Chapter Twenty-Two
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C-U-T-E.
Leora
I clutch the strap to my tote bag tightly as I breathe in a deep, calming breath.
“It’s okay,” I mutter, possibly looking like the town loon on the sidewalk in front of Blackwood Barb. A local townie crosses the street, making that possibly into more of a probably situation.
“It’s just Wolfe,” I tell myself. “Just Wolfe, and his daughter—the most important person in his life—who he wants me to meet officially on purpose, because now we’ve fulfilled his three hang outs rule, and so it is perfectly acceptable and fine and normal for me to meet her.
Because that is the natural order of things.
I love nature. Huge fan of nature, me. I built my entire career around loving nature.
So I should love this.” I gulp. “And I do. Of course. I just also completely hate it, and I can’t breathe, and maybe I should turn around and go home and not risk Amia hating me completely and forever, because what do I know about interacting with small children?
They come into the store, and I threaten to turn them into rocks I can sell if they misbehave.
If that doesn’t scream Do not let this woman near your child!
, then I don’t know what does. So even though we’re following the natural order of things, maybe we’re following the wrong natural order.
Like when you pray for rain and instead you’re given a massive lightning strike. ”
Through the window, I can see Wolfe, Amia, and Sterne. The sight of the trio is what stopped me here, outside the building, wondering if I’m setting myself up for a massive mistake.
They’re near the back of the large, mostly open space.
Amia sits on a rolling chair at a tattoo bench, doing some sort of child project on top of it.
At another tattoo chair sits Wolfe, hunched over Sterne.
They’re laughing, the three of them, and Wolfe has to lift his tattoo gun off of Sterne’s ribs so the shaking of their bodies doesn’t ruin the art Sterne is having permanently bestowed upon his skin.
They look happy. Like a cute little family. Dad, daughter, uncle.
I’m going to mess it up.
My hand clenches on my bag as a tear pricks my eye.
“It’s okay,” I repeat. “It’s all okay.” Or maybe it’s not. I don’t know.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t know.
I don’t know how to interact with Amia like this, in person.
I don’t know how to slot myself into their lives in a way that adds to the experience.
I don’t know what will happen if I flub it up.
With Wolfe, that’s fine. He’s a grown man.
He can handle it if I make a few mistakes along the way.
Amia, though? Amia is a child. She does not deserve to have some stupid woman in her life messing things up, purposefully or through sheer incompetence.
She’s already had enough trauma where it regards the womanly figures in her life. I can’t add to that. I can’t.
But I don’t know how not to.
I’ve never had even a passing example of what a good, older woman looks like.
Not in such a proximity. I’ve witnessed plenty of strong, smart, kind, generous, amazing women from afar, but never up close—never in the sort of relationship I’ll have with Amia if I choose to walk through the glass door and take hold of it.
How am I supposed to be what she needs? How, when I’ve only ever had my dad to look to for an example of what an adult is?
How, when the best I’ve got to offer is what I’ve learned via a man who’s more like a child, fictional characters that think kidnapping is perfectly reasonable and romantic, and far-off observances of real-life women?
I’m not going to be good enough for her.
I’m not good enough for her now, and I never will be, and it’s freezing my blood and my bones and my feet.
I can’t walk in there and offer her the less-than-nothing I have to give.
I can’t walk away, and miss out on all of the beauty being a part of their little family would bring to my life.
It’s selfish to take it.
It’s terrifying to not.
A crystal clear understanding of Wolfe’s psyche takes hold. Gracious, how is he overcoming this terror? How is he doing anything at all if he feels even a portion of this in all of the areas he’s expressed—his daughter, his brother, his family, his friends… me.
No wonder he looked so scared when he kidnapped me. This is scary.
I catch sight of Amia’s backpack, the same one from her first day of school photo, leaning carelessly against the front counter of the shop. It’s unzipped, and papers stick out in every direction. A single gummy worm hides in the mesh pocket meant for a water bottle.
I could zip it. I could take the gummy worm out, and organize the papers, and wash it squeaky clean, and I could zip it up. Tidily. Everything safe and sound. Everything exactly where it should be.
Could I…
Could I do the same with her, maybe? Zip her up when she feels out of control, like I remember feeling so often as a little girl? Tuck her hopes and dreams cozily within her, lining them all up so that they feel doable, and not like some wild far off hope?
Could I help to keep her safe and sound?
