Chapter 3 Cole
The party was perfect for exactly forty-seven minutes. Then a six-year-old asked an innocent question, and I watched my niece's heart break in real time.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I'd spent three days preparing for Sarah's sixth birthday.
Not the decorations or the cake, Emma had taken charge of those with a cheerful efficiency that left me slightly terrified.
No, I'd prepared for the people. Fifteen six-year-olds.
Eighteen parents. One punch bowl. The odds were decidedly not in my favor.
The small event hall at Pine Ridge Resort was safe, contained, with sturdy floors and bathrooms that didn't involve an outhouse.
My mountain cabin was no place for a children's party.
Too remote, too many unprotected drops, too much wildlife within walking distance.
The last thing I needed was a six-year-old wandering off to befriend a bear.
I arrived at the resort with my pick-up truck, a small detail to mention was Emma in the other seat. She texted me and asked for help carrying extra boxes. I couldn’t imagine how she planned to take so many things on her own.
"You made all of these?" I stared at the hand-painted cardboard bees she was pulling from yet another box as we unloaded the truck. There were dozens of them. Each one had a slightly different expression—some smiling, some winking, one that looked vaguely concerned about its life choices.
"It's called a craft addiction." She held up a particularly wonky specimen with a crooked stinger and uneven stripes. "Very serious condition. No known cure. This one's my favorite. He has character."
"He has a crooked stinger."
"That's the character, Mr. Brennan. Perfection is boring." She thrust the bee into my hands with mock solemnity. "Hang him by the window. He deserves good light and appreciation."
I hung the crooked bee by the window. It did look oddly charming there, surveying the empty hall like a slightly confused monarch.
"Nice shirt, by the way," Emma added, glancing at my blue button-down as she unpacked streamers. "Very civilized. I almost didn't recognize you without the flannel."
"It's uncomfortable." I tugged at the collar. "Feels like a costume."
"Civilization usually is uncomfortable." She grinned, that bright smile that did something complicated to me. "But you look nice. Sarah will appreciate the effort."
She handed me a roll of yellow streamers and pointed toward the ceiling. "Make yourself useful. We've got thirty minutes and approximately seven hundred decorations to hang."
We worked in an easy rhythm. Her, directing, and me following orders without complaint.
It was surprisingly comfortable, this domestic choreography.
She'd brought a pin-the-stinger-on-the-bee game she'd made herself, complete with a blindfold covered in tiny painted flowers.
When I raised an eyebrow at the level of detail, she shrugged.
"I had time. And a concerning amount of acrylic paint."
"Do you sleep? Ever?"
"Sleep is for people without craft addictions." She handed me another bee. "This one goes above the cake table. He's the guardian bee."
"There's a hierarchy?"
"There's always a hierarchy, Mr. Brennan. Even among cardboard bees."
I hung the guardian bee, shaking my head. "You didn't have to do all this. I would have managed with some balloons and store-bought decorations."
"I know." Her voice softened, losing its teasing edge. "But I wanted to. Sarah's special. She deserves special things."
Something warm bloomed in my chest, unexpected and unsettling. I focused very intently on taping a streamer to the wall, not trusting myself to respond.
The guests arrived in chaotic waves. Kids exploded through the door like small, shrieking missiles, immediately gravitating toward the balloon arch Emma had somehow constructed while I wasn't looking.
Parents followed behind, clutching gift bags and wearing the harried expressions of people who'd spent thirty minutes negotiating with tiny humans about appropriate party attire.
"Mr. Brennan!" A woman in yoga pants and a bright smile approached me near the punch bowl. "I'm Jake's mom, Jennifer. He's been so excited about this party. He talks about Sarah constantly."
"That's... good." Small talk. I could do small talk. Probably. "Sarah talks about Jake too. She says he's funny."
"Does she?" Jennifer beamed like I'd handed her a trophy. "They're such good friends. Inseparable at recess, apparently. How long have you lived in Pine Ridge?"
"About fifteen years now."
"Oh, impressive! I’ve only been here for two years. It's such a lovely community. Everyone knows everyone." She glanced around the decorated hall. "And Sarah's mother, will she be joining us later?"
The question was casual, innocent, the kind of thing people asked without thinking. My stomach clenched anyway, that familiar tightness whenever this topic surfaced.
"It's just me," I said carefully, keeping my voice neutral. "I'm Sarah's guardian."
