Normally, I waited outside when picking Sarah up. I'd lean against my truck, a good twenty paces from the classroom door. It was a safe distance for everyone involved. My size intimidated people. My permanent scowl didn't help matters. Teachers gave me a wide, polite berth; kids sometimes stared or whispered. I didn't know how to make small talk about playground politics or homework assignments or whatever normal parents discussed. It was easier and safer to just stay outside.
But tomorrow will be different.
Tomorrow, I'd walk right up to that classroom door. I'd go inside. I'd figure out something halfway intelligent to say, the weather, maybe, or ask how Sarah was doing in reading.I'd probably fumble through it badly. Terrify half the children. Come off as awkward or too intense, or just plain strange.
But I'd see her again. I'd hear that warm voice. Maybe learn what story lived behind those shadows in her eyes, what weight she carried so gracefully.
The fire crackled, sending orange sparks spiraling up the chimney and into the dark. Outside, wind moved through the pines with that familiar rushing whisper that usually settled me into peace.
Tonight, it wasn't quite enough.
I thought of Emma Reed standing in that bright classroom, glitter catching the light on her wrist, sayingimperfect things are usually the most beautiful. I thought of Sarah's face transforming when Emma knelt beside her. I thought of that laugh. Surprised, genuine, and unguarded, like she hadn't expected joy to find her there.
Something stirred in my chest. Something I hadn't felt in years, maybe ever. Not just curiosity, though there was plenty of that.
Hope. Small and unfamiliar and probably foolish.
But there it was anyway, stubborn as a weed pushing through cracked concrete, refusing to be sensible.
I closed the book I wasn't reading and stared into the fire until the embers burned low.
Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.
3.Cole
The party was perfect for exactly forty-seven minutes. Then a six-year-old asked an innocent question, and I watched my niece's heart break in real time.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I'd spent three days preparing for Sarah's sixth birthday. Not the decorations or the cake, Emma had taken charge of those with a cheerful efficiency that left me slightly terrified. No, I'd prepared for thepeople. Fifteen six-year-olds. Eighteen parents. One punch bowl. The odds were decidedly not in my favor.
The small event hall at Pine Ridge Resort was safe, contained, with sturdy floors and bathrooms that didn't involve an outhouse. My mountain cabin was no place for a children's party. Too remote, too many unprotected drops, too much wildlife within walking distance. The last thing I needed was a six-year-old wandering off to befriend a bear.
I arrived at the resort with my pick-up truck, a small detail to mention was Emma in the other seat. She texted me and asked for help carrying extra boxes. I couldn’t imagine how she planned to take so many things on her own.
"You made all of these?" I stared at the hand-painted cardboard bees she was pulling from yet another box as weunloaded the truck. There were dozens of them. Each one had a slightly different expression—some smiling, some winking, one that looked vaguely concerned about its life choices.
"It's called a craft addiction." She held up a particularly wonky specimen with a crooked stinger and uneven stripes. "Very serious condition. No known cure. This one's my favorite. He has character."
"He has a crooked stinger."
"That's the character, Mr. Brennan. Perfection is boring." She thrust the bee into my hands with mock solemnity. "Hang him by the window. He deserves good light and appreciation."
I hung the crooked bee by the window. It did look oddly charming there, surveying the empty hall like a slightly confused monarch.
"Nice shirt, by the way," Emma added, glancing at my blue button-down as she unpacked streamers. "Very civilized. I almost didn't recognize you without the flannel."
"It's uncomfortable." I tugged at the collar. "Feels like a costume."
"Civilization usually is uncomfortable." She grinned, that bright smile that did something complicated to me. "But you look nice. Sarah will appreciate the effort."
She handed me a roll of yellow streamers and pointed toward the ceiling. "Make yourself useful. We've got thirty minutes and approximately seven hundred decorations to hang."
We worked in an easy rhythm. Her, directing, and me following orders without complaint. It was surprisingly comfortable, this domestic choreography. She'd brought a pin-the-stinger-on-the-bee game she'd made herself, complete with a blindfold covered in tiny painted flowers. When I raised an eyebrow at the level of detail, she shrugged.
"I had time. And a concerning amount of acrylic paint."
"Do you sleep? Ever?"