I… want to. I really, really want to.
I just don’t know.
“I have to leave,” I whimper. “I can’t go in there.”
A little girl’s scream takes hold of my heart before I can thaw my feet enough to move.
My eyes shoot up, through the glass, and land on Amia. Her dark hair swings as she flies toward the door, gap-toothed smile wide. Her chocolate opal eyes shine with the sort of joy only children possess as she screams again, swinging the door open and launching herself at me.
I grunt as I catch her, going back on one foot and taking care that we don’t tumble over.
“MISS LEORA!” she squeals. “You came!” She hugs me so tightly I can’t breathe, and wetness teases my eyelashes.
“I came,” I wheeze. I wrap my arms around her and hug her back. My throat tightens.
This is… stars. She is perfect. Precious. A being so worth trying for.
Resolve constricts my chest, quite suddenly.
I might not know anything at all, but I will learn. I’ll learn everything I need to learn to make it so that I can be in her life, if only so I can receive more hugs like this. A million more. A trillion. An infinite amount, and I’ll do anything for them.
What is terror in the face of love, anyway?
Wolfe shows up on the sidewalk beside us and sends me an apologetic smile. For what, I couldn’t possibly hope to ascertain. I am in heaven. I am among the stars. I am wraped up in the arms of a creature made of pure starlight. There isn’t a thing to apologize for.
“Amia,” Wolfe intones. “Let’s let Miss Leora get into the shop, yeah? You can say hello inside.”
Amia lets go instantly, and I frown at Wolfe.
His eyes wrinkle at the sides when he smiles down at me and says, “Hello, my starling. I’m happy you’re here.”
My frown melts away. “You can’t just use the magic password anytime I’m cross with you,” I tell him, sniffing away leftover emotion.
I swipe under my eyes and blink, taking care of the remnants of my…
whatever it’s called when a person has a nervous breakdown on a public street followed by the best experience of their life and a newfound resolve to overcome the source of the breakdown.
It’s been an emotionally charged few minutes.
“Are you okay?” Wolfe asks, peering closely at my face. His fingertip catches a tear I miss. “You’re crying.” He frowns, holding the tear aloft, evidence of my whatever. “Why are you crying?”
“It’s because of the Whatever,” I inform him. “Perfectly natural. As is everything else happening here. As you well know.”
He well knows nothing of the sort, but that’s not my problem, is it?
He observes me silently for several long, drawn-out seconds, then his eyes clear of all confusion, and he nods slowly.
“A Whatever,” he says. “I understand. Women have many a Whatever throughout their lives. I apologize. I’m more accustomed to the sort Amia has these days.
It’s been a while since I’ve encountered one in a woman who’s grown—not since I left home, I think.
” He smiles, tucks his fingertip into his mouth to rid it of my tear, then drops his hand to his side.
“I am here for you,” he says. “Through your Whatevers, whether you wish to speak on them or not, whether the emotions stick or not. I will be here.” Then, as if he has not just brought forth a fresh batch of tears to my eyes, he grabs my hand, turns, and tugs me into the shop.
Amia hops from foot to foot impatiently by the counter.
The minute the door shuts behind her father and me, she grabs my free hand and drags me away from Wolfe.
She talks a mile a minute as she leads me to her set-up near the back of the studio.
I smile a hello at Sterne while Amia jabbers, and he smiles one back.
“–and that’s why I’m here! Daddy says he just has to finish up Uncle Sterne’s tattoo, which is supposed to take three half hours, then we can go get dinner at the diner.
He said that I can ask you if you want to go with us.
He said that we don’t have to invite Uncle Sterne if I don’t want, but that I shouldn’t tell Uncle Sterne about it if I don’t want him to go, ’cause that would be rude, which is why I haven’t told Uncle Sterne about it.
I like Uncle Sterne, but today is Miss Leora day.
I just want me, you, and Daddy to go to the diner.
Uncle Sterne will be okay, though, because Uncle Sterne has lots of other friends he can hang out with.
That’s because he’s a firefighter, and firefighters live with, like, twelve other guys.
They play on the fire pole and make meals together and watch movies and sometimes they put out fires.
So he can go have dinner with them, and we’ll go have dinner without him!
” She smiles, clearly thrilled with her plans and how very little they will affect Sterne.
