Page 45

MILLIE

The Bennett Center glows golden under the string lights laced through the ceiling beams, warm and familiar in a way that tugs at my chest. It smells like ice and popcorn, faint traces of cinnamon from the hot cider station near the entrance, and something sharper too—maybe nerves, maybe pride. Probably both.

I tighten the laces on my skates one last time and stand, scanning the rink with a quiet kind of reverence.

This place is home. Not just the building—though I could navigate it blindfolded—but the people inside it.

The laughter echoing off the walls, the hum of excited chatter as kids dart between tables decorated with candy cane-striped runners and donation jars.

The buzz of something good happening. Something right.

The annual event is one of my favorite days of the year.

My moms started years ago, when they were young and wide-eyed and so full of fight they couldn't see straight.

It's grown since then—into something solid, something bright.

A community staple. Every year, we raise money for kids who don't have safe places to go home to.

For families rebuilding. For the chance at something better. And every year, we show up. All of us.

Grace is manning the raffle table, shouting numbers and handing out mugs of cocoa with a sharp grin and red lipstick that never smudges, even after hours of talking. Aurora and Summer are standing near the rink, watching their kids on the ice.

Willow is snapping pictures with the disposable film camera she insists on bringing every year—"for the memories," she says—and Camille's somewhere in the crowd, probably organizing the silent auction with her usual grace-under-pressure.

My uncles Julian and Theo are stationed by the food truck outside, offering chili dogs and eggnog like it's the most sacred duty in the world.

And my moms, are front and center near the podium, dressed in identical cream coats and glittering snowflake pins, radiating pride so intense it practically fogs the glass walls.

And of course, my girl is also here.

She's in the middle of the rink, moving like a baby deer on a frozen pond—wobbly, uncertain, and absolutely delighted.

Her legs splay out in different directions every few seconds, arms flailing as she tries to stay upright, but she's got this wild grin on her face, the kind that makes her cheeks round and her eyes crinkle.

And despite the complete lack of balance, she's laughing.

Hard. Loud. Like she hasn't laughed like that in a while.

Lia's latched onto her left hand, shrieking with delight as she practically drags Harper across the ice. That kid has been skating since before she could stand; she's tiny but confident, bundled up in pink fleece and sparkly earmuffs, shouting, "You're doing it, Harps! You're doing it!"

Harper, breathless and swaying, shouts back, "No I'm not! I'm dying!"

"You're fine," Nico announces sternly, gripping Harper's right hand like he's the coach of a world-class team. "You just have to be a penguin. See?" He demonstrates by angling his skates outward and waddling in a semi-circle. "Penguin feet. Low center of gravity."

"Center of what?" Harper wheezes, trying and failing to mimic him. Her knees knock, her arms helicopter. "This feels like a conspiracy."

Fizzy flies by them, skating backwards with obnoxious ease. Her black braid whips behind her, and she grins like a shark. "You're gonna fall on your butt again," she says, sing-song, just before Harper's arms flail once more and she collapses—gently—onto her knees with a dramatic groan.

"I'm suing all of you," she gasps, sprawled on the ice while the kids cackle around her.

But she's laughing, too, and it's the kind of laugh that settles deep in my chest. The kind that makes something ache in a way I don't hate.

She's wearing my old Bennett jersey over a hoodie, sleeves bunched around her wrists, waves poking out from under a beanie that's slightly too big and slipping down over one eye.

Her nose is pink from the cold. Her gloves don't match.

She's a complete mess out there. And she's never looked more beautiful.

"Busted," someone murmurs beside me.

I turn and find Aurora and Summer walking toward me with matching grins. Aurora's holding a hot cider, Summer's got a camera tucked under her arm, and both of them are giving me that look.

"I wasn't—" I start, and immediately give up, because there's no use pretending I wasn't just staring like an idiot. "Okay, fine. Maybe I was admiring her form."

"If by 'form' you mean the way she just ate it face-first on the ice, sure," Summer says with a snort.

"She's trying," I say, but my voice is warm, proud. "She's never skated before."

