I’m feeling toward him right now. “Tenley isn’t going to rat you out to your parents. And she could help with him.”

His shoulders stiffen defensively. “It’s not exactly an easy conversation, okay? I’ll tell them all, at the same time, when it’s right and that’s not now. So can you please give me some privacy?”

I turn and march out of the kitchen. Grabbing Dylan I gently plop him on my hip and grab the baby Bjorn from the fancy hook on the hall stand by the door. “Where are you going?”

I shove my feet into my slip-on Sketchers and grab the extra set of keys he gave me off the console table. “Out. So you can have your privacy.”

“You don’t have to leave,” Tate argues. “I just meant?—”

The door closes behind me, cutting off whatever else he was going to say. I walk out of the complex with Dylan strapped to my chest, wandering down Abbott Kinney toward the beach a few blocks away. Tate is not the man I thought he was. I think eventually he will be the father Dylan deserves. Hopefully, before the kid is old enough to know the difference.

When I get back to the house, Tate is gone. What’s left of my Roscoe’s meal and the remaining donuts are wrapped up on a plate on the counter. There’s a post-it on the cling wrap that says Dr. Carter. 11. And I’m sorry it has to be this way.

“And that’s why I’m annoyed, Tate. It doesn’t have to be this way,” I mutter. Dylan is already nodding off so I take him upstairs, make sure he doesn’t need a diaper change, and put him down for a nap.

There”s a knock on the door not long after I finish my chicken and waffles. With trepidation, I answer it to see a middle-aged man with a gentle smile. Dr. Carter is actually great. He does a quick, relatively painless exam and determines I seem to be healing well. I don”t even need X-rays, he can feel the ribs are in place. But he tells me not to rush things, especially with the concussion and if my headaches persist for another week or two, he wants to see me again.

When he leaves I decide it’s a good time to deal with my dad. I look around Tate’s place to find an innocuous backdrop for the video call I have to make. Our family are video people. If I simply call him on the phone, he’ll know I’m hiding something.

There’s one wall in the kitchen without a painting or picture. So I go stand with my back against it and video chat my dad. He answers quickly and his face is awash with concern when it fills my screen. “Where are you?”

“I’m in the US,” I say simply.

“Where?”

“The United States.”

“Mallory Lisa Echolls, stop being obstinate and answer your father!” The phone shifts and now my mother’s face is filling it. She looks pissed off.

“Hannah give me the fucking phone,” Dad snaps in the background. “She called me, not you.”

“Where are you, Mallory?” Mom snaps.

“I’m in Oregon,” I lie because at this point, what’s one more?

“Why the hell are you in Oregon?” Dad barks. “Hannah, give me the phone!”

More jostling, I get a quick glimpse of the ceiling in my dad”s study at their apartment in New York and then the fabric of my mom”s lavender sweater, and then my dad”s face fills the screen again. His crow”s feet look deeper than ever. His silver hair is whiter. ”What, or who is in Oregon?”

“A yoga retreat.” More lies. “I needed to decompress. I’ve been through a lot.”

“Which is why you should be with us,” he argues.

“Dad New York isn’t my home,” I remind him. “And I don’t need to be dodging a billion strangers on every sidewalk with broken ribs.”

”How are you feeling?” Mom”s voice floats through the phone and I think I see her chin just behind Dad”s left shoulder as she tries to get in on the call again.

The two of them have never been a team. Not one day of my life. At least, not the type of team you think of when you picture the perfect marriage. I have wondered more than once why they got together and why they stay together. Everything about them seems difficult. “I’m fine. I just… I wasn’t ready to see anyone.”

“You’ll be at Beckett’s wedding, though, right?” Mom asks. All I can see is her chin and the blunt edges of her wavy silver-blonde bob. “You’re in the wedding party, you know. Now that you’re not in London there’s no reason not to attend.”

She”s right. I didn”t want to attend because I didn”t like his fiancée, who is his old high school sweetheart. They rekindled their romance while he was dating, and living with, someone else, which I also didn”t like. But Beckett said the same thing my mom is saying. I”m a bridesmaid. His fiancée insisted and now that I don”t have to leave a job or fly across the ocean, I can”t say no. ”It”s not until the end of June, Mom. I don”t know what I”m doing next week let alone three months from now.”

“You can’t bail on your brother’s wedding,” Dad barks. “The local paper is covering it and if the Barons win the Cup, which is a distinct possibility, I’m going to have ESPN and Sports Center cover it too. Because I’ll make sure my day with the Cup is the same day.”

“The General Manager gets a day with the Cup?” It’s a tradition where each player gets twenty-four hours in the off-season at home with the trophy after they win, but I’ve never heard of the management getting the same honor.

“It’s not called that. I mean, we don’t get it specifically,” Dad backtracks. “But if I win the team the Cup, I’m having it at your brother’s wedding.”

My brother who doesn’t play hockey. Who is a doctor who was made to feel like that was a subpar accomplishment because it wasn’t hockey. That brother is going to have the Cup at his wedding. Beckett will be thrilled. Not.

“I’ll be at the wedding.” I sigh in defeat. “I’ll likely be home well before that anyway.”

”Just go home now, Mallory,” Mom chides. ”Yoga isn”t going to help you. It”s all hogwash, new-aged crap. Your brother is a doctor. You can stay with him and he and Heather can heal you while you help her plan her wedding. That will be exciting.”

“Nope. I’ll stay where I am for now. I’ll let you know when that changes,” I reply firmly.

“Since when did you become the stubborn child?” Dad grumbles. “I saw that Garrison kid you hang out with, by the way.”

I furrow my brow like I have no idea who he’s talking about for a millisecond and then act confused. “You saw Tate?”

“Yeah. I went on the west coast trip with the team,” he says, adding, “We beat his team.”

“Good for you Dad,” I say with no cheer whatsoever.

“Kid played like shit. I don’t know how he ever got close to his dad’s record,” Dad laments.

“Because his dad’s record isn’t that great.” There goes Mom, always willing and able to jump on the Garrison-Haters bandwagon.

“Well, if you play him in the playoffs, tell him hi,” I say and an alert pings on my phone telling me there’s motion in Dylan’s crib. If he’s waking up and I don’t get up there, he’ll wail and they’ll hear him. “I have to go. I have a Vinyasa class to get to.”

“What’s that?”

“Yoga, Dad.” I sigh. “I’ll reach out again, but don’t worry about me. I’m okay.”

”We love you, Mallory!” Mom insists, and I know they do. In their own way.

“Love you both. Talk soon.”

I hit end at the same moment Dylan lets out a cry. Tucking my phone into my pocket I head upstairs. I can”t believe how many lies I”m telling lately. I can”t blame Tate for all of them, but we better sort out Dylan”s custody fast so I can just get the hell out of here. Because the biggest lie of all is the one I have to keep telling myself while I”m living under Tate Garrison”s roof. And that”s the lie that I don”t want to pick up where we left off in that bathroom last night.