Chapter 4 - Sierra #2
"With fairy lights!" Ruby adds. "Mom helped me hang them. They're solar powered, so they charge during the day and glow at night."
"That sounds really nice," Cade says, and I can see him trying to picture it. Trying to imagine the life we've built without him. "I'd like to see it sometime. If… If that's okay."
He's looking at me again, asking permission, and I realize this is going to be our new normal. Negotiating. Asking. Figuring out how to co-parent a child we've never parented together.
"Of course," I say, even though the thought of Cade in my space, seeing how we live, terrifies me. "You're welcome anytime."
"Really?" Ruby's eyes go wide. "You could come for taco Tuesday! And meet all my stuffed animals! I have forty-three of them. Well, forty-four if you count the one that's missing an ear, but Mom says we should probably donate that one because I don't play with it anymore."
"Forty-three stuffed animals." Cade's eyebrows rise. "That's... quite a collection."
"I know. Grandma and Grandpa keep buying me more even though Mom says our house is turning into a zoo.
" Ruby pauses, chocolate on her chin now.
"Oh! Do you want to meet Grandma and Grandpa?
They're Mom's parents. They're really nice.
Grandpa tells terrible jokes and Grandma makes cookies every Sunday. "
Cade goes still, his mug halfway to his mouth. Meeting my parents. That's a big step, a declaration that this is real, that he's going to be part of Ruby's life in a meaningful way.
"I—" He looks at me, and I can see the uncertainty there. "Would they want to meet me? After everything?"
"They've been asking about you for seven years," I admit. "They think you deserve to know Ruby. They always have. This was my decision, not theirs."
"Then yeah. I'd like to meet them. If they'll have me."
"They will." I'm certain of this. My parents loved Cade when we were together, were devastated when he left. They'll welcome him back, for Ruby's sake if nothing else.
Ruby is vibrating with excitement now, talking a mile a minute about all the people Cade needs to meet: her grandparents, her best friend Mia from school, her soccer coach, the librarian who always saves the new animal books for her.
I watch Cade take it all in, his expression shifting from overwhelmed to something softer. He's leaning forward now, engaged, asking follow-up questions, genuinely interested in every detail of Ruby's life.
This is what I robbed him of. Seven years of this. Seven years of watching her grow, of being part of her world, of her being part of his.
The guilt is overwhelming, pressing down on my chest until I can barely breathe.
"I need to—" I stand abruptly, grabbing my purse. "Restroom. I'll be right back."
I don't wait for a response, just flee toward the back where a discreet sign points to the bathrooms. I lock myself in a stall and press my hands against my face, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill over.
What am I doing? What have I done?
Ruby's happy. She's so happy, sitting there with her father, learning about him, sharing her world with him. And Cade, despite his shock, despite his anger, is trying. Really trying.
But I've seen the way he looks at me when Ruby isn't watching. The hurt. The betrayal. The questions he's not asking because our daughter is present.
I took this from him. I made the choice alone, decided what was best for everyone without giving him a say, and now I have to live with that decision every time I see that look in his eyes.
Someone knocks on the stall door, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
"Occupied," I call out, my voice shaky.
"Sierra? It's me."
Cade. Of course it's Cade.
I unlock the stall, stepping out to find him standing there, looking deeply uncomfortable to be in the women's restroom but determined nonetheless.
"Ruby's fine," he says immediately. "She's finishing her croissant. I told her you weren't feeling well, and I wanted to check on you."
"I'm fine." The lie is automatic, unconvincing.
"You're crying."
"I'm not—" But I am. I touch my face and my fingers come away wet. "Okay, yes. I'm crying."
Cade takes a step closer, and I see him war with himself: wanting to comfort me but not sure if he's allowed, if we're past that, if touching me would be crossing a line we can't uncross.
"This is a lot," he says finally. "For both of us. You don't have to pretend it's not."
"I don't have the right to fall apart." The words burst out of me, raw and honest. "I did this. I made this choice. I don't get to be overwhelmed or scared or—" My voice breaks. "I don't get to need comfort from you when I'm the one who hurt you."
"Sierra…"
"She's so happy, Cade." I'm really crying now, seven years of guilt and fear and loneliness pouring out. "She's so happy to meet you, and you're being so good with her, and all I can think about is how I stole this from you. Seven years. I can't give those back. I can't fix this."
"No," he says quietly. "You can't."
The words hurt, even though they're true. Especially because they're true.
"But," he continues, and his hand comes up, hovering near my shoulder before finally, gently, making contact. "We can move forward. We can figure out what comes next. Together this time."
I look up at him through my tears, and his blue eyes—Ruby's eyes—are softer than they were in the conference room. Still hurt, still processing, but softer.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper. "I'm so, so sorry."
"I know." His thumb moves in a small circle on my shoulder, a gesture so familiar it makes my heart ache. "I know you are. And I'm angry, hurt, and confused as hell. But Ruby… She's amazing, Sierra. And you did that. You raised an amazing kid all on your own."
"Not all on my own. My parents helped. And the guys from the old station, they—"
"But mostly you." His hand drops away, and I immediately miss the warmth of it. "So yeah, I'm angry. But I'm also… I'm grateful. That you did such a good job. That she's happy and healthy and fearless."
"She gets the fearless from you," I say again, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.
"Maybe." A small smile tugs at his mouth. "Come on. Ruby's probably wondering if we both fell in."
I follow him out of the restroom, fully aware that we just had a deeply personal conversation in a café bathroom and that I probably look like a disaster.
But when we get back to the table, Ruby just looks up and smiles, chocolate around her mouth and joy in her eyes.
"Better?" she asks me, and I nod.
"Better."
"Good. Because Dad was just telling me about the time, he rescued a cat from a tree, and it scratched him so bad that he needed stitches."
Dad. She keeps calling him dad so easily, like the word has been waiting her whole life to be used.
And maybe it has.
Maybe we both have.