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Xavier

I've never understood self-proclaimed masochists who claim to enjoy emotional pain. Maybe it's because I've already felt enough of it in my life to last a lifetime.

Yet here I am, standing in my daughter's room, looking at a wall with tears in my eyes. My gaze falls to the pictures she hung in the nursery for Holland. The art print of the star she had named after her, which feels even more meaningful after our day together at the planetarium. There's a note tucked under the corner of one of the frames--he one with Holland and I sleeping together in bed that's months old.

I reach for it, flipping it over in my hand before I open it. I don't know what's inside, but it feels momentous.

The paper is rough as my finger slides underneath the seal of the envelope. But the words on the paper are so fucking soft for a woman that doesn't show much vulnerability. She really outdid herself.

I see you too.

She's giving me something I didn't even know I needed--something I haven't had since my mom died. A small, quiet gesture to let me know she's choosing us. Kristy always pushed, demanding something from me, while my dad never made me a priority. But Vivienne? She's here, offering me all of her with no conditions. Without even realizing it, she's healing parts of me I forgot were broken long ago.

We're home for our last two games of the World Series, and win or lose, the season is almost over. And no matter what happens on that field, I'm telling Vivi exactly how I feel.

Xavier:

Your seats are right next to the girls. Security will be ready to get you guys

out onto the field or down to the locker

room after. See you soon.

Vivienne:

Why am I so nervous? Are you nervous?

Xavier:

Not even a little.