Chapter 7 - Cade #2
"I'm saying I'm trying to understand." I run a hand through my hair, frustrated by my inability to articulate the complicated tangle of emotions.
"I'm angry that you kept her from me. Hurt that you made that choice without me.
But I'm also trying to see it from your perspective.
You watched me break. You knew what going back to that town would do to me.
And you were pregnant and scared and had to make an impossible choice with no good options. "
"That doesn't make it right," Sierra says quietly.
"No," I agree. "But it makes it human. It makes it understandable, even if I'm not ready to say it was okay."
We sit with that, the tension between us easing slightly. Not gone but softened around the edges.
Ruby comes running over, breathless and pink-cheeked. "Did you see me? I made it all the way across the monkey bars! Twice!"
"We saw," I assure her. "You were amazing."
"Can we see the lake now? Please?" She's bouncing on the balls of her feet, endless energy barely contained.
"Lead the way," Sierra says, standing and brushing off her jeans.
We follow Ruby down the path that winds around the lake. She runs ahead, stopping every few feet to examine something: a pinecone, an interesting rock, a bird she thinks might be a hawk but is probably a crow.
"She's curious about everything," Sierra explains, falling into step beside me. "Always has to touch, investigate, understand how things work."
"That's good," I say. "Curiosity is important."
"It's exhausting is what it is." But Sierra's smiling. "Do you know how many times I've had to explain why the sky is blue? Or where clouds come from? Or why we can't keep every injured animal we find?"
"Sounds like she keeps you on your toes."
"That's one way to put it."
The lake is peaceful, surrounded by pine trees and aspens just starting to bud. There are a few other people out, an elderly couple walking hand in hand, a jogger with headphones, but mostly it's just us.
"I've thought about it," Sierra says suddenly. "Moving here, I mean. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it."
My heart rate picks up. "And?"
"And it's complicated." She stops walking, turning to face me. "My whole life is there, Cade. My job, my house, my parents. Ruby's school, her friends, her soccer team. It's not as simple as just packing up and moving."
"I know." I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her. "But is it impossible?"
"I don't know." She looks genuinely torn. "What about you? Is moving back really that impossible for you?"
The question hits like a punch to the gut, and my instinct is to immediately say yes.
To shut down the conversation before the panic can take hold.
But then I look past Sierra to where Ruby is examining something on the ground, her little face scrunched in concentration, and the words that come out aren't the ones I expected.
"I don't know," I admit quietly.
Sierra's eyes widen slightly. "You don't know?"
"I mean—" I run a hand through my hair, struggling to articulate what I'm feeling. "Everything in me is screaming no. The thought of going back, of driving past those buildings every day, of seeing the memorials, it makes me feel like I can't breathe."
"Then—"
"But," I continue, cutting her off gently, "I also never thought I'd have a daughter.
Never thought I'd meet someone who'd make me reconsider everything I thought I knew about what I could and couldn't handle.
" I look at Ruby, then back at Sierra. "So maybe...
maybe I could consider it. Eventually. I'm not saying yes, and I'm not ready to make any promises.
But I'm not saying it's completely impossible either. "
Sierra's expression shifts through several emotions—surprise, hope, something that might be relief. "Really? You'd actually consider moving back?"
"For Ruby?" I swallow hard. "Yeah. I think I'd have to at least consider it.
I can't ask you to uproot your entire life if I'm not willing to face my past. That's not fair, and it's not—" I pause, searching for the right words.
"It's not the kind of father I want to be.
The kind who asks everyone else to make sacrifices while I hide from hard things. "
"Cade, I don't want you to torture yourself—"
"I know. And I'm not saying I can do it right now.
I'd need time. Probably therapy. More therapy," I correct with a slight grimace.
"I'd need to talk to Dallas, to the crew.
Figure out if I'm even strong enough to try.
" I meet her eyes. "But I'm willing to think about it.
To really think about it, not just dismiss it out of hand. "
Sierra's eyes are bright with tears she's trying to hold back. "That's more than I expected. More than I had any right to ask for."
