Chapter 5
Ihave spent my entire adult life perfecting the art of avoiding people. Now I was checking my phone like a teenager waiting for a text back from his crush.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
The black device, which usually lived buried in a kitchen drawer for emergencies only, had taken up permanent residence in my front pocket.
Every vibration sent a jolt through my entire nervous system.
I'd yank it out with embarrassing speed, heart hammering against my chest, only to find a weather alert or spam or a reminder about a town council meeting I had no intention of attending.
"Uncle C, you're looking at your phone again."
I shoved it back in my pocket with what I hoped was casual indifference. "No I'm not."
"That's the fourth time since breakfast." Sarah didn't even look up from her cereal, just kept methodically spooning Cheerios into her mouth. "Are you waiting for something important?"
"I'm checking the weather."
"It's sunny outside. I can see it through the window."
Six years old and already calling me out on my nonsense with devastating accuracy. Rebecca would have been so proud of her daughter.
Emma's offer played on constant repeat in my head like a song I couldn't shake.
I could do some light tutoring with her on Saturday mornings.
I heard it in her voice every time—warm, gentle, like sunshine melting frost. I'd become the kind of person I used to mock mercilessly.
Next, I'd be analyzing her punctuation choices and reading meaning into her emoji usage.
I told myself it was innocent. Purely professional. She was a dedicated teacher helping a student who could use extra attention. That was all this was.
The rationalization worked for about five minutes at a time.
Then I'd remember the tear sliding down her cheek when she spoke of Lily.
The feel of her hand under mine, small and soft.
The way she'd looked at me like she actually saw me, not as some brute from the mountains, not Sarah's awkward guardian, just me.
That hadn't been professional. That had been two broken people recognizing the same fractures in each other.
Wednesday afternoon, my phone finally buzzed with a text from the number I'd already painstakingly saved as Emma R.
Emma R.
Hi Cole, it's Emma. Looking forward to seeing Sarah on Saturday. I've invited a couple of other students so she won't feel singled out, very small group, very casual. 10 am. See you then!
I read it four times, analyzing every word like it contained hidden meaning.
Other students. A small group.
The initial surge of excitement overcame me.
She texted me. She actually texted me. I immediately drowned in a cold wave of disappointment.
Of course. It wasn't a personal invitation.
It was a classroom extension. She was being strategic and thoughtful, ensuring Sarah felt comfortable among peers.
Exactly what a good teacher would do. Exactly what I should have expected.
But right alongside the disappointment came an unexpected wave of relief. This was safe. Clear boundaries existed. I could drop Sarah off with the other kids, make polite, distant small talk if required, and leave like a normal functioning adult.
Cole
Sounds good. Thank you. See you Saturday.
Stared at the words. Added a period at the end. Deleted the period because it seemed too formal. Added it back because without it seemed too casual. Hit send before I could spiral any further into punctuation-based insanity.
"Uncle C?" Sarah appeared at my elbow, her brown eyes curious. "Why are you frowning at your phone like that?"
"I'm not frowning."
"Your face is doing the grumpy thing again. The one where your eyebrows get all scrunched together."
"This is just my face, Sarah. This is how it looks."
She patted my arm with exaggerated sympathy. "It's okay. Your face can't help it."
Comforting. Very comforting.
The days between Wednesday and Saturday crawled past like wounded animals dragging themselves toward water. Time, which usually flowed past me on the mountain in a steady, unmarked current, now moved at a glacial pace.
I split firewood with restless manic energy until my arms burned and my shoulders ached.
I checked the hives three times in two days while my mind wandered miles away.
Sarah would chatter about her day at dinner, about what she hoped they might read at tutoring, and I'd nod along, only half-hearing, my thoughts constantly circling back to warm hazel eyes and a sad smile.
I thought of her constantly. The way she knelt to talk to children, putting herself at their level.
The trace of sorrow in her expression that mirrored my own, a silent understanding between us.
The easy, natural way she connected with Sarah, drawing out smiles and laughter with a magic I couldn't begin to replicate.
And the way she said my name, Cole, like it was just a word, not an accusation or a preamble to a demand.
By Friday night, I was a complete disaster. Saturday morning was considerably worse.