"She's getting her ass handed to her by three little Bennetts," Aurora says, eyes soft despite the teasing. "And she looks like she's having the time of her life."

"She is," I say, and I feel it low in my chest, where everything about her settles.

We stand there for a moment, watching Harper get back on her feet with Lia and Nico holding her up like they're secret service agents, Fizzy giving her a slow clap that makes her flip them all off behind her mittens—gasping dramatically and apologizing right after when Lia gasps like she just witnessed a crime.

"She's good with them," Summer says gently.

"Too good," I murmur.

Aurora bumps her shoulder against mine. "You're in love with her."

It's not a question. It never has been, with them.

I don't answer, because I can't. Not yet.

Not out loud. But the truth of it must show on my face, because they both go quiet for a beat.

Not in a judgmental way—just the kind of quiet that only happens between sisters who've seen every version of you.

The one who wore braces and the one who came out crying, the one who lost, the one who fought, the one who found someone she never expected.

Summer wraps an arm around my waist, warm and solid. "She's already one of us. I hope you see that."

"She doesn't," I whisper, watching Harper as she lets Lia sit in her lap on the ice, letting Nico and Fizzy pile snow from the edge onto her skates. "Not yet, at least. I think part of her's still waiting for it to go away."

"She's been through it," Aurora says, voice quiet. "So have you. But you're here. You're choosing each other. That's what matters."

I nod, my throat tight.

"You going to tell her?" Summer asks.

"Eventually," I say, and even that word feels enormous.

Summer hums beside me. "Eventually is okay," she says, "As long as it's not never."

Aurora sips her cider, her gaze still on Harper as Fizzy tries to teach her how to spin and Harper turns in a very slow, very cautious circle like she's a wind-up toy. "I was terrified," she says suddenly. "When I fell in love with Cam."

That gets my attention. I look over, eyebrows raised. "You were?"

Aurora nods. "I was twenty-five. Still trying to be perfect for the world, figuring this out. And there was Camille, with her stupid and perfect quad, her blonde hair and stupid perfect posture—telling me she was way better than me."

Summer snorts. "She was so annoyed by her. Every other day she was like 'I hate this woman' And then one night, she said, 'I think I want to marry her.'"

"I hated her," Aurora says fondly, with a crooked smile. "And then I loved her. And then I couldn't tell the difference between the two."

I smile, soft and aching. "I don't remember that. You made it look easy."

"It wasn't," Aurora says. "But it was right. It felt like home. Even when I was scared. Especially when I was scared."

I glance at Summer. "What about you?"

She leans her head against my shoulder and sighs dramatically. "I was a disaster."

"No, really?"

"Shut up," she mutters, but her eyes are shining. "I met her when I was eighteen, it was probably the worst time of my life and the best, at the same time. I was scared, I was young and broken and... I don't know, I just knew. She was it for me."

The three of us stand there in silence for a moment, watching the kids on the ice.

Lia has Harper by both hands now, and Harper is bent almost in half, letting Lia pull her like a sled across the rink.

Fizzy and Nico are cheering, both skating backwards and somehow throwing invisible points into the air like judges.

"She's gonna be better than me," I say suddenly, nodding toward Lia.

"She already is," Aurora says proudly, eyes shining. "She doesn't even think about it. She just moves. Cam says she's poetry on blades."

"You're so annoying," I mutter, but I'm smiling. "I love how smug you are about your prodigy child."

"She's got her mama's genes," Summer says, nudging Aurora, who preens.

"I mean, I can't argue," I admit. "I watched her land a one-foot spin last week and almost cried."

"You did cry," Aurora reminds me.

I roll my eyes, but it's true. I'd wiped my face with the back of my glove and blamed it on the cold.

"She loves you, you know," Aurora says. "Lia. She talks about you all the time. About how cool you are and how she wants to be like you."

That does something to my heart. Something soft and raw.

I'm not used to being looked at like that—like I'm someone a little kid could look up to.

I've spent so much of my life trying to be enough, trying to measure up to the people I love.

