God, I wish I had his faith. And his resilience. And his courage. I’m lacking all those things right now. Just the thought of opening my mouth and bringing up the pink or blue baby elephant in our vicinity makes me want to throw up. Or maybe that’s the morning sickness.
But as usual, Tucker doesn’t push the subject. He simply changes it. “Did you come here a lot when you were growing up?” He gestures at the beautiful display of nature all around us.
“When I was little,” I admit. “Back when it was just me and my mom and Nana, we’d come here every weekend. I learned how to skate on Frog Pond.”
He gives me a sidelong look. “You don’t talk about your mom much.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” Resentment crawls up my throat. “She wasn’t around much. I mean, she used to make an effort when I was really young, up until I was six, maybe. But then the men in her life became more important than me.”
Tucker’s gloved hand squeezes my shoulder. “I’m sorry, darlin’。”
“It is what it is.” I glance over at him. “You’re close with your mother, right?”
He nods. “She’s the best woman I know.”
Emotion clogs my throat. Tucker might’ve lost his dad at a young age, but obviously his mother did everything she could to make up for that. From what he’s told me, she worked her butt off so her son could have a good life. My own mother could take a few lessons from Mrs. Tucker. So could Nana.
“Our childhoods were so different,” I find myself saying.
“And yet we both grew up to be awesome people.”
Him, maybe. Me, I don’t feel so awesome right now. But I keep the thought to myself. “Does your mom want you to move back to Texas after college?”
“Yeah.” He stops in the middle of the path, releasing a tired-sounding breath.
“Do you want to move back?” I ask, then hold my breath as I wait for his reply.
“I don’t know.”
He rakes a hand through his auburn hair, and I track the motion of his hand. His hair looks so soft to the touch. It is soft to the touch—I know this because I’ve run my fingers through it on many occasions. I want to do it again now, but I’m scared that if I touch him, I won’t be able to stop.
“My plan was always to go back after graduation. I want to be close to my mom, take care of her, you know? But when I was there for the holidays…” He groans softly. “There are no opportunities in Patterson. None. It’s a tiny town that hasn’t grown at all in a hundred years. And I wouldn’t even be able to commute to Dallas because it’s a four-hour drive. I originally thought I’d live in Dallas during the week and stay in Patterson on the weekends, but that sounds exhausting the more I think about it.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I have no clue.”
I wait for him to turn it around on me, ask me what I’m going to do about this baby, but he doesn’t.
“You want to go watch the skaters for a bit?” he suggests.
“Sure.”
We start walking again. His arm is still around me. His familiar scent wafts into my nostrils and makes me ache. I want to kiss him. No, I want to drag him back to wherever he parked his truck and maul him. I want to feel his lips on mine and his hands on my breasts and his cock moving inside me.
The happy squeals of children greet us before we even reach the pond. A bittersweet feeling washes over me as we approach the railing. Dozens of people whiz past us on the shiny surface of the rink. Kids bundled up in colorful coats and scarves and mittens. Families skating together. Couples gliding hand-in-hand.
Tucker reaches for my hand and laces our gloved fingers together, and we stand there watching the rink for a while. My heart skips, because it feels like we’re a real couple. Just two happy people spending the afternoon in the park, enjoying each other’s company.
“Oh shit, see that man over there?” Tucker suddenly says.
I follow his gaze toward a tall, gray-haired man in a blue parka and black skates. “Yeah… Do you know him?”
He squints. “No. For a second I thought I did, but he’s just a lookalike.”
“For who?” I ask curiously.
“Coach Death.”
I almost choke on my tongue. “Okay. Let’s back this up. Did you just say Coach Death?”
His boom of laughter tickles the side of my face. “Yep. Not even joking, darlin’。 My very first hockey coach was named Paul Death. Apparently it’s an old British name. Or maybe Welsh? I can’t remember now.”