Chapter 22 #2
I set the food on the table, added the bread I had almost forgotten, and poured tea into two glasses.
Sunshine had brought flowers from Harbor House—yellow daisies and sprigs of lavender wrapped in brown paper.
She found a jar beneath the sink and arranged them in the center without asking whether she should.
The flowers made the kitchen look different. No, not different. Finished. That thought unsettled me enough that I focused on cutting the chicken.
Sunshine sat across from me.
For several minutes, conversation remained safely ordinary.
Harbor House needed more children’s shoes.
Bishop had convinced Mr. Dawson to attend physical therapy by promising to lose intentionally at checkers afterward.
Mace had been banned from repairing a lawnmower near the greenhouse.
Charlie had told her daycare teacher that Remedy was a doctor for motorcycles and people.
“I am not a doctor,” I said.
“She knows that.”
“Apparently not.”
“She also told everyone Mr. Pickles fought a tiger behind the grocery store.”
“That happened.”
Sunshine smiled over her glass.
“You encourage her.”
“I provide a supportive environment.”
“You confirm every impossible thing she says.”
“Children deserve adults who respect their experiences.”
“Even the tiger?”
“Especially the tiger.”
We ate and I watched Sunshine take her first bite.
Her eyes closed briefly—not dramatically, just long enough for me to notice.
“This is good,” she said.
“Actually good?”
“Very.”
“Daisy gave me instructions.”
“Of course she did.”
“Six pages.”
“That sounds short for Daisy.”
“She included diagrams.”
Sunshine laughed again.
I found myself relaxing with every minute that passed. There were no distractions like radios or emergency phone calls. There was no little voice asking for more syrup and no brothers were coming through the door without knocking.
Only Sunshine across from me, candlelight catching in her hair as evening slowly deepened beyond the windows.
I had forgotten adults could choose quiet.
Most of my life had been built around responding. Someone needed help, and I went. Someone hurt, and I fixed what I could. Someone became frightened, and I stayed until the fear loosened.
Tonight no one required anything from me.
Sunshine had come because she wanted to.
That knowledge made me more nervous than any emergency.
After dinner, she stood to help clear the table.
“You’re a guest.”
“I know how dishes work.”
“I cooked.”
“And I watched you use every pan in the house.”
“It was a complicated operation.”
“You roasted vegetables.”
“There were several stages.”
Sunshine carried both plates to the sink.
I reached for them.
Our hands touched.
Neither of us moved immediately.
Her fingers remained beneath mine, warm and still.
Then she looked up.
The kitchen suddenly seemed smaller.
“I can wash,” she said softly.
“I can dry.”
“That feels suspiciously domestic.”
I held her gaze.
“Does that bother you?”
The question changed something.
Her smile faded, not from discomfort but thought.
“No.”
She turned toward the sink.
“Not anymore.”
We washed dishes together.
Sunshine handled the soap while I dried and placed everything back where it belonged. When she found Charlie’s plastic tea cup beside the sink, she rinsed it carefully and set it upside down on the towel.
“She’ll want that tomorrow,” she said.
“For Mr. Pickles.”
“Obviously.”
I leaned against the counter after we finished.
Sunshine dried her hands.
The house had grown completely dark beyond the kitchen except for the porch light shining through the back window.
“You want to sit outside?”
“Yes.”
I carried our tea to the porch.
The old wooden steps still held warmth from the day, but the night air had cooled enough to make the breeze pleasant. Crickets sang from the grass. Fireflies drifted above the garden in scattered flashes, appearing and disappearing between the trees.
Sunshine sat beside me on the porch swing.
Not too close.
Not far away.
The chain creaked softly as we began moving.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Quiet between us had stopped feeling empty weeks ago.
It had become another language, built from shared glances, shoulders brushing, cups of coffee left beside tired hands, and all the moments Charlie had pulled us together without understanding adults often needed permission to want what children accepted immediately.
Sunshine looked toward the yard.
“I used to imagine what freedom would sound like.”
“What did you think?”
“Loud.”
I waited.
“I thought it would be doors slamming open. Cars leaving fast. People shouting that we were safe.” She folded both hands around her glass. “I didn’t know freedom could sound like dishes being washed after dinner.”
I looked toward the kitchen window.
“Or Charlie arguing with a shoe.”
Sunshine smiled.
“That too.”
The swing moved slowly.
“Are you worried about tonight?” I asked.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the glass.
“About being here?”
“About us.”
She took time before answering.
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
That surprised her.
“You don’t seem nervous.”
“I reorganized the spice cabinet twice.”
She laughed softly.
“I thought it looked unusually neat.”
