Chapter 14 Serena
The return to regular life after our storm bubble felt like surfacing from deep water—disorienting and slightly painful.
The roads had cleared, school had resumed, and suddenly I was back to being Miss Voss, the inclusion specialist, instead of just Serena who made breakfast and built blanket forts.
"If the noise gets too big, what do we do?" I asked Timothy, my second-grader with sensory processing issues, while we sat in the calm-down corner I'd built with yoga mats and fairy lights.
"Turtle breathing," he demonstrated, sucking air through his nose. "But Miss Voss, how come Finn Wilder gets to see you all the time? My sister says you live in his house now. Like, live live."
Nothing traveled faster than elementary school gossip except maybe elementary school germs.
"I'm temporarily staying there because a tree fell on my home," I explained, adjusting his weighted shoulder wrap. "Like camping, but with better wifi."
"My mom saw you at the grocery store with them," Sophie piped up from her reading nook, apparently eavesdropping while pretending to read about dinosaurs. "She told my aunt you looked like a family. Then she said a bad word about how hot Finn's dad is."
"OKAY, who wants to help me reorganize the feeling cards?" I interrupted desperately.
The day continued with similar comments from students, raised eyebrows from colleagues, and one particularly uncomfortable conversation with Principal Harrison, who managed to mention three times that he was single and "understood how difficult displacement could be."
By the time I picked up Finn from the elementary wing and we headed back to Brad's home—when had I started thinking of it as home?—I was exhausted from navigating the sudden scrutiny.
Brad was attempting one-legged squats when we got home—because apparently professional athletes couldn't just ice and elevate like normal humans—his face twisted in concentration and pain.
"Daddy's trying to hurt himself again," Finn announced cheerfully, dropping his backpack like a bomb. "Also everyone at school wants to know if Miss Serena is my bonus mom yet."
Brad nearly fell over. "Your what now?"
"Matthew says when adults live together and make breakfast and do bedtime stories that's basically married but without the kissing part." Finn paused thoughtfully. "Unless you do kiss. Do you kiss?"
"No," we said in perfect, damning unison.
"You should practice. Matthew's mom practices with her husband."
"Hey buddy, why don't you—" Brad started.
"Oh! And Mrs. Perry asked if you were 'emotionally available.'" Finn made air quotes. "And I said I didn't know what that meant but you cry sometimes during animated movies so probably yes?"
"Kill me," Brad muttered.
"That's enough news from school," I intervened. "Homework time."
"But I haven't told you about lunch when Jayden's mom asked if Dad was still single—"
"HOMEWORK," Brad and I shouted together.
Finn grinned, pure seven-year-old mischief. "You two are funny when you're embarrassed. Your faces match."
He skipped off to his room, leaving Brad and me in the ruins of our dignity.
"So," Brad said eventually. "Good day at school?"
"Your fan club sends their regards. Specifically, their phone numbers, measurements, and a disturbing number of casseroles."
"Casseroles?"
"Apparently nothing says 'I want to date you' like a tuna noodle surprise."
He laughed, then winced as his knee protested. "And how's Principal Harrison? Still 'emotionally available'?"
"Stop it."
"Hey, you started it with the fan club comment." He adjusted the ice pack, watching me with an expression I couldn't read. "Though I notice you didn't give anyone your number."
"How would you know?"
"Finn reports everything. He's basically a seven-year-old surveillance system."
As if summoned, Finn's voice drifted from his room: "I can hear you talking about me! Also, Miss Serena, your mom called while you were in the bathroom but I told her you were busy falling in love!"
I was going to have to join witness protection.
"Just to clarify," Brad said, his grin widening, "which one of us are you falling in love with? Me or my disaster of a son?"
"The dog," I said. "Once you get one. I'm definitely falling in love with the future dog."
"So you're planning on being around for the future dog?"
The question hung between us, loaded with subtext and possibility.
"That depends," I said carefully. "On how long it takes to get one."
"Could be months. Years, even. Very hard to find the right dog."
"Then I guess I'd better get comfortable."
We looked at each other across the living room, the word 'temporary' slowly dying between us, even as neither of us was brave enough to bury it completely.
From his room, Finn called out: "If you guys are done being weird, can someone help me with math? And maybe explain what 'emotionally available' means? I want to use it in a sentence tomorrow!"
