Chapter 11 Cole
Nothing could have prepared me for the terror of wanting to kiss Emma Reed under a sky full of witness stars.
Not my time at foster homes that made Lord of the Flies look like a summer camp brochure. Not the hive of angry bees I had to face after a bear raid.
Let me backtrack a little.
The Pine Ridge Elementary gymnasium smelled of popcorn, floor wax, and the faint desperation of parents trying to survive another school event with their sanity intact.
Orange and black streamers drooped from the ceiling like exhausted party guests.
A banner reading "Fall Festival Fun!" hung slightly crooked above the refreshment table, the exclamation point feeling aggressively optimistic given the circumstances.
I stood just inside the double doors, feeling like a boulder among river stones.
Every other man in the room seemed to have received a memo about appropriate attire.
I was surrounded by khakis, polo shirts, and boat shoes that had never seen an actual boat.
I'd worn my cleanest flannel. The one without holes.
The one I'd actually ironed, which was a process that had involved YouTube tutorials and mild profanity.
This was apparently still the wrong outfit.
A woman in a cardigan gave me a wide berth, clutching her punch cup like I might snatch it from her hands. A man I vaguely recognized from the hardware store nodded once, the kind of acknowledgment you'd give a large dog of uncertain temperament.
Then I saw her.
Emma was across the crowded room, talking to a group of parents near the pumpkin display.
She wore a yellow sundress, the color of sun-warmed butter, her honey-blonde hair down in soft waves around her shoulders instead of its usual practical bun.
She was laughing at something, gesturing with her hands, absolutely radiant in a way that made my chest constrict painfully.
She looked like summer had gotten lost and wandered into autumn by mistake. She looked like the kind of warmth I'd stopped believing existed.
As if feeling the weight of my stare, her gaze drifted across the room and found me. For a moment, her expression flickered with surprise; maybe she hadn't expected me to actually show up. Her polite social smile transformed into something private and bright, meant only for me.
My heart did something deeply embarrassing in response.
She excused herself from her conversation and wove through the crowd, navigating around small children and folding chairs with practiced grace.
I watched her approach, acutely aware that I was standing too stiffly, that my hands didn't know what to do with themselves, that I'd probably already terrified at least three parents just by existing in their general vicinity.
"You came," she said, stopping in front of me. Close enough that I could smell her perfume, something floral and warm that made me want to lean closer.
"Sarah's singing in the choir. Wouldn't miss it."
"That's the only reason?"
"The primary reason." I paused, attempting humor. "The popcorn was a factor."
Her smile widened, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "The popcorn here is terrible. It's been sitting in that machine since approximately 1987."
"I'm aware. I have low standards."
She laughed and touched my elbow lightly. The contact sent electricity up my arm. "Come on. They're about to start. I saved us seats."
She led me through the maze of folding chairs and chattering parents to a row near the front.
We sat, and our shoulders brushed. The gymnasium was warm and crowded, filled with the cacophony of excited children and adult conversation, but all my awareness narrowed to that single point of contact where her arm pressed against mine.
Pathetic, I told myself. You're a grown man. Get a grip.
My arm stayed exactly where it was.
The choir shuffled onto the makeshift stage, two dozen nervous children in matching black and orange shirts, arranged in wobbly rows on risers that looked like they'd seen better decades.
Sarah spotted us immediately from her position in the second row and waved with absolutely zero subtlety, her whole arm windmilling enthusiastically.
Several parents turned to look at me. I pretended not to notice.
"She's going to be a great performer," Emma whispered, leaning close enough that her breath tickled my ear. "No stage fright whatsoever."
"She gets that from Rebecca. My sister could walk into any room and own it within five minutes." I shifted slightly in my plastic chair, which creaked ominously under my weight. "I'd rather face a mountain lion than a crowd."
"And yet here you are. In a crowd. Surrounded by small-town parents and questionable popcorn."
"Special circumstances."
She smiled at that, something knowing in her expression.
The music teacher, a nervous young man who looked like he was seriously reconsidering his career choices, raised his hands. The children fell silent with varying degrees of success. Then they began to sing.
