Chapter 18
Remedy
Charlie fell asleep before the movie ended.
One minute she was sitting between Sunshine and me, explaining why guardian ladybugs needed their own motorcycles, and the next her small body had gone soft against my side while Mr. Pickles slipped halfway from her arms. Sunshine caught the bear before he hit the floor, tucked him beneath Charlie’s chin, and smoothed a curl away from her forehead with the kind of effortless tenderness that had stopped surprising me only because it had become so familiar.
The common room remained crowded around us.
Children whispered beneath blankets, volunteers carried empty popcorn bowls toward the kitchen, and brothers continued rotating between security posts while pretending the night was no different from any other.
Outside, headlights occasionally swept across the curtained windows as patrol vehicles moved along the county road.
Every radio crackle sharpened the attention of the men near the doors, yet no one allowed the tension to reach the children.
Sunshine looked down at Charlie sleeping between us.
“She fought it longer than I expected.”
“She always does.”
“She said she wasn’t tired.”
“That usually means she has five minutes left.”
Sunshine smiled. “She made it almost twelve.”
“Personal record.”
Neither of us moved immediately. Charlie’s head rested against my ribs while one small hand remained tangled in the fabric of Sunshine’s sweater, physically connecting us even in sleep.
She had done that all evening—leaned into both of us, passed crayons across our laps, and dragged Sunshine into every conversation as though our daughter had already accepted a truth the adults surrounding her were still learning how to approach carefully.
The family picture lay on the coffee table.
Three figures beneath one roof.
One dark-haired man with too many arms.
One woman dressed in yellow.
One small girl carrying a bear.
I had tried not to look at it after Charlie fell asleep.
The drawing made something inside me ache with a hope I had spent years refusing to examine.
Wanting Sunshine had become impossible to deny.
Wanting her beside Charlie felt even more natural.
The frightening part was realizing that somewhere between both desires, I had begun imagining a future without meaning to.
Sunshine noticed my attention on the paper.
“She drew us under the same roof.”
“I noticed.”
“What do you think it means?”
“She thinks roofs are important.”
Her eyes narrowed with quiet amusement. “That isn’t what I asked.”
I looked toward Charlie, buying myself a moment before answering honestly. “I think she wants what the picture shows.”
Sunshine’s smile faded beneath uncertainty. “Do you?”
The question entered the narrow space between us and stayed there.
Around the room, Steel argued in a whisper with Mace about who had eaten the last cookie.
Bishop spoke with one of the veterans near the hallway.
Daisy gathered sleeping children one at a time and carried them upstairs while Lark folded blankets behind her.
Life continued close enough to protect us from the full weight of the conversation, yet Sunshine’s eyes remained fixed on mine.
“I’m trying not to want it too quickly,” I said.
“That isn’t the same as not wanting it.”
“No.”
Her gaze dropped toward Charlie’s hand curled into her sweater. “It frightens me.”
“Me too.”
“Because of her?”
“Because of all of it.”
I rested one arm along the back of the couch without touching Sunshine, though our shoulders already pressed together beneath Charlie’s weight.
“I know how to protect the life Charlie and I have,” I continued. “I know the schedules, the emergency plans, who watches her when I get called out, and which brothers she can manipulate into giving her dessert before dinner. I built everything around making sure she never felt abandoned.”
“You did.”
“Letting someone else become part of that changes the shape of it.”
Sunshine’s expression softened with understanding. “And if it changes again…”
“She feels that too.”
“I would never leave her carelessly.”
“I know.”
“But you don’t know that I won’t decide I can’t do this.”
“No.”
The honesty hurt her. I saw it before she looked down.
I continued carefully. “And you don’t know that I won’t make a mistake.
Neither of us can promise we understand every future version of ourselves.
What I know is that you’ve shown up every day.
You’ve kept every promise you made to Charlie.
You notice when she’s frightened, tired, hungry, or pretending she isn’t any of those things.
She trusts you because you’ve earned it. ”
Sunshine’s fingers moved lightly through Charlie’s curls. “I love her.”
The words came so quietly I nearly wondered whether she intended me to hear them.
My chest tightened.
Sunshine raised her eyes again, fear and conviction living together inside them. “I know we haven’t talked about that part, but I do. I love her. Not because she belongs to you or because I think loving her gives me a place here. I love her because she is Charlie.”