I woke before dawn, unable to sleep any longer. Made pancakes for Sarah because it felt like a special occasion. Burned the first batch completely because I couldn't focus on anything.
"These taste like charcoal," Sarah observed, poking at the blackened disc on her plate with deep suspicion.
"They're crispy."
"They're black, Uncle C. Really black."
"That's a style choice. Cajun-style pancakes."
She gave me the look, one that said she was humoring her ridiculous guardian but wanted it officially noted for the record that she knew better. I scraped the burned batch into the trash and made another. These were acceptable, if not exactly fluffy.
Then came the impossible clothes situation.
I put on my gray flannel shirt. Looked in the small bathroom mirror. Too boring, too everyday. Switched to the blue flannel. Studied my reflection. The blue one practically screamed I'm trying to impress someone. Obvious. Embarrassing. Desperate. Switched back to the gray immediately.
"Uncle C." Sarah stood in the bathroom doorway, already dressed in her green corduroy dress and white tights, watching me with undisguised fascination. "You changed your shirt again."
"The blue one had a spot on it."
"No, it didn't."
I stared at her. She stared back, utterly unimpressed by my weak excuse.
"There's no shirt in existence that just says 'functional adult,' is there?" I muttered to my reflection.
"What does that mean?"
"Nothing important. Go brush your teeth, please."
"I already brushed them."
"Then brush them again. Dental hygiene is important."
She sighed the world-weary sigh of a child burdened with a completely ridiculous guardian and wandered off down the hallway, shaking her head.
We were ready a full hour early. I couldn't sit still in the cabin. I paced the small living room, straightening objects on shelves that didn't need straightening, adjusting picture frames that were already perfectly level.
"Can we go now, Uncle C?" Sarah finally asked from the couch, where she'd been watching my nervous circuit with growing concern. "You're making me really nervous." She stated. "You've picked that pinecone decoration three times."
I looked down. The pinecone was indeed in my hand again. I set it down carefully.
"Fine. Let's go."
The winding drive to Emma's cabin felt simultaneously endless and instantaneous.
My palms were embarrassingly damp on the steering wheel.
When I finally pulled up to her place, one sensible sedan was already parked in the small clearing.
A minute later, an SUV pulled in behind us.
Other parents. Other children. This was really, truly just a tutoring session.
Good. Fine. Completely normal. Exactly what I'd expected.
A man climbed out of the sedan, a girl Sarah's age bouncing excitedly beside him. He spotted me and nodded in friendly acknowledgment. "Cole, right? Sarah's uncle?"
"That's right."
"Mark. I'm Chloe's dad." He gestured toward his daughter, who was already running toward Emma's porch. "First time with the Saturday tutoring thing?"
"Yeah. First time."
"Emma's genuinely great at this. Chloe's reading level jumped two full grades in just a couple of months working with her." He checked his watch and grimaced. "Well, I've got errands stacked up. You planning on staying, or...?"
"Haven't fully decided yet."
He looked mildly surprised by that answer but just shrugged agreeably. "Your call. Whatever works. See you at pickup then."
He gave Chloe a quick kiss on her head, waved at Emma who'd appeared in the doorway, and drove off.
The mom from the SUV executed the same efficient routine, dropped her son Tommy with a brief hug, exchanged a friendly wave with Emma, and disappeared down the dirt road in under two minutes.
Streamlined. Normal. Functional adults doing functional adult things.
I was none of those things.
Emma stood in the doorway, smiling that sunshine smile that did complicated things to my cardiovascular system.
Soft gray leggings, an oversized cream sweater that looked incredibly soft, and honey hair in its characteristic messy bun.
She looked cozy and warm and beautiful and completely unaware of the chaos she was causing in my chest.
"Good morning, everyone! Come on inside where it's warm."
The other kids filed eagerly into her cabin. Sarah hung back, her small hand tightening around mine with sudden uncertainty. She watched the other children disappear into Emma's living room, a flicker of anxiety crossing her face.
Emma's perceptive gaze met mine over Sarah's head. She saw the hesitation too.
"You're more than welcome to stay, Cole," she said casually, like it was the most ordinary offer in the entire world. "I've got chairs set up on the porch. Should be about two hours in total."
Every carefully constructed plan for a safe, boundaried, distant exit immediately unraveled.