Chapter 10 Emma #2
"Scrambled eggs next," he announced, cracking eggs into the now-empty bowl with considerably more success than Sarah's first attempt had yielded.
"Don't overcook them," I advised from my position. "Low heat and constant stirring. That's the secret."
"Low heat. Constant stirring." He repeated it like a mantra, a prayer, a survival instruction.
The eggs came out slightly wetter than ideal but otherwise completely acceptable.
Sarah arranged sliced bananas and fresh strawberries on a plate with intense artistic concentration, then suddenly darted outside through the front door.
She returned moments later, clutching a tiny vase holding three brave purple asters she'd apparently spotted in my yard.
"Centerpiece," she declared proudly, placing it ceremoniously on my small kitchen table. "Nice breakfast needs flowers."
"Breakfast is officially served," Cole announced, his voice mixing obvious pride and lingering uncertainty in roughly equal measure.
He helped me carefully to the table, supporting my weight as I hobbled over on my crutches.
The spread before me was humble: a stack of imperfect pancakes, a mound of soft scrambled eggs, bright colorful fruit, and the wildflower centerpiece.
It was, without any exaggeration, the most beautiful meal I had ever seen in my entire life.
"This is absolutely amazing," I said, and I meant it with every fiber of my being.
"They're honestly kind of burnt," Cole said, looking at the pancakes critically.
"Burnt is a flavor," Sarah informed him with great authority, already drowning her pancake in maple syrup. "Ms. Martinez at school says that all the time."
"Ms. Martinez sounds like she's making excuses for the cafeteria food."
"She totally is. But she's still right anyway." I joked.
I took a bite of the pancake. It was dense but had a wholesome, honest flavor. Not restaurant quality. Not even particularly good by objective culinary standards. But I tasted something else entirely in every bite—effort, determination, care, the stubborn refusal to let me go hungry in my own home.
"These are genuinely perfect," I said, my voice unexpectedly thick with emotion.
Cole's blue eyes met mine across the small table. We shared a small moment of understanding in that instant.
"Can we make pancakes every Saturday?" Sarah asked hopefully through a mouthful.
"We'll see how it goes," Cole said, but he was smiling warmly now.
After we finished eating, Cole absolutely wouldn't let me help clear the dishes. He and Sarah made quick, efficient work of the cleanup, then he started unpacking the remaining grocery bags that had been waiting on the counter.
"What's all this?" I asked, watching various containers and packages emerge.
"We're stocking your fridge and freezer for the weekend," he said matter-of-factly, as if this were completely normal. "Sarah helped me plan out meals you can just reheat easily."
"This container is for soup," Sarah announced importantly, brandishing a permanent marker. "I'm writing 'SOUP' on it so you know."
"Good thinking. Make sure it's spelled correctly."
"I know how to spell soup, Uncle C. S-O-U-P."
"Just checking to be safe."
"Do you know how to spell soup?"
"I'm choosing not to answer that question."
I watched them work together; Cole chopping vegetables with careful, clearly unpracticed strokes, Sarah being his efficient assistant as they both moved around each other with easy, familiar rhythm.
"Cole, this is genuinely too much," I said softly.
He stopped, a package of chicken in his hand, and turned to look at me directly. "It's not nearly enough, actually. You faced your deepest fear for us. You got hurt because of it. The absolute least I can do is make sure you eat properly while you heal."
"This one is chicken soup," Sarah said, labeling another container with careful letters. "And this one is... Uncle C, what is this one?"
"Vegetable something. The recipe had a French name I couldn't pronounce correctly."
"I'll write 'Veggie Stuff'. That's easy."
"That works perfectly."
For nearly an hour, my small kitchen hummed with quiet domestic industry. Cole showed Sarah how to season food with just salt and pepper. She showed him her personal technique for arranging fruit in aesthetically pleasing patterns.
"Flat or stacked?" Sarah asked, holding up two containers.
"Flat definitely saves more refrigerator space."
"Stacked is way more fun."
"How is stacking containers more fun?" Cole asked.
"It just is. You wouldn't understand." I replied.
Watching them work together, the man who constantly doubted himself in his capacity to care, and this resilient child thriving under his devoted if sometimes clumsy love, the sight made something fundamental shift within me.
I was falling for them.
Both of them, completely.
For Sarah's resilient, hopeful heart and her unfiltered observations about the world.
For Cole's gruff, stubborn determination to become better than he believed he could ever be.
They weren't just kind people I was helping with tutoring and advice.
They were weaving themselves into the fabric of my days, my thoughts, my quiet, lonely moments.
They were becoming necessary.
The terror followed that realization immediately, ice-cold and achingly familiar. Necessary things could be lost. I knew that truth better than anyone alive. Loving them meant opening myself to potential devastation.
At the door, Sarah hugged my waist carefully, clearly mindful of my crutches and injured ankle. "Feel better really soon, Ms. Reed! Uncle C said we will stop by tomorrow!"
"I'll be right here," I promised, hugging her small, warm body back tightly.
Cole lingered awkwardly after Sarah skipped out happily to the truck. He stood in my doorway, the morning sun framing his tall, broad form, flour still dusting his flannel sleeve from earlier.
"Was this okay?" His voice was low, genuinely uncertain. "I didn't overstep or anything?"
This man, who feared nothing in the entire wilderness, was worried he'd been too much in my kitchen. The contrast made my chest ache with tenderness.
"It was perfect," I said honestly, emotion thick in my voice. "Thank you, Cole."
He searched my face intently for a long moment, then nodded once slowly and walked to his truck.
After they finally left, my cabin was warm and smelled wonderfully of pancakes and simmering soup. My refrigerator held neatly labeled containers full of meals made with care. The three small wildflowers nodded gently on my table in their tiny vase.
I sank carefully onto my couch, surrounded completely by evidence of their thoughtfulness.
The protective walls I'd built so carefully after Lily died, they were crumbling into dust. I was falling in love with Cole Brennan and his sweet niece.
Falling for them meant facing the mountain eventually. Risking devastating loss. Opening my hands.
But sitting here, in a kitchen still echoing with their laughter and warmth, I realized something both terrifying and wonderful:
My hands were already open.
And I wasn't sure I wanted to close them again.