Wolfe sighs. “Amia, when I said you shouldn’t tell Uncle Sterne about it, I meant you shouldn’t talk about it in front of him at all. It’s rude to make plans in front of someone and not invite them.”
Sterne works valiantly to keep his expression carefully neutral, and I follow suit.
Unfortunately, we make the mistake of catching one another’s eyes, and it nearly blows both our covers.
His lip twitches, and my eyes bulge, then I tear my attention away from him before anything so terrible as laughter can burst forth.
Amia’s brows furrow, increasing my amusement. “But… I didn’t tell him about it. I was talking to Miss Leora. If he heard, it’s ’cause he’s eavesdropping. And eavesdropping is way more rude than not inviting someone somewhere.”
Sterne coughs to cover his laugh. I turn my back to the group to retain my control.
When I’m able to turn back around safely, Wolfe is giving Amia a patented dad look.
Amia pouts. “Do I have to?” she asks.
“Yes,” he answers patiently. “Because it’s not eavesdropping to hear a conversation happening right beside you in a wide open room, and because even if it were, Sterne being rude isn’t an excuse for you to also be rude.”
She huffs. Then, with not an ounce of sincerity, she turns to Sterne. “Sorry, Uncle Sterne. Would you like to go to the diner after your tattoo is finished and have dinner with us?”
Sterne regards her thoughtfully. “I would love to,” he says, eyes sparkling as her shoulders slump. He lets her off the hook quickly, though. “But it will have to be another time. I have plans tonight.”
Amia doesn’t cheer, and I think it’s rather big of her, because she so clearly wants to. “That’s too bad,” she lies, instead.
I press my lips together very, very hard.
Amia turns her back on a coughing Sterne as her father mutters about “manners” and “children who have none.” She smiles at me, unrepentant. “I set up a craft station for us!”
Charmed, I allow myself to be led to my very own rolling chair, then wait for her to hop onto one on the other side of the tattoo bench she’s using as a table.
I notice that it’s completely crumb-free, thanks to Poem, I hope.
She was supposed to hire a cleaner after shoving a metric ton of snacks into the crevices of the chair, and she appears to have followed through.
My opinion of her rises tenfold. I love a woman who can make a mess and then pick it back up.
“What are we doing?” I ask.
“We’re making necklaces!” she says, and it’s then that I fully take in what I’m looking at.
Dozens of small tumbled stones, minerals, and even a few gems litter our project zone.
Scattered amidst the stones are chains, o-rings, clasps, and thin wire.
Amia shows me a necklace she’s already made, pointing out how she used the wire to create a casing for the stone, then attached an o-ring to slide the chain through before adding a clasp mechanism to the end of entire creation.
I gape, watching in awe as she demonstrates the process for me, too. For a child of a mere eight years, she’s an absolute whiz with a pair of needle-nose pliers.
Wolfe’s tattoo gun takes off, a soft buzz that draws my attention for a moment, but doesn’t hold it.
Wolfe might be majestic, particularly when he’s in the zone like this, biceps bulging as he stretches Sterne’s skin taut…
brows furrowing in concentration… strong shoulders shifting with the movement of his gun…
Okay. Fine. Perhaps he holds my attention for several moments past one. Sue me, the man is hot, and I happen to be in love with him.
Even so, it’s not a hardship to return my gaze to his daughter. I watch with rapt delight as she picks out stones for each of us to work with, then helps me through making my very own necklace.
When I’m finished, I give it to her. “To remember this day,” I tell her. “To remember that I love you, and I’m happy I got to meet you.”
She squeals and has me clasp the necklace around her neck, oohing and ahhing at the shiny rock dangling from the chain—a rock I’m pretty sure she sourced and tumbled herself, but I still appreciate her appreciation for the work I did with it.
“I love it!” she declares. “I’m going to wear it every single day!”
My breath catches. “That’s beautiful,” I tell her.
We spend the next hour making more necklaces, competing with each other to see who can stack up the other’s necks the most. I come close to winning with a total of five necklaces, but she beats me out with seven.
“I’m just faster ’cause I’ve had lots of practice,” she assures me. “Next time, we can make more, and then you’ll be fast like me.”
My heart warms. I could just squish her. “Next time,” I agree, loving the sound.
Sure, I might have no idea what I’m doing, and I might screw her up completely, but there will be a next time for us. There will be a future. And maybe the reason I don’t know what it will look like isn’t because of my dark past, but because the future is so bright, it’s blinding.