“I considered alphabetizing it.”
“That’s serious.”
“I stopped at cinnamon.”
Her laughter faded into a gentle smile.
“What are you afraid of?”
There were several answers.
Hurting her.
Moving too quickly.
Giving Charlie something she might lose.
Wanting more than Sunshine could offer.
Discovering I had built hope around a person who had every right to choose a different future.
I selected the truest one.
“That this matters too much.”
Sunshine looked down at her hands.
“It matters to me too.”
The words eased something and tightened something else.
I set my glass on the porch rail.
“After Brooke left, I stopped thinking about this part.”
“What part?”
“Letting someone into the house when Charlie wasn’t here. Cooking dinner because I wanted to impress her. Sitting outside wondering whether I should kiss her.”
Sunshine’s breath caught faintly.
“I thought about relationships sometimes,” I continued. “But they stayed theoretical. Easier that way.”
“Because of Charlie?”
“Because of both of us.”
She waited.
“I could survive another relationship ending,” I said. “I’ve survived worse. But Charlie doesn’t know how to separate people from permanence yet. If she loves someone, she assumes they stay.”
Sunshine’s eyes shone in the porch light.
“She already loves me.”
“Yes.”
The answer came without hesitation. Sunshine looked toward the fireflies.
“I love her too.”
My chest tightened.
She did not say it dramatically.
That made it more powerful.
“She makes it impossible not to,” Sunshine continued. “She gives away her prizes. She believes bears need breakfast. She thinks kissing injuries is medicine.”
“It often works.”
“She trusts so completely.”
“She trusts you.”
“I know.”
Fear entered the words.
Not rejection.
Responsibility.
Sunshine drew one slow breath.
“I don’t want you thinking I’m trying to take Brooke’s place.”
I turned toward her.
“I don’t.”
“Charlie has a mother.”
“She has Brooke.”
The distinction sat heavily between us.
“I would never tell her Brooke didn’t matter,” Sunshine said.
“Neither would I.”
“And if Brooke comes back someday…”
The sentence remained unfinished.
I knew what she meant.
Sunshine would move aside.
Not because she wanted to.
Because some part of her still believed love belonged first to people with biological claims.
I shifted closer.
“Brooke being Charlie’s mother does not require you to disappear.”
Sunshine looked at me.
“She may not see it that way.”
“Then she’ll have to learn.”
The certainty in my voice surprised both of us.
I continued more quietly.
“I’m not asking you to replace anyone. I’m asking whether you want to build something new with us.”
Her lips parted.
“With both of you.”
“There is no version of me without Charlie.”
“I know.”
“Most women would hear that as a warning.”
“I hear it as truth.”
I studied her face.
“You would never come second to Charlie.”
“I would never ask to come first.”
“That doesn’t mean you matter less.”
Sunshine’s eyes filled.
I reached for her hand slowly enough that she could pull away.
She did not.
Her fingers settled inside mine.
“I don’t know what all of this looks like,” she whispered.
“Neither do I.”
“I’ve never had a normal relationship.”
“I’m not sure the club provides those.”
A small laugh escaped her.
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
The humor faded.
“I don’t know how to be what Charlie might need,” she said.
“You already are.”
“You make that sound simple.”
“It isn’t.” I rubbed my thumb across her knuckles. “You show up. You listen. You let her be loud. You tell her no when she tries feeding cookies to the dog. You remember which cup she wants and which song helps when she’s scared. That’s most of it.”
“And the rest?”
“You learn while failing.”
“That’s comforting.”
“It’s true.”
She looked at our joined hands.
“What if I make mistakes?”
“You will.”
Sunshine glanced up sharply.
“So, will I. So will Charlie. Families aren’t people who never hurt each other. They’re people who keep returning to the table afterward.”
Her expression changed.
Something softened.
Something opened.
“The Order taught us mistakes meant punishment,” she said.
“I know.”
“And leaving was the only way to escape punishment.”
“You aren’t there anymore.”
“No.”
“You can make mistakes here.”
Her fingers tightened around mine.
“And stay?”
“Yes.”
The single word seemed to move through her.
She had spent years believing staying meant captivity.
I wanted to show her it could also mean choice.
“I want that,” she whispered.
“What?”
“To stay.”
The porch disappeared around us.
There was only Sunshine, her hand in mine, and the quiet certainty that something we had approached carefully for months had finally reached the place where caution could become trust.
I lifted my free hand toward her face.
“Can I kiss you?”
She nodded.
“Yes.”
I touched her cheek first.
Warm skin.
Soft breath.
Eyes that did not close until I leaned closer.
The kiss began gently.