"You're not asking. I'm offering." I glance at Ruby again, making sure she's still occupied. "Look, I don't know if I can do it. The thought terrifies me. But losing seven more years with Ruby because I'm too afraid to face my demons? That terrifies me more."
"We could take it slow," Sierra says, like she's afraid of pushing too hard. "Maybe you could visit first. Just for a day, see how it feels. See if it's even possible before making any big decisions."
Visit. Go back to the town I fled eight years ago. Walk streets I used to know by heart, see familiar faces, face the ghosts I've been running from.
My chest tightens at the thought, but I force myself to nod. "Yeah. Maybe. That's… That could be a starting point."
"No pressure," Sierra adds quickly. "And if you can't, if it's too much, then we'll figure something else out. Maybe I could move here. Maybe we could find somewhere in between. Maybe—"
"Sierra." I stop her spiral of possibilities. "One step at a time, okay? Let's get through this weekend first. Let me spend time with Ruby, figure out how to be her dad. Then we can tackle the geography problem."
She nods, relief visible in the loosening of her shoulders. "One step at a time."
"Mom! Dad!" Ruby's voice cuts through the moment. She's found a family of ducks at the edge of the lake and is crouched down watching them, utterly delighted. "Come look! There are babies!"
We walk over, the heavy conversation tabled for now. There are four tiny ducklings paddling after their mother, fluffy and yellow and impossibly small.
"They're perfect," Ruby breathes, her eyes wide with wonder.
I crouch down beside her, and Sierra does the same on her other side. The three of us watch the ducks in silence, and for a moment, it's peaceful. Perfect, even. Like we're a real family, not three people trying to figure out how to navigate an impossible situation.
"I wish we could take them home," Ruby sighs.
"They need to stay with their mom," Sierra says gently. "And we'd need a pond."
"Maybe we could get a pond." Ruby looks at me hopefully. "Do you have a pond?"
"No pond," I confirm. "Just a small apartment and a cat who would definitely try to eat the ducklings."
Ruby giggles at that, and the sound makes something in my chest warm.
This. I want this. Not just visits or phone calls, but everyday moments. Watching ducks together. Teaching her to ride a bike. Helping with homework. Being there for all the small, mundane, beautiful pieces that make up a childhood.
Maybe I can't have that here in Blackwater Falls. Not if Sierra's entire support system is three hours away. Not if uprooting Ruby would mean taking her away from her grandparents, her friends, everything she knows.
Which means maybe I need to be the one who moves. The thought still terrifies me. But as I watch Ruby's face light up at the ducklings, as I feel Sierra's presence beside me warm and solid and here, I think maybe it's a terror I could learn to live with.
For them. For this.
Maybe I could go home.
Ruby stands, brushing off her knees. "Can we get ice cream now? You promised ice cream."
"I did promise ice cream," I agree. "But it's only ten in the morning. Maybe we should save it for later?"
"Lunch first," Sierra suggests. "Then ice cream. Deal?"
"Deal," Ruby agrees readily.
We start walking back toward town, Ruby between us, holding both our hands. To anyone watching, we probably look like a normal family—mom, dad, kid on a Saturday morning outing.
But we're not normal, not yet. We're three people trying to build something new, trying to figure out if the pieces of our broken past can somehow fit together into a future.
But as Ruby swings our joined hands and chatters about the ducklings, I feel something I haven't felt in eight years.
Hope. Not certainty. Not confidence that everything will work out perfectly. Just hope that maybe, with time and effort and a willingness to face the things that scare us most, we might be able to make this work.
I glance at Sierra over Ruby's head and find her already looking at me. Our eyes meet, and in that moment, I see my own hope reflected back at me.
We don't have answers yet. We don't even have a plan.
But we have a starting point. A willingness to try. A shared commitment to putting Ruby first, even if it means facing our worst fears.
And maybe, just maybe, that's enough.
For now.