And hearing that from my sister, from Lia through her, it makes me feel like maybe I'm doing something right.

Then we hear it.

The soft click of a camera shutter.

Our moms, standing a few feet away by the boards like they've been watching us grow up from the sidelines our entire lives.

And maybe they have. Mom has her camera lifted, like muscle memory, but her eyes are glossy, unfocused behind the lens.

Mama's standing beside her, her hands pressed to her mouth, her fingers trembling with quiet emotion, her eyes wide like she's trying to memorize the scene in front of her.

Us. Grown-up, in love, laughing, still theirs.

"And that's three out of three," Mama says, voice wobbly with theatrical defeat.

We all laugh, but it's thick in our throats.

"We're right here, Mom." I step toward her like I've done since I was a kid and the world felt too big. "You'll never lose us. I promise."

"And I hope I never lose you," Rory says next, reaching over to loop an arm around Mom's waist, pulling her in like she's done a hundred times before. Summer joins us, pressing in on Mama's other side, her cheek tucked against her shoulder. Like puzzle pieces we still fit into.

Mama's arms come around all three of us. She kisses Summer's head, gentle and lingering. "You three are the best thing that's ever happened to me. I mean it. I love you so much,"

"We love you more," I whisper, even though it doesn't feel like enough.

And then I feel her—my mom—curling an arm around my shoulder, warm and steady. Her chin rests on the top of my head like she's still taller than me, even though I passed her up years ago. And suddenly I'm eight again, crying after a fall, clinging to her sweater while she told me I was brave.

"You're in love," she whispers now. Not accusing, not teasing. Just... knowing. Soft and sure like the ocean coming back to shore.

"I am," I whisper back.

And there's something about saying it out loud, here, with their arms around me, with the rink buzzing behind us and Harper laughing in the distance—that makes it feel more real than anything has in a long, long time.

Mom presses a kiss to my temple. "I can see it all over your face."

I close my eyes for a second, soaking it in.

The steadiness of her. The truth of it. And then I hear the soft click of her camera again, and when I look up, she's lowering it, eyes wet but smiling.

She snaps another picture of the six of us tangled together by the boards—cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes damp with something too big to name.

Love, maybe. Or history. Or the ache of watching the people you raised become people who love deeply, fully, without fear.

Harper's still out on the ice, now flat on her stomach as the kids attempt to drag her across like some chaotic, giggling sled team.

Fizzy is shouting directions like a general.

Nico is warning her not to let go or she'll die (dramatically, of course).

And Lia, tiny and fierce, is tugging at Harper's glove like it's her life's mission to get her to the finish line.

And Harper's laughing so hard she can't even breathe. Her face is flushed. Alive in a way I've only seen in glimpses. Like she belongs here. Like she's always belonged here.

"You chose well," Mom says, her eyes never leaving her. "She's got a light."

"I didn't just choose her," I say quietly. "She just... appeared. Like she was meant to."

Mama hums beside me. "That's how the best ones happen.

" She says it slowly, turning her gaze—not toward Harper—but toward Mom.

Something happens in that glance. It's silent, just a moment, but it lands heavy in the air between them.

A look that carries decades. The kind of love built not just on romance, but resilience.

The shared fights, the compromises, the waiting rooms, the bills, the loss, the joy, the things only they know. The life they built from nothing.

And still—after all these years—you can see it. How much they love each other. How much they care. How much they've been through and chosen each other again and again.

I watch them like I used to from the top of the stairs as a kid, when I couldn't sleep and they'd be dancing in the kitchen. Quiet music, socked feet, whispered laughter in the dim light of the oven clock. I remember thinking, That's what love looks like.

And now I know it's still true. Maybe even more than ever. Because love isn't just the start. It's the staying.

And I look back to the ice, to Harper—her arms spread wide now as she lets the kids steer her, her smile uncontained, her laugh echoing off the rink walls—and I think:

Please stay.

Stay with me.

Stay in this life we're building, even if we're still figuring it out.

Because she fits here. Like she was always supposed to.

────────── ???? ──────────

I swear I had to bribe the kids to let Harper be with me for a moment.

