Chapter 9
Kassi
By the time Emma and I get home, the sun is low and spilling gold across the floorboards, casting long shadows through the windows.
Emma drops her backpack with a thud and kicks off her sneakers in opposite directions as if she's allergic to putting them where they belong.
I should say something about it, but I don't. Not tonight.
Not when the ache in my chest feels too raw, and I'm afraid my voice will crack if I push too hard.
"Mac and cheese or pancakes and bacon for dinner?" I ask, heading toward the kitchen, trying to inject some cheer into my tone.
"Can we do both?" She yells from the living room, where she's already sprawling across the couch as though she owns the place.
I smile. "Only if we're planning on running laps after."
"I'll do ten," she calls. "Maybe fifteen. But I want syrup on my pancakes. And not the fake kind. The good stuff."
"Deal," I smile, knowing my daughter is just as obsessed with my mom's homemade syrup recipe as I am.
I start pulling ingredients from the fridge and setting them on the counter. The ritual of it helps quiet my thoughts. Butter, milk, eggs. I whisk and flip while she dances around the kitchen on bare feet, occasionally hopping onto a stool to stir or steal a taste.
Dinner is easy. We eat on the couch, plates in our laps, cartoons playing softly in the background.
Emma tells me a story about a bug she saw at recess that she swore looked like it was wearing glasses, and I laugh, even though my mind keeps wandering.
To Asher. To Bear. To the things that aren't adding up the way they used to.
Bath time turns into a splash battle. I end up soaked, my hair clinging to my neck, but Emma's giggles make it worth it.
She wraps herself in a towel and races down the hallway, leaving wet footprints behind her.
I follow at a slower pace, my hands full of damp clothes and the weight of the day settling onto my shoulders.
Pajamas, teeth brushing, and stories. The usual bedtime routine. She chooses the book with the talking hedgehog and the stubborn princess who refuses to marry anyone until they can solve her riddle. I read it aloud while Emma listens, head resting on my arm, her eyes growing heavier with each page.
When the story ends, she curls up in bed with her favorite stuffed bunny, the one that's been through every move and every scrape.
The one I once almost threw away because it smelled like a sock drawer, but she sobbed until I promised to wash it instead.
The fabric is thin now, ears drooping, but it's still her favorite thing in the world.
I sit on the edge of the bed and brush her hair, slow and gentle. She leans into me without a word, the comfort of the moment sinking into both of us.
"Tell me something about Daddy," she whispers.
The brush stills in my hand and catches on a small knot.
Carefully, I ease it gently through the tangle.
My mind slips backward, years disappearing like mist. I see myself younger, thinner, and more tired.
Emma was only weeks old, wrapped in a too-big blanket, her cries piercing and raw in the middle of the night.
I remember the smell of formula and the hum of the heater trying to warm a too-cold apartment.
Singing lullabies off-key because the silence was worse.
When the doctor said postpartum depression, I cried because I didn't have time to be anything but strong.
Then, when he left, I thought I'd break.
But I didn't. I couldn't. Not with her tiny fists wrapped around my finger like I was her whole world.
I think of how I paced the tiny apartment with her in my arms, bouncing and whispering songs I half-remembered from my own childhood.
How sharp the silence was after he left.
How empty everything felt. He said he couldn't do it.
Said he wasn't ready to be a father. And just like that, it was Emma and me against the world.
There were nights I sat on the kitchen floor with her asleep beside me, wondering how I was going to keep the lights on.
Wondering if I was doing any of it right.
But every morning, she'd wake up with that same wide-eyed trust, believing I could give her everything.
And so, I kept trying. Every job, every move, every sacrifice—it's always been for her.
I knew this would come. It always does, now and then, like a wave that builds when the house is quiet and her mind starts to wander.
"He had a crooked smile," I say, finding the words carefully. "Like he was always about to laugh. Even when he was mad. Especially when he was mad."
She turns her face toward me. "Was he funny?"
"Sometimes," I say. "He told really bad jokes. The kind you groan at. But they made you laugh anyway."
She thinks about that, then nods. "Do you miss him?"
"Every day," I whisper.
I don't say the rest. How he walked out when she was just a baby.
That he didn't know how to be a dad, not really.
Some nights, I still wonder if I made the wrong choices, even though I know I didn't. He wasn't ready for the life we had.
And I couldn't keep dragging Emma through the fallout of someone else's chaos.
She yawns, and I set the brush down, pulling the blanket up around her.
