"Yes, busy bee." I pulled her into a hug, hiding my face in her hair. "She still loves us."
"Then why does she need to think?"
"Because sometimes love is scary. Even when it's good."
Sarah considered this with six-year-old seriousness. "That's dumb."
"Yeah," I agreed, my voice rough. "It kind of is."
Maggie appeared on her porch, coffee mug in hand, questions in her eyes. I shook my head slightly.Later.
In the truck, Sarah buckled herself in and stared out the window.
"Uncle C?"
"Yeah?"
"If Emma doesn't want to be scared anymore, can we go camping?"
The question, so simple and hopeful, nearly undid me.
"Yeah, sweetheart," I managed. "If she decides that, we'll definitely go camping."
"With the sleeping bag with stars on it?"
"With all the sleeping bags."
She nodded, satisfied with this answer, and started humming to herself.
I drove us home, the road winding up the mountain that Emma feared, toward the cabin that suddenly felt too big and too empty.
She might choose courage. She might choose fear.
All I could do was wait.
And hope that what we'd built, the quiet mornings and shared laughter and the kisses under a million stars, was worth more than the terror whispering in her ear.
Hope was a fragile thing. Easily crushed.
But I held onto it anyway, because the alternative was giving up.
And I'd promised her I wouldn't do that.
Not now.
Not ever.
15.Emma
Ifound myself scrubbing my kitchen floor at two in the morning on a Tuesday, and that's when I knew I'd officially lost my mind.
The floor wasn't dirty. I cleaned it three days ago. And two days before that. But sleep wasn't happening, and lying in bed meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering Cole's face when I asked for space, Sarah's crumpled expression when I said we should take a break.
So I scrubbed.
"This is healthy," I muttered to the linoleum. "This is definitely the behavior of a well-adjusted adult."
The linoleum didn't respond. Rude.
