His mother nodded her agreement, though her face was unreadable.
Quinn tipped the bottle and gulped, surreptitiously studying his dad. His hair was thinner and grayer, his face creased with more lines, and his complexion was pastier than the healthy hue Quinn remembered. The vigorous, stern, stoic father of his boyhood had been replaced by a bowed, middle-aged man.
Minutes that felt like hours of awkward silence ticked by. Fuck it. Cut to the chase.“So what’s the plan?” Quinn kept his voice even and his eyes on his dad.
To his surprise, the unyielding knot that usually bunched his father’s brows loosened, softened even, and he dipped his head and shook it. The simple shift in posture seemed to shrink his stature. He raised his head and pinned Quinn with an open gaze. “Your mom wants a divorce. She has every right, but I’m here to talk her out of it.”
Anger rose from Quinn’s gut. “And that’s what it took to get your attention? Pretty pathetic, Dad.” Had he ever spoken to his dad so boldly? No, but then it hadn’t mattered before.
Frozen in place, his mother darted wary eyes between him and his father.
His dad blew out a breath. “You’re right, Quinn. It is pathetic, and I’m not proud of it, but I’m here to fix it if I can. I understand that I’ve got a lot to answer for, to make up for. Believe it or not, I’ve been wanting to reach out to your mom, you, and your brother for so long, but I didn’t know how. This pandemic was a wake-up call. It’s driven home how much I’ve missed all of you and how selfish I’ve been with the people who matter most to me.” He let out a sigh. “Your mom asking for the divorce, well, I guess that was the final kick in the pants I needed to take a hard look and ask myself what the hell I was doing. I decided life’s too short, and I’ve squandered enough.” He shrugged, and his shoulders dropped.
Whoa! Quinn had never heard his dad say so much at once so candidly. Taken aback, he blurted, “You say you wanted to reach out and didn’t know how, but you were in touch with Ronan regularly.”
His father’s brows drew together in puzzlement, the vertical pleat between them deep. “Did Ronan say that?”
“Yep. He made it sound real cozy.”
The puzzlement turned to sadness, and his dad shook his head. “No. Didn’t happen.”
Thoughts collided in Quinn’s head, and he couldn’t separate them. Uncomfortable as someone skating with a broken blade, he nodded and contemplated his beanbags. From behind him wafted a familiar, comforting smell he wanted to sniff clean out of the air. Sarah.
“Hi.” Sarah stepped beside him and bumped his arm with hers. Craving her touch, he dangled his sore hand, letting it brush her side. She seemed to understand what he needed and inched a little closer, her fingers flitting over his. The simple contact, though not obvious to his mom or dad, puddled warmth in his chest and steadied him. And there was her fragrance, stronger now that she was close, swirling around him like a protective cloud.
“How you feeling, Sunshine?”
“My head’s a little sore, but otherwise I’m fine.”
He cast her a side glance. She was wearing a T-shirt that read, “I’m Not Short, I’m a Hobbit!” His lips quirked as he pondered asking her about her fuzzy feet, but then he noticed a band of bruises circling her upper arm, and his blood began boiling.
“Jesus fucking Christ! Look what that bastard did to your arm!”
Sarah craned her head to look, and his mom snapped, “Quinn! Swear jar!”
His father gaped at his mother. “He’s a grown man, Liz … and a professional hockey player! You’re making him feed a swear jar?”
He’s a grown man. Quinn liked the sound of that rolling out of his dad’s mouth.
His mom wagged a finger. “Don’t butt in, Mike.”
Quinn chuckled—actually chuckled—and it felt damn good. “It’s okay, Dad. Gotta let Mom think she’s in charge of something.”
“Ha! Amen to that.”
His mother shot Quinn an exaggerated glare that she then transferred to his dad. “You’re both skating on thin ice.” His father had the good sense to look contrite.
“That may be, Mom, but I’m a lot more concerned about Sarah’s arm.” Quinn scanned the bruises, afraid to touch them.
His dad wasn’t afraid. He rounded the counter and took Sarah’s arm gently in his hands. “May I?” She nodded. As he examined the bruises, he said, “The paramedics checked these out, right?”
“And my head. They said I’d be tender in a few spots, but that I was okay.”
“All the same, you need to take it easy.” His dad gave her a smile that reached his eyes, then sidled back beside his mom.
Quinn jabbed his forefinger toward his dad and spoke to Sarah. “What he said.”
She smirked. “Oh goody. Does this mean you’re going to wait on me, Sparky?”
“Don’t push your luck, Sunshine.”
“Aren’t they cute?” his mom whisper-shouted to his dad.
His dad’s eyes bounced between Sarah and him, a hint of amusement tipping his lips, though he didn’t say a word.
Sarah couldn’t tear her gaze from the Hadley father-and-son combo as they cleaned up the kitchen after dinner. Similar features, similar movements, similar builds, except for Quinn’s extra twenty pounds and two inches. After meeting Mike, Sarah understood where Quinn got his brown eyes and dimples, though his father didn’t seem to wield them with his son’s easy charm.
She also understood why Quinn had distanced himself from his parents. Right now she sat in a front-row seat, watching a family flailing for some semblance of normalcy.
Tight-lipped, stoic, stiff. Mike looked as though he were holding back