"I think he'd be proud of you," I say softly. "He'd love the way you laugh. And how brave you are."
I hope I'm not lying to my daughter, but every time I talk about her dad, I feel like I am. I can't bring myself to tell her he didn't want her, and didn't want a family, so I only tell her the nice things. One day she will figure it out, and it will break my heart.
She closes her eyes with a little smile. "You're the brave one, Mommy."
I sit there a moment longer, watching her. The soft rise and fall of her chest. The way her fingers curl around the bunny's paw. My heart aches in that slow, quiet way it does when you're grateful and grieving all at once.
Before I slip out of the room, I wait until her breathing evens out.
Then, I close the door behind me with a quiet click.
The apartment is silent, warm, small, and still somehow full of ghosts.
I sink onto the couch and pull a blanket over my lap, staring at the glow of my phone on the coffee table.
There's a message from Bear.
No. From Asher.
But I don't want to think about that part yet. Not all the way.
My fingers hover over the screen. I think about how tense he looked today. How his voice cracked just slightly when he said this could've been something. My heart twisting in a way it shouldn't have.
He's Asher. The one who argued with me in the office. Who has been pushing back against the project since the day I arrived. But he's also Bear. The one who made me laugh late at night and who asked about my day when no one else did. How can he be both? And why does that make me want him more?
I keep replaying the moment his hand brushed mine.
The heat that zinged through me when our eyes met.
I shouldn't feel this way. Not about him.
Not when he's standing between me and the job I've built my life around.
And yet... there's something undeniable.
Something honest in the way he looked at me, it was as if he saw everything I was hiding and didn't turn away.
I should be furious with him. I should block the number and erase the texts. Move on as if this never happened. But I don't. I can't.
I check his message
Bear: You still up?
Me: Yeah unfortunately.
He replies almost instantly.
Bear: You okay?
Me: Rough day. But I made pancakes. That helped.
Bear: Pancakes are sacred. Good choice.
Me: And mac and cheese.
Bear: Living dangerously.
I smile in the dark.
Me: Thanks for not pushing today.
There's a pause this time.
Bear: I wanted to. But some things are better left for later.
Me: I don't know what happens next.
Bear: Neither do I.
It's less flirty than before. Less teasing. There's still warmth, but now it's wrapped in something heavier, the fear that reaching too far might break everything.
But it's still easier to sit here in the dark on my couch and think I'm texting Bear. I don't have to reconcile in my head who Bear really is. I know at some point I'll have to, but that won't be tonight.
Me: I keep trying to draw a line. Then I just step over it again.
Bear: Yeah. I know the feeling.
I stare at his words longer than I should.
Me: Are you mad at me?
Bear: No. I'm just... trying to figure out where this goes.
Me: Me too.
We sit in silence for a while, and I imagine him doing the same. Somewhere out on that ranch, probably standing on a porch or leaning against a doorway. Arms crossed. Eyes tired.
I pull my knees to my chest and rest my chin on them.
Me: I like talking to you. More than I should.
Bear: Me too.
Me: Even if you are a little bossy.
Bear: Comes with the territory of being the oldest brother.
Me: I'll allow it... for now.
Bear: Generous of you.
I should say goodnight. Put the phone down and get some sleep. But my thumb hovers over the keyboard.
Me: Did you mean what you said earlier? About falling for something you shouldn't?
Bear: Every word.
I don't reply right away. I can't. Because if I do, I'll say too much. I'll admit that my heart is already tipping toward something I don't know how to catch. Something I don't know if I should catch at all.
Instead, I type:
Me: Goodnight, Bear.
Bear: Goodnight, Sunshine.
The nickname stirs a beautiful, unexpected warmth in my chest. I set the phone face down and close my eyes.
Then, feeling restless, I slip out the front door and step onto the small porch.
The night air is cool and smells faintly of pine and lake water.
Crickets chirp in a steady rhythm, and from somewhere down the road.
Laughter echoes faintly from a nearby house, someone's porch light glowing through the trees.
The world is still and peaceful, and for a moment I stand there, letting it wash over me.
Walker Lake feels quieter at night, like it's holding its breath.
It's easy to pretend I belong here. Easier than thinking about what happens if I don't.
But I don't know what tomorrow brings. Though tonight, with my daughter sleeping peacefully in her next room, I let myself have this one small thing. This thread of connection.
I let myself feel something. Even if I know it might not last.
Even if it's the wrong story at the wrong time.
Because right now, it feels like the only thing that's real.