The song was about autumn leaves, delivered with the magnificent off-key enthusiasm that only elementary school choirs can achieve.
One boy in the front row was clearly just mouthing the words.
A girl at the end was singing at approximately twice the tempo of everyone else.
Sarah was belting out every note with determination, her small face screwed up in concentration.
It was objectively terrible. It was also, somehow, wonderful.
Emma sang along softly beside me, her voice a gentle melody under the chaos.
She clapped enthusiastically after each number, cheered when the children took their bows, wiped her eyes when a tiny kindergartener forgot his solo and just stood there frozen until the music teacher gently sang the first note for him.
I tried to clap in rhythm with everyone else, feeling clumsy and oversized in my too-small chair. I couldn't stop glancing at Emma's profile; the way the gymnasium lights caught the gold in her hair, the soft curve of her smile, the genuine delight in her eyes.
She caught me looking during the third song. Instead of looking away, she reached over and squeezed my hand once, quickly, before returning her attention to the stage.
My heart forgot how to beat properly for several seconds.
After the performance, Sarah found us in the crowd, vibrating with post-show energy.
"Did you see me? I remembered all the words! Even the hard part in the second verse!"
"You were incredible," Emma said, crouching to her level. "A true professional."
"I was the loudest," Sarah announced proudly.
"Volume is definitely a strength," I agreed.
We wandered through the festival together, Sarah running ahead to examine every booth while Emma and I followed at a more reasonable pace. She introduced me to people along the way, smoothing over my awkward pauses with practiced ease.
"Janet, have you met Cole? Sarah's uncle? He's been such a wonderful help with our Saturday tutoring program."
Janet, a woman with aggressively highlighted hair and an expression that suggested she was mentally cataloging this information for later gossip, looked between us with obvious curiosity. "The beekeeper? From up on the ridge?"
"That's me."
"Well." Her gaze sharpened with interest. "How nice that you could make it down from the mountain."
"Cole's wonderful with Sarah," Emma added, her tone perfectly pleasant and completely insistent.
"I'm sure he is," Janet said, in a tone that suggested she wasn't sure at all, but was very interested in learning more.
We escaped toward the pumpkin display, Emma steering us with diplomatic grace.
"You handled that well," she said quietly, once we were out of earshot.
"I didn't handle anything. You did all the handling. I just stood there looking vaguely threatening."
"Teamwork. You provided a stoic presence. I provided words. A perfect division of labor."
"Seems unbalanced."
"Your stoic presence is very valuable. Janet looked genuinely intimidated. She's the head of the PTA, so that's actually quite an accomplishment."
I'd been the subject of town speculation for fifteen years as the reclusive beekeeper on the mountain, the man who'd appeared out of nowhere with a baby niece and no explanation.
I'd grown used to the whispers, the careful distance people kept, the way conversations died when I walked into the hardware store.
Apparently, I'd finally done something interesting enough to warrant updated rumors.
The whispers followed us through the gymnasium like a current.
"...didn't think he even knew how to smile..."
"...her sister died, you know, hiking accident, and now this..."
"...that little girl needs stability, not some..."
I turned my head slightly toward one particularly loud cluster, and the whispers died abruptly. Four women suddenly became very interested in examining apple cider labels.
But the damage was done. I saw Emma's smile become fixed, her laughter arriving a beat too late. She subtly increased the space between us when we passed certain clusters of watchful parents, her hand dropping from where it had been resting near my elbow.
It shouldn't have bothered me. I'd spent fifteen years not caring what people thought.
But watching her dim herself because of me felt like swallowing glass.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly as we examined the pumpkin weigh-in results, Sarah having run off to find her friend Tommy.
"For what?"
"The attention. The gossip. Being associated with the town recluse." I kept my voice low. "You have a reputation here. A career. I shouldn't have—"
"Cole." She cut me off, turning to face me fully. Her expression was fierce, determined. "I'm a grown woman. I can handle a little small-town speculation."
"Still. You shouldn't have to—"
"The town recluse has an excellent taste in pumpkins." She pointed at a massive, lopsided specimen that looked like it had given up on conventional gourd beauty standards. "That one's my favorite. Very characterful."