That evening, I implemented new programs at Brad's dining table, creating adaptive worksheets for my students with various challenges. Brad had set up camp beside me, allegedly reviewing game footage but actually watching me work with the intensity usually reserved for playoff analysis.
"This is genius," he said, picking up my emotion regulation chart for autistic students—a masterpiece of faces ranging from 'volcanic meltdown' to 'suspiciously calm.' "You've basically created a roadmap for human feelings."
"Some kids need GPS for emotions. Others need a full topographical map with elevation markers."
"Which one am I?"
"You're more of a 'refuses to ask for directions and ends up in emotional Nebraska' type."
He laughed, low and warm. "And you're what, exactly?"
"A disaster with good intentions and a laminating addiction."
"You're changing lives." His voice went serious in that way that made my chest tight. "These kids, they're lucky to have you."
Before I could deflect with humor, my phone erupted with Maria's ringtone.
Her face materialized on screen, predatory grin already in place. "Speaker. Now. I need to address the room."
"Maria, we're working—"
"SPEAKER, Serena, or I'm telling Brad about Vegas."
I stabbed the speaker button like it had personally wronged me. "You're on speaker."
"Excellent. Bradley, you beautiful catastrophe, can you hear me?"
"Unfortunately," Brad said, but he was smiling.
"Perfect. Item one: Theo is a menace to society and I might marry him. We've been sexting via hockey metaphors and I'm uncomfortably turned on by penalty box references."
"MARIA."
"Item two: You two idiots need to stop pretending you're not basically married already. I've seen actual married couples with less domestic synchronicity."
"We're roommates," I said desperately.
"Temporary roommates," Brad added, like that helped.
"Right. Temporary roommates who share meals, raise a child, and eye-fuck across the dinner table while discussing adaptive learning. Very platonic. Much temporary."
"Maria, I swear to God—"
"Item three: Dinner party. Saturday. Seven sharp.
Theo's handling wine because apparently he knows a guy who knows a guy who robbed a vineyard or something equally ridiculous.
Finn's invited for appetizers, then Brad’s teammate—the one who looks like a golden retriever—will babysit so we can have adult conversation.
And by adult conversation, I mean wine and interrogation. "
"Maria!"
"Serena, wear that black dress that makes your tits look phenomenal. Brad, Theo says you own one shirt that doesn't have a team logo on it—wear that."
"This is harassment," I protested.
"It's an intervention disguised as dinner. Very different." I could hear her smile through the phone. "Brad, fair warning—I'm going to ask about your intentions with my best friend after exactly two drinks. Pace yourself accordingly."
"Noted," Brad said dryly.
"Oh, and Patricia called Theo seventeen times asking about Brad's availability. He told her Brad was in a committed relationship with someone who 'makes him smile like he just won the Stanley Cup.'"
My face burned. Brad's ears went pink.
"That's... specific," Brad managed.
"Theo's a romantic wrapped in the body of a chaos demon. You're welcome. See you Saturday!"
She hung up before we could protest further.
Brad's phone immediately buzzed with what I could only assume was Theo's follow-up chaos. He read it, then laughed—an actual, full laugh that transformed his whole face.
"What?"
He turned the screen toward me. Theo's text read: Patricia showed up at the rink in a dress cut down to her navel.
I told her you were taken by a teacher who makes you act like a teenager with his first crush.
She threw a clipboard at me. Worth it. Also, dinner Saturday is mandatory or I'm telling the entire team that you sometimes cry while watching animated films.
"He wouldn't," I gasped.
"He absolutely would. Last month Finn told Coach that I practice my 'serious hockey face' in the bathroom mirror and once got stuck making it for so long that I missed the first period of a game."
"Wait, what?"
"I was working on my intimidation look. I may have gotten... overfocused." Brad rubbed his face. "Coach brings it up every time I frown now. Asks if I'm having a 'mirror moment.'"
"That's... actually adorable."
"We don't have to go," Brad offered, but his conviction was weak.
"Maria will storm the house. She has a key."
"When did you give her—"
"I didn't. She had one made. Something about 'emergency intervention privileges.'"
"Your friend is terrifying."
"Together they might actually break reality."
From upstairs, Finn's voice drifted down: "If you guys are done, can someone help me with my homework?"
"Also," Finn continued, "Matthew says if you wait too long to tell someone you like them, they might find someone else who's not scared."
Brad and I exchanged a look that said everything.
