Chapter 6 – Hugh
I wake before dawn, as I always do. Years of early mornings have programmed my body to rise with the first hint of light creeping through the curtains. But today is different. Today, I'm not alone.
Carrie sleeps beside me, her blonde hair spread across my pillow like spilled sunshine. One hand is tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting lightly on my chest. Her breathing is deep and even, her face relaxed in sleep in a way it never quite is when she's awake.
I should get up. I should check on Aria, start the coffee, keep some distance. But I can't bring myself to move, to break this fragile peace. Instead, I lie still, listening to Carrie's breathing and the distant calls of birds greeting the morning.
What the hell am I doing? This wasn't supposed to happen. I've spent the last six years building walls, creating a life that's predictable and safe. A life where Aria doesn't have to worry about people coming and going, where she doesn't have to face the kind of loss that marked her early years.
But Carrie slipped past those defenses like they were nothing. One minute I was helping a neighbor during a storm, the next I was kissing her in the rain, and now here we are, tangled in my sheets with her scent on my skin and my heart beating an unfamiliar rhythm in my chest.
Beside me, Carrie stirs, her eyelids fluttering as she drifts toward wakefulness. I hold my breath, suddenly unsure. Will she regret what happened between us? Will the morning light reveal doubts that the darkness concealed?
Her eyes open, bluer than I remembered, and for a moment she seems disoriented. Then her gaze finds mine, and a slow smile spreads across her face.
"Hi," she says, her voice husky with sleep.
"Morning," I reply, my own voice rougher than usual.
She stretches slightly, wincing as she does. "I'm a little sore," she admits with a faint blush.
Concern flares in my chest. "I hurt you."
"No." Her hand finds mine, squeezing gently. "It's a good kind of sore. Like after a long hike or a day of painting. A reminder of something worthwhile."
I don't know what to say to that, so I just squeeze her hand in return. We lie in silence for a few minutes, neither of us quite ready to break the spell of the morning.
"What time is it?" she finally asks.
"Early. Just after six."
She props herself up on one elbow, looking toward the window where golden light filters through the curtains. "The storm's passed."
"Looks like it." I follow her gaze, noting the clear sky visible through the gap in the drapes. "We should be able to get a better look at your cabin today. See what needs to be done."
"Yeah." Something in her tone makes me look back at her. She's biting her lower lip, a crease between her brows.
"What is it?" I ask.
"Are we going to talk about what happened last night?" Her voice is quiet but direct. "Or are we just going to pretend it didn't happen?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with implication. The old Hugh—the one who's spent years keeping people at arm's length—would deflect, minimize, retreat. But I find I can't do that with Carrie. Not after what we shared.
"I don't want to pretend it didn't happen," I say carefully. "But I don't know what happens next."
Her eyes search mine. "Neither do I. But I'd like to find out."
Before I can respond, the sound of small feet pattering down the hallway reaches us. Aria. I sit up quickly, pulling the sheet around my waist just as a knock sounds at the door.
"Dad?" Aria calls. "Are you awake?"
"Yeah, kiddo," I answer, trying to keep my voice normal. "Give me a minute, okay? I'll be right out."
"Okay!" Her footsteps retreat, and I exhale slowly.
Carrie sits up beside me, clutching the sheet to her chest. "I should get dressed," she says, glancing around for her discarded clothes.
I nod, suddenly awkward in a way I wasn't just moments ago. "Bathroom's all yours if you want to shower."
"Thanks." She hesitates, then leans over and presses a quick kiss to my cheek before slipping out of bed, wrapping the sheet around her as she gathers her things.
Once she's disappeared into the bathroom, I dress quickly and head to the kitchen. Aria is already there, pouring cereal into a bowl with the careful concentration only an seven-year-old can bring to such a task.
"Morning, bug," I say, ruffling her hair as I pass.
She grins up at me. "Morning! Is Carrie still here?"
I pause in the act of reaching for the coffee filters. "Yeah, she is. Is that okay with you?"
Aria nods enthusiastically. "I like her. She's pretty, and she knows all about drawing unicorns."
"High praise indeed," I murmur, focusing on measuring coffee grounds to hide my smile.
"Is she going to stay with us again?" Aria asks through a mouthful of cereal.
The question catches me off guard. "I don't know, bug. Her cabin needs a lot of work."
"I hope she stays," Aria says with the simple directness of childhood. "You smile more when she's here."
I turn to look at my niece—no, my daughter in all the ways that matter—and feel a tightening in my chest. She sees more than I give her credit for.
"How would you feel about that?" I ask carefully. "If Carrie stayed for a while?"
Aria considers this, her small face serious. "I'd like it. She makes you happy. And she told me she likes living here in the mountains, even though it's different from the city."
Before I can respond, Carrie appears in the doorway, hair damp from the shower, wearing yesterday's clothes. She hesitates, clearly uncertain if she's interrupting.
"Good morning, Aria," she says with a warm smile.
"Hi, Carrie!" Aria waves enthusiastically. "Dad made coffee, and there's cereal if you want some."
"Coffee sounds perfect," Carrie says, moving into the kitchen but maintaining a careful distance from me.
