The kids follow along to an interactive dance and a made-up song to the tune of Old McDonald, then they settle back in their seats. I open the book to the first page and begin reading.
Kids interrupt with questions, a toddler starts crying, and someone’s son flips out of a chair, but it’s still not the most chaotic story time I’ve been a part of. After two books, oneabout a cat that gets stuck in a tree and another about a little boy who refuses to go to sleep, we sing another song, and story time comes to an end.
Jaxon’s nieces are perfect angels throughout the entire event. Gracie falls asleep a few pages into the first book, but Emmy’s energy never dims. She’s like an adorable wind-up toy. She participates in every call and response with added enthusiasm, and Jaxon looks on with unfettered pride.
He’ll make an amazing dad someday. The thought comes out of nowhere, and a shock of longing pierces through me, grim and unyielding. I have no business thinking about this man in any way, let alone something so beyond the pale.
Jaxon’s massive palm engulfs Gracie’s back as he cradles the sleeping child against his chest. Emmy bounds over to me with an infectious smile. I lean forward in my chair, so we’re at eye level.
“Guess what! We have kitties in the barn. The mama cat’s name is Oreo, and her baby gots stuck in a tree one time.”
My mouth drops open on a feigned gasp. “No way. Is the kitten ok?”
She does a cute little shuffle back and forth with her feet and nods excitedly. “Uh huh. My Uncle Griff gots him down.”
“Thank goodness for Uncle Griff.” I look up at Jaxon as he sways with a sleeping Gracie in his arms. “I can’t believe the last song didn’t wake her.”
“She could sleep through a tornado,” he says. “Are you busy? I’d love to buy you lunch after that impressive performance.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I have to get back to the desk to relieve Janet.”
“Relieve her of what? Her prime nap location?”
I snort. “I don’t know. I think Gracie has her beat.”
“Yeah? You want to cuddle with me, too, Callie baby?”
I swallow against the sudden tightness in my throat. “That’s not what I meant.”
I’m a big fat liar. It’s exactly what I meant, but not aloud. I’m usually much better at filtering my thoughts, but Jaxon Hayes flusters me.
“Sure.” He grins. “I should get these girls home. Rain check?”
My filter fails me once more. “For lunch or cuddling?”
His eyes flare until the green all but disappears behind a wall of shadow. “I meant lunch, but if you want me to hold you, I’m not gonna turn down an offer like that.”
The innocent flirtation veers into dangerous waters, and I need to bring us back to shore before I get swept away. “I have to get back to work, but I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
“You can count on it.” He winks, a move I’m quickly becoming addicted to.
My responding smile is instant but quickly dissipates once they’re out of view.
After everyone has cleared out, I tidy up the area, and what little energy I have left seems to evaporate. If I’d taken more than a second to consider the offer, I might never have agreed to lead our weekly story time—not because I don’t have the time, but because it’s forced me to re-examine my life, and everything it lacks.
I don’t dream often, but when I do, they’re full of longing for things most people take for granted. What little I do have, I had to fight for.
Truth be told, I’m tired of fighting.
I want to come home at the end of the day and sink into the arms of someone I love, preferably in a warm house instead of the backseat of my car. I want to have children of my own and watch them fall in love with all of the same stories that saved me when I was growing up. I didn’t have much when Iran, but there was a library in every town along the way, and I found a little peace at each one.
The girl who ran away at sixteen was already disillusioned by the cruelty of humanity. Those silly childhood dreams of being rescued by a handsome prince died with the first blow and each one that came after. I know now there’s no savior waiting around the corner. The things I want for my life aren’t born of delusion, but some deep-seated desire for little more than a peaceful existence.
After my shift, I take a short drive to the lookout over Oak Ridge Lake on the Willow Valley border. I park at the edge of the cliffside and open the lift gate to sit in the back of my car, watching the water lap against the shore. There’s a chill in the air, but it’s nothing compared to the ice that’s made a home beneath my skin. I’ve never been more alone—not since the days I’d spend hiding in the closet, trying to make myself invisible.
That invisibility has afforded me safety, but it’s starting to feel more like a burden. I want someone to see me, all of me—the scars, the baggage, the broken person who still exists beneath the armor she’s built around herself. I doubt I’ll find someone who can withstand the crushing weight of my past, so I keep my guard up and sacrifice my dreams for whatever surface-level connections life has granted me. They’re my burdens to bear, after all. It’s a messy life, but it’s mine, or whatever’s left of it.
Five Months Ago
