“I’m glad too,” I whisper, taking her hand in mine. “And I want to be here, Kenna. For you. For Cohen.”
She nods, her fingers tightening around mine. “We’ll figure it out, okay? One step at a time.”
I look into her eyes, and for the first time, I feel a sense of hope, a sense that maybe, just maybe, we can make it through this.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice steady now. “One step at a time.”
But I don’t let go of her hand. I step closer instead, my forehead coming to rest against hers. Her breath mingles with mine as her free hand lifts to my jaw, her fingertips brushing away one last stray tear. I slide my arm around her waist again and pull her gently back into me, not as a desperate apology this time, but as something quieter—an unspoken promise.
She exhales, slow and uneven, and leans into my chest like she’s been waiting years to do it again. I press a lingering kiss to her hairline, and she sighs against me, her fingers curling into the back of my shirt. We stay like that, breathing the same air, holding on not because we’re breaking—but because we finally don’t have to.
Chapter Twenty-Three
A HANDSHAKE TO A HUG
KENNA-PRESENT
The air feelsthick in the room, almost to the point of suffocation. I don’t know why it feels so heavy right now. Maybe it’s because I’ve finally opened myself up to Cole fully. I’ve been imagining this day for nine years—wondering how I would tell him about Cohen, how I would tell him everything that’s happened in the years that he’s been gone. But now that he’s here, standing in front of me, I don’t know where to begin.
I glance at him, taking in his expression. His eyes are wide, waiting, unsure. The Cole I remember from high school is gone, replaced with this grown-up version of him, one that has been through more than any other 27-year-old guy should go through. I can see the uncertainty in his posture. I know he’s scared.
There’s something about the way he carries himself now—a subtle stiffness, a guardedness that wasn’t there before. Prison leaves its mark, not just in ink or muscle, but in silence. In the way a man forgets how to be soft.
He’s been in prison for so long and now after only being out for a few months, he’s being thrown into the middle of a life he didn’t know existed—a life with a son, a son who doesn’t know him, a son who’s spent his life thinking his father was a story, a distant memory.
A bedtime whisper. A photograph in a drawer. A name he heard but never fully understood.
“Cohen is a lot like you,” I finally say, my voice steady, but there’s a catch in my throat. I’ve been holding this all in for so long, and now, finally, it’s coming out in one long breath. “He’s got your smile. And your eyes. But he’s got my sense of humor. He’s clever, Cole. So clever.”
I watch as Cole swallows hard, his jaw working. He’s quiet still, listening. I can tell that this is hard for him. Harder than he expected, probably.
His hands are trembling just slightly. He keeps folding and unfolding them like he’s trying to hold something in—grief, maybe. Or guilt. Or both.
“He asks about you sometimes,” I continue, my voice quieter now, as if I’m speaking only to him, only to Cole. “I don’t know if he understands completely why you haven’t been around. I’ve tried to explain it, but I don’t know how much he’s actually absorbed.”
There were nights Cohen would curl up beside me on the couch, asking questions I didn’t know how to answer. ‘Why don’t I have a dad?’ ‘Was he a soldier?’ I’d always tell him the same thing: ‘He loved you so much, he had to go away.’ It wasn’t a lie. Not really.
Cole rubs his hand over his face, and I can see how much this is weighing on him. I know what he’s thinking. He’s wondering what it would’ve been like if he had been there. If he had been part of Cohen’s life, if he had been part of ours. But I’ve had nine years to adjust to the idea of being a single mother, to the idea that Cohen’s father would never be there. And now here he is, standing in front of me, wanting to know about the little boy that’s part of both of us.
“He knows you had to leave before he was born,” I say, my voice softening. “But I tell him you love him. And that you’re coming home soon. I tell him all the time, Cole. He’s so excitedfor that day. He doesn’t understand everything, but he knows about his father. And he wants to know you.”
I pause, remembering how Cohen once drew a picture of our family—just the two of us and a figure he labeled ‘Dad?’ in shaky crayon letters. That one broke me. I didn’t let him see it, but I cried for an hour after he went to bed.
Cole’s expression softens, but there’s still a visible storm in his eyes. I can see the guilt, the doubt. I know how much he regrets what happened, but this? This is a chance to change things, to do things differently. He doesn’t have to be the man who disappeared from our lives. He can be the man who shows up.
Feeling the weight settle in my chest, I take a deep breath. “I want you to be in his life, Cole. I want you to be a part of it. But I also know that it’s going to take time. I know that I’ve had nine years to get used to the idea of being a mother, and I know you’ve only had a few days to adjust to the fact that you have a son. I’m not expecting you to jump in and know everything all at once.”
He nods, but I can tell he’s still somewhere in the past, sifting through the wreckage. I wonder how many nights he spent behind bars wondering if I’d moved on.
He looks at me, his eyes searching mine for something. Maybe for permission, maybe for reassurance. Maybe for both.
“I want to take it slow,” he whispers, his voice rough. “Not just for me. But for Cohen too. I think it’s better if I meet him with no expectations, without the pressure of him knowing that I’m his dad right away. That way, we can get to know each other. I don’t want him to feel overwhelmed or confused. I just want him to see me as someone he can trust.”
I nod, relieved. "Cole, I think that’s a good idea. I really do.”
My stomach unclenches just slightly. For the first time in days, I’m not bracing for a fight, or a breakdown, or another goodbye. I’m just here—with him—and it feels...like a beginning.
There’s a pause, and for a second, it’s like time slows. The tired eyes, the temple scar, and the way he flexes his hands is whatI see as I study his face. I know this isn’t easy for him. I know he probably didn’t sleep last night. And yet, he’s here. He showed up. And that counts for something. Maybe it counts for everything.