I hand her a mug, our fingers brushing in the exchange. Even that small contact sends a current through my body, and I see her cheeks flush slightly.
"I was thinking," I say, keeping my voice casual for Aria's benefit, "I should take a look at your cabin today. See what needs to be done before the rains come back."
Carrie nods, wrapping her hands around the mug. "I'd appreciate that."
"Can I come too?" Aria asks brightly.
I exchange a look with Carrie, who smiles. "Of course," she tells Aria. "I could use your expert opinion on where I should put my art studio."
Aria beams, delighted to be included, and returns to her cereal with renewed vigor.
The domesticity of the moment—the three of us in the kitchen, discussing plans for the day as if we're a family—stirs something deep in my chest. It's been just Aria and me for so long that I'd forgotten what it feels like to have someone else in our space, in our lives.
I'd convinced myself we were complete, that we didn't need anyone else. But watching Aria chat animatedly with Carrie, seeing the way they've already formed a connection, I wonder if I've been wrong.
After breakfast, Aria runs to her room to get dressed, leaving Carrie and me alone in the kitchen. The silence between us is charged with unspoken questions.
"Hugh," Carrie begins, her voice soft. "About Aria..."
I tense automatically, old protective instincts kicking in. "What about her?"
"I just…" She hesitates, then continues gently, "I just realized I don't really know your story."
The moment I've been dreading has arrived. I've kept my past locked away for so long that talking about it feels like prying open a wound that's never quite healed. But after what Carrie and I shared last night, she deserves the truth.
I take a deep breath. "Aria isn't my biological daughter."
Carrie's expression shows surprise, but not judgment. She waits for me to continue.
"She's my niece. My sister Taylor's daughter." I pause, the familiar ache of loss tightening my throat. "Taylor died when Aria was fourteen months old. Drug overdose."
Carrie's hand covers mine on the countertop. "I'm so sorry, Hugh."
I nod, unable to speak for a moment. "Taylor struggled for years. Drugs, bad relationships. When she got pregnant, she tried to clean up her act, and for a while, she did. But after Aria was born, she slipped back into old habits."
The memories surface like they always do—Taylor's hollow eyes, her promises that this time would be different, the late-night calls when she needed money or a place to crash.
"I was all the family she had left after our parents died. I tried to help her, but..." I shake my head. "You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved."
"So you took Aria in," Carrie says softly.
"I didn't even have to think about it. She was just a baby, innocent in all of it. She needed someone, and I was all she had." I look toward Aria's bedroom, where we can hear her singing to herself as she gets dressed. "Best decision I ever made, even if I had no idea what I was doing at first."
"You've done an amazing job with her," Carrie says. "She's wonderful."
"She is." I can't keep the pride from my voice. "She started calling me Dad on her own, about a year after she came to live with me. I never pushed it, never tried to replace Taylor. But to her, I'm Dad."
"And you legally adopted her?"
I nod. "Made it official right away. I wanted her to have stability, to know that no one could ever take her away."
Carrie's eyes are soft with understanding. "Is that why you keep to yourself so much? Why you were so resistant to me being here?"
The question hits close to home. "Partly, I think," I admit. "I've spent the last si years making sure Aria has a stable life. No chaos, no uncertainty. Just routine and security."
"And no attachments to anyone who might leave," Carrie finishes for me, her insight surprising me.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "That too."
She squeezes my hand. "Thank you for telling me."
"I should have told you sooner."
"No." She shakes her head. "You told me when you were ready. That's what matters."
I look at her—really look at her—and see the understanding in her eyes. Not pity, not judgment, but genuine acceptance of who I am and why I am this way.
"I'm not good at this," I say, gesturing vaguely between us. "Letting people in. It's been just Aria and me for so long that I don't know how to make space for someone else."
"I'm not asking you to change your whole life overnight, Hugh," she says gently. "But I'd like to be part of it, if you'll let me."
Before I can respond, Aria bounces back into the kitchen, ready for the day in jeans and a rainbow-striped sweater. "I'm ready!" she announces. "Can we go see Carrie's cabin now?"
"Sure thing, bug," I say, grateful for the interruption yet feeling like something important has been left unfinished between Carrie and me.
As we head outside, Aria skipping ahead of us down the path, Carrie falls into step beside me. Her hand brushes against mine, and without thinking, I catch it in my own. She looks up at me, surprise giving way to a smile that warms me from the inside out.
"One day at a time?" she suggests quietly.
I nod, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "One day at a time."
And for now, that's enough. The future is still uncertain—Carrie's cabin needs extensive repairs, her art retreat is still just a dream, and I have no idea how to balance being Aria's father with whatever is developing between Carrie and me.
But for the first time in years, uncertainty doesn't feel like a threat.
As we walk toward her cabin, the three of us together in the clear morning light, I realize that maybe I've been wrong about what Aria needs.
Maybe stability isn't just about routine and predictability.
Maybe it's also about having enough love in your life that when changes come—and they always do—you have the strength to face them.
And maybe, just maybe, letting Carrie into our lives isn't a risk to that stability but an addition to it. Another source of love, another pair of hands to hold onto when the path gets rough.
One day at a time. I can work with that.