Promised them a full day at the park—snacks, scooters, and yes, ice cream before lunch—and only then did they unhook themselves from her legs and let her walk away in one piece.

I'm pretty sure Nico shook my hand like we had a deal inked in blood.

Fizzy gave me a warning squint and told me I'd better not mess this up.

Lia pouted, but relented when Harper promised to hold her hand for the entire car ride home.

Now I'm in trouble. Because if there's one thing I know, it's that those kids never let anything go.

Not a pinky promise, not a whispered joke, not a single moment.

We find ourselves in one of the observation alcoves tucked along the east side of the center, where the windows stretch nearly floor to ceiling and let in the kind of light that makes everything look golden and soft.

There's a slight hum of music echoing from the rink speakers—some familiar old pop song everyone knows the words to—and the sound of skates slicing across the ice feels like home.

Laughter rises and falls from below, all wrapped in the echo of childhood joy.

Harper leans against the windowsill, her back curved in a way that makes her look both soft and sturdy at once.

She's tugged her hands up into the sleeves of my hoodie, a habit I've started to love more than I should.

The hem of it sways around her thighs, just brushing the tops of her black leggings.

Her hair is half-escaped from the beanie she wore earlier, curls damp and frizzy, a little chaotic from the tumble she took when Lia tried to spin her too fast. There's a patch of melting snow clinging to her sock, and I think she forgot to zip her boot all the way.

But all I can see is her.

Like this light was made for her. Like she doesn't belong to the noise or the crowd or even the camera—just here, in this moment. With me.

She's quiet, eyes trained on the ice below us.

Fizzy and Nico are racing now, shouting bets at each other while Lia zigzags after them.

Rory and Summer stand nearby, heads bent together, grinning like they're seeing the past and future all at once.

And our moms... God, they look so proud.

Like they still can't believe they did this. Built this.

Harper's voice breaks through my thoughts, quiet and careful. "I think your family's magic."

I glance at her. She doesn't look at me when she says it, like she's afraid to make it too real.

But there's this softness in her voice I've only heard a few times—like she's speaking from a part of herself she usually keeps locked away.

The part that never really had this. The part that didn't know she could.

"They are," I say, watching my sisters lean into each other, their kids trailing behind them like happy, chaotic shadows. "They really are."

She nods, slow, thoughtful. "It's not just that they're loud and close and... loving. It's that they're still here. All of them. Together. Even after everything."

I know what she means. And I feel it in the way she wraps her arms around herself, even though she's wearing layers. In the way her voice trembles just a little. In the way her eyes stay trained on the people below like she's afraid they'll vanish if she blinks too long.

I move closer, resting my hip against the sill beside her. My hand finds hers inside the oversized sleeve, fingers slipping between her knuckles until they fit like they were always meant to.

"You're part of that now," I say, and it's not a line. It's not me trying to convince her. It's the truth.

She turns to me then, slow and hesitant, like she's afraid to believe it too easily. "You think so?"

I nod. "You're already theirs. They already love you."

She lets out a breath, like she's been holding it for years.

Her smile comes soft, bittersweet, like something she hasn't quite figured out how to hold in her hands.

"It's just... I didn't grow up with this.

It was just Mom and I. And now that I've seen it, been inside it, I don't know how to live without it. "

"You don't have to." I squeeze her hand, lean in and brush a kiss to her temple. She smells like vanilla chapstick and cold air and something undeniably hers. "You're stuck with me now, Harper Lane."

Her throat works around the weight of whatever she's feeling.

I can see it in her eyes—the war between the life she came from and the one she's stepping into.

The fear that it could all vanish. That maybe she isn't allowed to keep it.

That maybe this kind of happiness isn't made for people like her.

But then she laughs, just a little, soft and breathy, and the air shifts. Her eyes flick to my mouth like maybe she's about to kiss me again, and that look alone sends a shiver up my spine.

"Are you going to kiss me again?" she asks.

"Was thinking about it," I whisper, already leaning in.