The confession struck more deeply than any declaration about me could have.
I had known it in the way Sunshine carried Charlie when she slept, in the care she took answering impossible questions, and in every morning she appeared because one little girl expected her to. Hearing it aloud still rearranged something inside me.
“She loves you too,” I said.
Tears gathered in Sunshine’s eyes before she blinked them back. “That makes everything feel more dangerous.”
“It also makes it real.”
She gave me a sad smile. “You keep using that word.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
Charlie shifted between us, her brow furrowing as though even sleep had become too complicated. Sunshine and I both moved at once. She adjusted the blanket while I settled Charlie more securely against my chest. Our hands met over my daughter’s shoulder, and neither of us pulled away.
The movement felt practiced.
Family practiced.
That realization should have made me retreat.
Instead, I turned my hand beneath Sunshine’s and held it.
“We don’t have to decide the whole future tonight,” I said. “We only have to decide whether we want tomorrow.”
Sunshine looked at me.
“I do.”
“So do I.”
The answer eased something across her face.
Daisy approached from behind the couch with an empty basket tucked against one hip. Her gaze moved over Charlie sleeping between us, our joined hands, and the family drawing on the table. For once, she chose mercy over commentary.
“Guest rooms are ready upstairs,” she said quietly. “Charlie’s usual room has clean sheets.”
“I’ll carry her.”
“I figured.”
Daisy looked toward Sunshine. “There’s another room across the hall.”
Sunshine glanced at me before nodding. “Thank you.”
Something in Daisy’s expression suggested she understood the significance of Sunshine choosing to stay without expecting to share my room. Moving carefully had become more than something we said. It meant allowing closeness without turning every tender moment into a demand for more.
I stood slowly, shifting Charlie into my arms without waking her. Sunshine tucked Mr. Pickles beneath one of Charlie’s elbows and gathered the crayon drawing from the table. Together we followed Daisy upstairs while the clubhouse quieted around us.
The second floor had changed more than any other part of the building over the years.
Rooms that once belonged to visiting brothers now held children’s blankets, night-lights, and baskets of emergency clothes in several sizes.
A row of drawings covered the hallway wall, each one signed in uneven letters by children who had stayed for one night or several months.
Charlie’s room sat near the end, marked by a wooden sign Steel had carved after she decided every princess needed a nameplate.
CHARLIE’S CASTLE
One letter leaned lower than the others because Steel refused to redo it after she declared crooked words were friendlier.
Sunshine opened the door while I carried Charlie inside.
A small lamp glowed beside the bed, casting warm light over the flowered quilt and the shelf crowded with storybooks.
I lowered her carefully onto the mattress, removed her boots, and tucked the blanket around her while she hugged Mr. Pickles closer without waking.
Sunshine stood beside me holding the family drawing.
“Where should this go?” she whispered.
I looked around the room. “She’ll want it where everyone can see it.”
“Above the bed?”
“Probably.”
Sunshine found a piece of tape in the desk drawer and fastened the drawing to the wall beneath the wooden sign. The purple roof stretched crookedly above all three figures, close enough to Charlie’s pillow that she would see it the moment she woke.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
The room smelled faintly of strawberry shampoo, clean laundry, and the lavender spray Daisy used on every child’s pillow.
Rainwater still ticked softly against the windows, though the storm had long since passed.
Standing there beside Sunshine while Charlie slept safely between walls protected by an entire club, I understood how much my definition of home had expanded without permission.
It had once meant only my daughter.
Then it became the clubhouse, the brothers, Harbor House, and every person our chapter refused to abandon.
Now Sunshine stood inside it.
I reached for her hand.
She accepted mine.
“Thank you,” I said.
“For what?”
“Loving her.”
Sunshine’s eyes filled immediately. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”
“I know.”
The old exchange drew a fragile smile from her.
“I wanted to,” I added.
She looked toward Charlie. “It was easy.”
“That’s what frightens me.”
Sunshine nodded slowly. “Me too.”
A radio crackled somewhere downstairs, followed by footsteps moving quickly across the first floor. Every protective instinct inside me sharpened before the message became clear enough to hear.
“Movement near the west camera.”