Page 91 of Mending Hearts
“Which one?” Phil asks, delighted.
“He was ten,” Lindy says, eyes bright. “And he had a solo. ‘Silent Night.’”
“Oh my God,” Ollie mutters.
“He was so serious about it,” she continues. “Practiced for weeks. Wouldn’t let anyone talk during rehearsal.”
“That tracks,” I say, shooting a wink at Ollie. He rolls his eyes, the small smirk settling on his lips making my heart flutter.
She beams at me. “Right? So he gets up there in front of the whole church. Dead silent. First line out of his mouth?”
Ollie buries his face in his hands.
“He sings ‘Silent Night’ to the tune of ‘Jingle Bells.’”
Phil chokes on his beer. I laugh—full and unguarded—and Ollie peeks through his fingers, half offended.
“I was nervous,” he defends weakly.
“He tried to commit,” Lindy says fondly. “Just powered through it. Wrong tune and all.”
The image of a ten-year-old Ollie—earnest and mortified and trying to salvage it anyway—does something strange to my chest.
I never had this. Not properly. Lindy knew about us. When she found out, it was all fire and fallout with their parents cuttinghim off. There wasn’t room for sweet stories then. There was only survival.
I realize I’m smiling faintly at the thought of him as a kid, and that’s when something heavier creeps in.
My parents. Have they seen the photos?
There’s no way they haven’t. My mamá checks Facebook like it’s her job. My papá pretends he doesn’t care about media, but Rosa sends him links—not that she will about this.
Pictures of Ollie kissing me in a room full of people are everywhere. I suspect there are now ones of us holding hands. Probably of me looking like I might combust.
My heart lurches.
Rosa and I spoke last night after the gala chaos. I told her everything. Not the sanitized version. The real one. The marriage. The years. The divorce papers.
She was quiet for a long time. Then she said, “You should have told me sooner.” She wasn’t angry, just… sad.
She took it well, all things considered. But that was Rosa. Logical. Steady. Used to cleaning up my messes.
My parents are different. Traditional. Proud. Catholic in that quiet, ingrained way that doesn’t shout but doesn’t bend easily either. They love me, but love doesn’t always mean understanding. And that I lied to them for so long about my marriage and the man I love is going to sting.
I go quiet without meaning to.
Ollie notices immediately. “What’s wrong?” he asks, voice low.
“Nothing,” I say automatically.
His brows dip in concern; he doesn’t buy it.
I sigh and lean back in my chair. “I need to talk to my parents.”
The table stills.
Lindy’s eyes soften. Phil nods slowly like that makes sense.
Ollie doesn’t flinch. “Okay,” he says simply.