"Oh!" Her expression flickered, curiosity, to careful neutrality, then warm compensation. "Well, you're doing a wonderful job. Truly. The decorations are absolutely darling."
"That's all Emma… I mean Ms. Reed." I nodded toward where Emma was organizing kids for musical chairs, her voice carrying cheerful authority across the room. "She's the creative one. I just followed orders."
"She's lovely, isn't she?" Jennifer gave me a knowing look. I decided to pretend I didn't understand. "So patient with the children. They absolutely adore her."
"Yeah." I watched Emma laugh as a small boy tripped over his own feet trying to reach a chair. She caught him easily, righting him with a gentle hand and a whispered encouragement. "They really do."
Sarah found me a few minutes later, her face flushed with excitement, her paper crown slightly askew.
"Uncle C! Did you see the bee game? Ms. Reed made it herself! And there's a cake with a hive on it, it’s full of little bees!"
"I saw, sweetheart. Pretty impressive stuff."
"Can I open presents now? Please? Tommy brought a really big box."
"After cake. That's the rule."
She frowned, suspicious. "Whose rule?"
"The birthday rule. Very ancient. Very serious."
She giggled, recognizing my nonsense for what it was. Then she threw her arms around my waist, squeezing with surprising strength. "This is the best party ever, Uncle C. Thank you, thank you, thank you."
The tight knot within me loosened a little. This. This was what Rebecca would have wanted for her daughter. This joy, this normalcy, this room full of friends and laughter and ridiculous cardboard bees.
"Go play," I said, my voice rougher than intended. "Your guests are waiting for their fearless leader."
Musical chairs descended into cheerful chaos.
Emma refereed with impressive authority, somehow managing to make eliminations feel like victories rather than defeats.
Every kid who lost got a consolation high-five and a "great effort!
" that seemed to genuinely console them.
I watched from my post near the punch bowl, arms crossed, trying not to smile too obviously.
"You look like a bouncer at a very tiny nightclub," Emma said, materializing at my elbow. "Very intimidating. I'm sure the juice boxes are terrified."
"I'm supervising."
"You're lurking. There's a distinct difference." She poured herself a cup of punch, glancing at the children running around. "Relax, Mr. Brennan. It's going well. No casualties so far."
"I don't relax at parties. Parties have too many variables."
"Do you relax anywhere?"
"The mountains. Alone. With my bees." I paused. "They don't ask awkward questions or require small talk."
She laughed. There it was again, that familiar, warm sound I was beginning to crave more than I wanted to admit. "You're a strange man, Cole Brennan."
"So I've been told. Frequently."
Cake time arrived with great fanfare. The sheet cake was a genuine masterpiece. Adorned with a cartoon beehive surrounded by smiling bees, "Happy Birthday, Busy Bee Sarah!" was written in golden frosting across the top. Sarah's eyes went wide as saucers when she saw it.
"It's perfect," she breathed, reverent. "Look at the little bees, Uncle C!"
"Make a wish, birthday girl," I said, lighting the six candles plus one for good luck.
She screwed her eyes shut, concentrating with fierce intensity, her small face scrunched in determination. When she opened them, she blew with all her might. Every single candle flickered and faded out.
"What'd you wish for?" Jake asked immediately.
"Can't tell," Sarah said, very seriously. "Then it won't come true. Everyone knows that."
The kids attacked their cake slices with the enthusiasm of small Vikings.
Blue frosting ended up on faces, fingers, the table, and somehow the ceiling.
I gathered discarded plates, finally allowing myself to breathe.
We'd made it. The party was a success. Sarah was happy, surrounded by friends, her face smeared with frosting and pure joy.
Then Jake spoke again, his voice carrying that clear, innocent curiosity only children possess.
"How come your mom didn't come?" He tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. "My mom's here. Where's yours?"
The world inverted.
The laughter, the clatter of forks, the parents chatting, all of it became meaningless static, white noise buzzing in my ears.
I watched Sarah's face transform in slow motion, like watching a flower wilt in fast-forward.
The delighted smile melted away, replaced by blank shock.
Her lower lip trembled violently. Her eyes filled with a hurt so sudden and deep I felt it like a physical blow to my own gut.
"Sarah—" I started, already moving.
She shoved back from the table, her paper crown tumbling to the floor. Then she ran. A small, desperate blur in a yellow dress, heading straight for the hallway and the restroom sign.