Chapter 7 - Cade
I remembered how she takes her coffee.
The realization hit me at three in the morning when I was lying awake, staring at my ceiling while Scout judged me from her perch on the dresser. Two creams, one sugar. Sierra always said it was the perfect balance—sweet enough to be a treat, bitter enough to still taste like coffee.
I remembered, and I couldn't decide if that made me pathetic or hopeful. Now, watching her wrap her hands around that cup like it's something precious, I'm leaning toward hopeful.
"So where are we going first?" Ruby asks, practically skipping down the sidewalk.
She's holding my hand, just reached out and grabbed it like it's the most natural thing in the world, and I'm trying not to make a big deal about it even though it feels like the most important thing that's ever happened to me.
"I thought we'd start with the park," I say. "It's got a good playground, and there's a trail that loops around the lake. Easy walk, good views. Sound good?"
"Sounds perfect." Sierra's walking on Ruby's other side, and I catch her watching me over Ruby's head.
The morning is cool and clear, the kind of spring day that makes you remember why you live in a place with real seasons. The mountains in the distance are still capped with snow, and the air smells like pine and fresh-cut grass from someone's early lawn maintenance.
We walk the three blocks to Riverside Park, Ruby filling the silence with observations about everything she sees: the vintage movie theater with its art deco marquee, the bookstore with the fat orange cat sleeping in the window, the hardware store with garden supplies spilling onto the sidewalk.
"It's bigger than home," she announces. "But in a good way. Like everyone probably still knows everyone."
"They pretty much do," I confirm. "Which means everyone will definitely know about you by the end of the day. Small town news travels fast."
"Will they be nice about it?" Sierra asks quietly, and I hear the worry underneath.
"Yeah." I'm certain of this. "Blackwater Falls is a good town. Good people. They'll be curious but not mean."
We reach the park and Ruby gasps. It's a pretty impressive setup for a small town: a modern playground with climbing structures and slides, a splash pad (currently off for the season), picnic areas, and beyond it all, the lake glittering in the morning sun.
"Can I go play?" Ruby is already tugging toward the playground.
"Go ahead," Sierra says. "Stay where we can see you."
Ruby takes off, making a beeline for the climbing structure, and suddenly it's just Sierra and me, standing side by side, watching our daughter scale a rope ladder with more confidence than seems wise.
"She's fearless," I observe, my chest tight with a mixture of pride and terror. "You weren't kidding about that."
"She keeps me up at night." Sierra takes a sip of her coffee. "Every time she climbs something or tries something new, I have a minor heart attack."
"I'm not like that anymore, you know?"
Sierra glances at me. "Aren't you? You run into burning buildings for a living, Cade."
"That's different. That's calculated risk. Training and protocol and—" I stop, realizing she's got a point. "Okay, maybe I'm still a little like that."
"More than a little." There's something almost fond in her voice. "Ruby asked me once why I won't let her join the rock climbing team, and I didn't know how to explain that it's because she'd be too good at it. That she'd push herself too hard, climb too high, and I'd die from stress."
I watch Ruby hang upside down from a bar, her ponytail brushing the ground, completely unconcerned about the fact that she's defying gravity. "Did you end up letting her join?"
"Not yet. But I'm weakening." Sierra sighs. "She's very persuasive when she wants something."
"Wonder where she gets that from."
"Definitely you." Sierra's smile is small but genuine. "I was never good at arguing for what I wanted."
Is she talking about Ruby? About not telling me? Or about something else? About us, about how she let me leave without fighting for our relationship?
We drift toward a bench with a good view of the playground equipment, sitting down with space between us. Ruby's found another little girl to play with, and they're taking turns on the slide, their laughter carrying across the morning air.
"She makes friends easily," I observe.
"Always has." Sierra's watching Ruby with that soft expression mothers get, the one that's equal parts love and protective anxiety.
"First day of kindergarten, I was terrified she'd be scared or lonely.
She walked into that classroom and within five minutes had organized a game of tag with three other kids. "
"Natural leader."
"Bossy is what her teacher said." But Sierra's smiling. "In the nicest possible way."
I want to know everything. Every first day of school, every scraped knee, every triumph and setback. Seven years of moments I missed, and I'm greedy for all of them.