"That kid, Matthew, has it all figured out," Brad muttered, shaking his head.
"Way ahead of his years," I agreed
Later, as I helped Finn with homework while Brad cooked dinner—we'd fallen into this routine without discussion. Finn’s explanation about the water cycle turned into a story about how Miss Serena was like rain for their house.
"So, condensation is like when the water gets cold and huddles together?" Finn asked, drawing clouds that looked suspiciously like dinosaurs.
"Exactly."
"Oh! Like how our house was all cold and spread out before you came." He kept drawing, oblivious to the grenade he'd just lobbed. "Dad was in his room, I was in mine, everything was quiet. Then you showed up and now we all huddle together. Like condensation!"
Brad's knife went still against the cutting board. A carrot rolled onto the floor, forgotten.
"We're like a water cycle family," Finn continued, adding stick figures to his dinosaur clouds. "You're the rain that made things not dead anymore."
"That's—" I started.
"True," Finn interrupted with seven-year-old certainty. "Dad laughs at your jokes even when they're not funny."
Brad made a sound like he'd been punched.
"And we have pancake traditions now! And inside jokes! And Dad doesn't just stare at the TV anymore pretending to watch when it's not even on."
"Finn, buddy, go wash up," Brad managed, his voice scraped raw.
"But I'm explaining important science—"
"Go."
Finn huffed but complied, leaving Brad and me alone with the echo of truth delivered in crayon-stained fingers.
"He's not wrong," Brad said to the cutting board.
"Brad—"
"This feels real." He turned, and the look on his face made my chest crack open. "More real than anything since—" He stopped. Started again. "You made us a family again. Not a memorial. A family."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying Maria's right. Theo's right. Hell, even Finn's right." He stepped closer, still holding the knife like he'd forgotten it existed. "Stay."
"My cabin—"
"Fuck your cabin." The profanity shocked us both. "Sorry. I mean—don't go back. Even when it's fixed. Stay here. With us."
"Are you asking me to—"
"I'm asking you to think about it. About staying. Permanently."
Before I could respond, his phone rang. The caller ID showed his lawyer's name.
His face went from vulnerable to ashen in three seconds. "What do you mean they filed?"
My stomach dropped to the basement.
"Unstable environment." His knuckles went white around the phone. "Unvetted caregiver with unrestricted access. Career prioritization. Emotional neglect." Each accusation hit like a slap. "They've been documenting since the gala? They hired a private investigator?"
Sarah's parents. The vultures had finally descended.
He hung up looking like someone had killed his dog, burned down his house, and canceled hockey simultaneously.
"They want Finn." The words came out broken. "They're saying I'm unfit. That you're—" He stopped.
"That I'm what?"
"A liability. An unknown element. They have photos of us from the gala, apparently. The kiss."
Oh God.
"Brad—"
"I can't lose him." His control shattered completely. "He's all I have left of her, but more than that, he's FINN. He's my kid. I can't—"
I crossed to him, pulled the knife from his hand, set it down. Took his face in my hands.
"Listen to me. You are not losing him."
"They have money. Lawyers. They're his grandparents—"
"And you're his DAD—the one who knows he needs his toast cut diagonally, who reads him stories in different voices, who lets him explain dinosaur facts for forty-five minutes straight."
"But—"
"No. We're going to fight this. Together."
"We?"
"We," I confirmed. "Whatever you need. Character witnesses, stable home environment, proof of Finn's wellbeing—whatever it takes."
"This could get ugly. Public. They have resources—"
"So do we. The team, the school, everyone who's seen how you are with Finn. How happy he is."
Brad pulled me against him, holding on like I was an anchor in a storm.
"I can't do this alone," he admitted against my hair.
"Good thing you're not alone."
Finn chose that moment to return. "Are we having a group hug? I love group hugs!"
We pulled him into our embrace, this little boy who'd become the center of everything.
"Dad? Miss Serena? Is everything okay?"
Brad met my eyes over Finn's head, a silent conversation passing between us.
"Everything's going to be fine," I said, making it a promise.
"Better than fine," Brad added.
And standing there in the kitchen, holding the Wilder men who'd somehow become my whole world, I believed it. Whatever came next—custody battles, cabin repairs, complicated futures—we'd face it together.
Because sometime between the storm and now, 'temporary' had become 'forever' without any of us noticing.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.