“Uncle Logan, come here! Cookie found a frog!”
We spring apart like teenagers caught by their parents. Logan grits his teeth and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, clearly trying to compose himself.
“Coming!” he calls out, his voice strained.
I press my hand to my chest, my heart hammering. “We really need to work on our timing.”
“Or get a mute button for the next thirty seconds,” Logan mutters, making me laugh despite my frustration.
We head outside to find Violet crouched in the grass next to the swing set, Cookie sitting alertly beside her as they both stare at a small tree frog clinging to a solid two-by-four.
“Look how little it is!” Violet breathes, her voice full of wonder.
Logan and I exchange a glance, and despite the interrupted moment, I can't help but smile. The heat between us can wait. Right now, there's a little girl and her supportive sidekick mesmerized by something so small most adults would walk right past it, and a man who doesn't hesitate to kneel in the dirt to share that wonder. This matters more than any kiss.
“He's pretty cool,” Logan agrees. “But we should let him get back to his frog business. I bet he has a whole frog family waiting for him.”
“Okay.” Violet watches as the frog hops away into the darkness. Then she yawns, big and wide.
“Wow! Someone's getting sleepy,” I observe.
“Am not,” Violet protests as she rubs her eyes.
“Why don't we go get Cookie's overnight bag?” Logan suggests. “Then we can get you both ready for bed.”
“And read a story?” Violet asks hopefully.
“Of course,” I say. “I’d never let Cookie go to sleep without a bedtime story. She’d pout all night.”
Violet’s giggle floats in the air like a feather, and she takes my hand as we walk next door, Cookie trotting beside us with Logan bringing up the rear. It feels surreal, this little procession. Like we're already a unit, a family.
Mrs. Henderson is perched on her rocking chair getting her night air, as she likes to call it, and I wave to her. The old woman, sporting a bright orange and teal dressing gown and her trademark hair curlers, stares at us like we’ve just sprouted wings. I can only imagine what she’ll be telling her friends.
Inside my house, I gather Cookie's essentials: her favorite blanket shaped like a taco, her bedtime treats, her special stuffed hedgehog that she's had since she was a puppy.
“This is a serious overnight bag,” Logan comments, watching me pack everything into a blinged-out hot pink canvas tote.
“I told you. Cookie has standards.”
When we return to Logan's house, Violet is practically asleep on her feet. Logan scoops her up, and she wraps her arms around his neck, her head dropping onto his shoulder.
“Come on, Vi. I think we’ll have to forego a bath tonight. Let's get you in your pajamas.”
I follow them upstairs with Cookie and the overnight bag, feeling strangely like I’m trespassing. I've been in Logan's house plenty of times, but I've never been upstairs. Never seen the private spaces where they sleep and dream.
Violet's room is exactly what I’d expect: soft purple walls, a canopy bed draped in gauzy white curtains, and stuffed animals arranged on shelves. But my eyes are drawn to the pictures tapedto the far wall. Dozens of them, all featuring the same subjects: Violet, Cookie, Logan, and me.
My throat tightens. I’d spotted the one in the school hallway today and I’d been touched by her attachment. But this seemed like a homage or maybe even a prayer.
In every single picture, we're holding hands. Sometimes we're at the beach, sometimes at the park, sometimes just standing in front of the house. But we're always together. Always smiling. Always a unit of four.
This is how Violet sees us. Not as her uncle and the lady that lives next door or even the librarian. But as a family, one she's claimed in her heart because she needs something stable to hold onto in a world that took her mother away.
The weight of that hope settles heavily on my shoulders.
Logan and I are old friends and neighbors, that’s all. Sure, we’ve shared a kiss, but there has been nothing more. To encourage this attachment, if something went wrong, it would break Violet’s heart. And Cookie's, who has found her life’s purpose in wrapping around Violet like a furry shield.
The thought should send me running. Instead, studying these crayon drawings of a future Violet has already built in her mind, I feel something else entirely—a fierce, protective determination not to let her down. Not to let any of them down.