"Tell me about her," I say. "Everything. I want to know everything."
Sierra turns to look at me, surprise flickering across her face. "Everything? That's a lot of years to cover."
"I've got time." I lean back against the bench. "We've got all morning. All weekend. And I—" My throat tightens. "I need to know. Need to understand who she is, how she got to be this amazing kid."
Sierra's quiet for a moment, then starts talking. She tells me about Ruby's birth—thirty-six hours of labor, stubborn even then, coming into the world screaming with indignation. About the first time Ruby laughed, really laughed, at four months old when Sierra's father made ridiculous faces at her.
She tells me about Ruby's first steps, taken at eleven months while reaching for the family cat.
About the time Ruby decided to give herself a haircut at age three and ended up with choppy bangs that took six months to grow out.
About Ruby's obsession with dinosaurs at age four, how she could name every species and correct adults who got the details wrong.
I listen to all of it, my chest aching. Joy at learning about my daughter, grief at all the moments I wasn't there to witness.
"Her first day of first grade," Sierra continues, "she wore this dress with puppies all over it. Insisted on it, wouldn't wear anything else. And she took her favorite stuffed animal, Mr. Trunk, the elephant, in her backpack. For moral support, she said."
"Mr. Trunk," I repeat, remembering the elephant from yesterday. "He looked well-loved."
"She's had him since she was six months old. My mom bought him." Sierra's smile is bittersweet. "Mom said every kid needs something to hold onto when things get scary. Ruby's barely let him out of her sight since."
"Your parents," I say. "They helped you a lot? After I left?"
"They were incredible." Sierra's voice is thick with emotion. "When I told them I was pregnant, that you didn't know, they didn't judge. They just… They stepped up. Dad built the crib, painted Ruby's room. Mom came to every doctor's appointment. They were both there when she was born."
The image forms in my mind. Sierra in a hospital bed, scared and alone except for her parents, bringing our daughter into the world without me. The guilt is overwhelming.
"I should have been there," I say quietly.
"You didn't know." But there's no absolution in her voice, just fact.
"Because you didn't tell me."
Sierra flinches but doesn't look away. "Yes. Because I didn't tell you."
We watch Ruby in silence for a moment. She's climbing the rope ladder again, determined to reach the top of the structure. I can see Sierra tense beside me, every muscle coiled like she's ready to sprint over there and catch Ruby if she falls.
"I need to ask you something," I say finally. "And I need you to be honest."
"Okay." Sierra's hands are wrapped tight around her coffee cup.
"After the fire, when I was… When I was falling apart did you think about leaving me?"
She's quiet for so long I think she's not going to answer. Then, "Every day."
The honesty of it stings, but I asked for truth.
"Why didn't you?"
"Because I loved you." She says it simply. "Because I kept thinking you'd get better, that we'd get through it together. Because leaving someone when they're drowning felt like giving up."
"But eventually, you let me go."
"Eventually," she agrees softly, "I realized that sometimes loving someone means letting them save themselves. That I couldn't fix you, couldn't make the nightmares stop or the guilt go away. You needed to do that on your own."
"And then you found out you were pregnant."
"And then I found out I was pregnant." She turns to look at me fully now, her brown eyes searching my face. "And I had to make a choice, Cade. Keep you tied to me and to a town that was killing you, force you into fatherhood when you were barely surviving, or—"
"Or make the decision for me." I finish the sentence, and there's an edge to my voice I can't quite control.
"Yes," she admits. "Or make the decision for both of us."
"Was it the right decision?" I ask, genuinely curious about her answer.
Sierra looks back at Ruby, who's now teaching her new friend how to do the monkey bars.
"I thought so at the time. Now? I don't know.
I look at her and see how much she's like you, how much she needs you already after just one day, and I think—" Her voice breaks.
"I think maybe I was wrong. Maybe I underestimated you.
Maybe I underestimated what you could have become if you'd known about her. "
"Or maybe," I say slowly, working through the thought as I speak, "you were right.
Maybe if I'd known seven years ago, when I was barely functional, I would have come back out of obligation.
Would have tried to be a father when I couldn't even take care of myself.
And maybe that would have been worse for everyone. "
Sierra looks at me sharply. "What are you saying?"