10. Jonah
Jonah
A ni’s different now.
Don’t ask me how I notice a subtle difference in a girl I literally just met; but I do.
It’s in the way she walks into the kitchen this morning. There’s a steadiness in her step that wasn’t there before. She keeps her eyes up instead of on the floor. The corners of her mouth don’t tip down as much. Her shoulders are even pulled back.
She’s…more settled than she was yesterday.
There’s a glow to her skin. A flush in her cheeks. A softness that wasn’t there yesterday.
I don’t need to ask what happened.
Sure, I could do what most people would and assume that she’s simply settling in here. She’s no longer uncomfortable in our space. But it’s more than that, and I know it.
Finn hums to himself while flipping pancakes at the stove. He hums when he’s in a good mood. And I’d have to be blind to miss the less-than-subtle glances the two of them are throwing at each other.
She brushes past him to grab a fork from the drawer, and he turns his head just enough to look at her. I’ve known Finn long enough to read his mind. And I can see what’s happening in the way he watches her now.
I saw it coming. From the minute she looked at him with those wide, grateful eyes and he cracked some joke to make her smile. I knew he’d be the first to get too close. I just didn’t expect how hard it would hit me.
I have no right to feel this. I barely know this girl. She’s not mine. Hell, she was never going to be. She’s too young, too soft in all the places I’ve let harden. She deserves someone who can let her grow into whoever she’s meant to be without dragging her into someone else’s wreckage.
I’ve seen too much pain and suffering in my life to be good for someone like Ani.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t watch her.
I watch her smile when she thanks Finn for the coffee. I watch her sit on the floor with Mae and try to coax a reaction with a picture book. I watch her sit on the porch and look off into the trees.
And it certainly doesn’t mean I don’t want her.
But I can’t have her. She’s still stitching herself back together with whatever threads she can find.
As much as it pains me to see it, Finn is the right choice for her.
He’s kind and open, funny in a way that disarms people, sweet in a way that doesn’t ask for anything back.
She needs gentleness that doesn’t come with conditions.
And he still believes the world bends toward good.
I gave up that idea a long time ago, right about the time I joined the Green Berets.
So I don’t let the shift change how I treat her.
I pass her a mug of tea with a brush of my fingers that lingers half a second longer than it needs to. I let my elbow knock against hers when we stand side by side at the sink. I hold her eyes when I ask if she wants more toast.
And I stay close. Not too close, I’m not trying to freak the girl out. Just close enough to make sure she knows I see her. I don’t know what I’m trying to accomplish. She chose Finn, and she deserves more than me, but I can’t stop myself from drifting in her direction.
She’s on the porch later that afternoon, pulled into herself tighter than I’ve seen all day. Her gaze fixed out at the tree line like she’s trying to find something in the distance that no one else can see.
I don’t ask before joining her. I open the door, ease myself down beside her, and keep my eyes forward.
She doesn’t say anything. So, I don’t either.
The quiet stretches on, and I start to wonder if it will ever break. But I wait, the way I know Finn would.
She presses her lips together, then breathes out through her nose.
Then, finally: “Have you ever felt like you’ve ruined something before it even starts?”
I don’t look at her, too worried that it will spook her.
“What makes you think you have?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I just…this was supposed to be a reset. Or a fresh start at the very least. A chance to figure things out. And now I already feel off-course.”
I let her words settle before responding. There’s no use rushing someone who’s still trying to find the shape of what they’re feeling.
“I’ve spent most of my life thinking I had to earn everything. Even the idea of wanting something for myself felt selfish.”
There’s more she doesn’t say, but I don’t push. I shift slightly and rest my arm along the back of the bench, not touching her, but close enough that her soft hair brushes my skin.
“I keep thinking I’ll feel free. That was the whole point of running. And I do. But now, deep down I just feel...”
She stops. Frowns. “Exposed.”
That, I understand.
“You don’t owe anyone a version of yourself that doesn’t feel true.”
She looks at me with wide eyes, somewhere between confusion and relief.
“Even if it changes?”
“Especially if it changes.”
Her fingers tighten around the edge of her sweater sleeve. “I think I thought that doing something truly for myself would fix everything.”
“It won’t.”
“I know that now.”
“But it’s a start.”
We sit a while longer after that. The air has cooled, but neither of us moves to go inside. When she finally stands, she doesn’t rush. She just reaches for the door, gives me a long look and a small smile, and disappears back into the house.
I stay where I am, enjoying the cool air and thinking about our conversation.
She’s still figuring out how to be herself.
And I’m still trying to pretend I don’t notice every step she takes to get there.
Mae finishes her last bite of macaroni with the kind of quiet defiance only a five-year-old can pull off—jaw set, eyes forward, not looking at Ani even once. She chews slowly, deliberately, dragging out each bite until the bowl is empty, then pushes it toward the center of the table without a word.
Ani, to her credit, keeps her tone light. “You did a great job with that. All gone.”
There’s no reply. Mae slips off her chair and takes her bowl to the sink, then climbs onto the step stool to rinse it.
It’s a new habit—something Boone’s been working on with her—and she’s secretly proud of it, though she doesn’t show it.
Ani hovers just behind, drying her hands on a dish towel, eyes flicking between Mae and the bowl.
“Do you want me to wash that for you?” she asks gently.
Mae ignores her. Not even a glance. She climbs down, grabs her stuffed fox from the table and disappears into the living room.
The tension settles in instantly. Ani doesn’t say anything at first, just lowers her gaze and nods to herself, jaw tight. The towel in her hand twists slowly.
I step beside her and take the bowl myself, not because she can’t handle it, but because she shouldn’t have to carry that disappointment alone.
“She’s not mad at you,” I say, rinsing the bowl and handing it over for drying.
“I don’t think she even sees me,” she answers, quieter now. “She doesn’t have to say anything. I can feel it.”
“She sees you.”
Ani folds the towel with more care than needed. “She doesn’t like me.”
“She doesn’t know you.”
“Same thing.”
I lean against the counter and wait until she looks at me. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”
Her eyes are glassy. “Then why does it feel like I’m failing?”
“She’s learning how to trust again. That takes time. You know that.”
Ani nods, but I can see the way her shoulders curl inward.
“I’ve seen kids over the years who’ve lost less than Mae and shut down twice as hard,” I add.
She glances at me, eyes narrowing just slightly, trying to decide whether she wants to ask what that means. We haven’t told her Mae’s story yet. Not the whole of it. It’s not exactly something you discuss over breakfast.
Her parents died in a fire that she barely survived nearly a year ago now.
There was no other family fit to take her in, and I was the only one left who could do it.
We’re not related by blood; her father was my stepbrother.
But she had always known me as Uncle Jonah—the man who fixed the swing set and always brought tasty snacks. So I stepped in.
I was granted temporary emergency custody, and we’ve been fighting for a permanent placement ever since.
“This isn’t about you.”
“I know,” Ani says, but the words lack conviction.
“Keep trying,” I say gently. “She’ll come around.”
Ani sets the towel down and leans into the counter beside me. Her shoulder brushes mine and I savor her touch. We don’t speak again for a while, but it’s the kind of silence I don’t mind.
She stays close until Finn calls her into the living room to help with some new project. She hesitates—just a second—then slips away.
Mae peeks in from the hallway once Ani’s gone.
“She’s trying hard,” I tell her. “Don’t shut her out, little fox, okay?”
Mae stares for a moment longer, then turns and walks away.