But before I can reach her, a tiny voice breaks through the moment like a firecracker.

"Don't kiss my aunt!"

Harper freezes mid-laugh, her head jerking toward the sound, and I follow her gaze just in time to see Lia barreling toward us in full toddler speed, her tiny skates barely keeping up with the force of her determination.

She launches herself into Harper's legs like a snowball with arms and throws both her mittens dramatically against Harper's thighs. "She's mine!"

"Oh my God," I breathe, stunned into laughter.

Harper's already crouching, catching Lia around the waist before she can wobble to the ground. "Yours, huh?"

"She's your aunt now?"

Lia glares at me with four-year-old menace, then hugs Harper's neck with both arms like she's claiming her territory. "Don't kiss her. She's my Harper."

Harper's laughing so hard she nearly tips over, and I have to reach out to steady her before they both end up on the floor in a giggling pile. "You're very possessive," she says, ruffling Lia's curls beneath her glittery purple helmet.

Lia nods solemnly. "You're warm and you help me skate and you smell like cookies."

Harper presses a kiss to her cheek. "I'm honored."

I'm grinning so wide my cheeks hurt, and when I glance toward the rink, I find my moms standing a few feet away, watching it all unfold with matching looks of soft, knowing pride.

Mom's hand is pressed to her heart, and Mama's eyes are glossy behind the camera lens she hasn't raised yet. They don't need to. I know this is a moment they're going to carry with them anyway.

"She's you," Mom says, turning to Mama and nudging her shoulder gently. "Do you remember?"

Mama lets out a watery laugh. "Don't kiss my mommy," she mimics in a high-pitched voice, "She's mine!" She sniffs, smiling so wide it makes her nose crinkle. "And now look at her."

Mom's voice drops, soft and full of awe. "Our baby's all grown up."

Mama's hums. "Three for three."

They link arms, the way they always do when emotion gets too big to carry alone, and I swear I can see them—every version of them, all the way back to that kiss they almost didn't get to have because four-year-old me wanted to keep my mommy all to myself.

Harper looks over her shoulder, catches them watching us, and then tilts her head toward me. "You wanna kiss me now and really test Lia's limits?"

I arch a brow. "You want to start a war with a toddler?"

She shrugs. "I can take her."

"You think you can take me?" Lia chimes in, poking Harper's chest.

Harper fakes a gasp. "Okay, wow. You're strong. Are all Bennett girls like this?"

"Yep," I say, crossing my arms. "Better watch your back."

"I'm strong like Mommy," Lia nods,

Harper lifts Lia into her arms, holding her close, and something about the way she does it—the easy affection, the complete comfort—makes my heart ache in the best way. Like I'm looking at something I didn't even know I wanted until it was already mine.

"You're good with her," I say.

She glances at me. "You think?"

I nod. "She loves you."

Lia beams. "I do!" And then immediately follows it with: "But don't kiss her!"

"Oh my God," Harper mutters through a laugh, shaking her head as she turns back to me. "I think I've been adopted."

"You think?"

We stay like that for a while, the three of us tangled up in warmth and laughter, the buzz of the event still humming around us but suddenly feeling so far away. Like the center of the world is here—just this corner, just this moment.

Eventually, Lia is bribed back to the rink with the promise of hot chocolate, and Harper watches her go, a little dazed, a little in love.

"She's so happy," she says.

"She's growing up with love," I say. "That's all we ever wanted for her."

Harper looks at me, her expression open and tender and reverent. "You're gonna be a great mom someday."

Something shifts in me at that—soft and deep and forever-shaped. I reach out, tuck a wild curl behind her ear, and let my hand linger on her jaw.

She leans in, her eyes closing as our lips meet. This kiss is different—slow and certain, sweet and grounding. A promise without words. A future held between us.

This time, Lia doesn't stop us.

And when we break apart, Harper's cheeks are pink and her eyes are glassy, but she's smiling so wide I can feel it in my chest.

"You okay?" I ask.

She nods, then buries her face against my neck. "I think I'm in trouble."

I laugh, holding her tighter. "Good. Me too."