Chapter 12 Emma
The park ranger's words were still echoing in my head when I realized I'd been holding my breath for thirty seconds. Maybe longer. Apparently, that's how long it takes for a fairytale to die.
It had been three weeks. Twenty-one days of something I'd forgotten existed: uncomplicated happiness. The kind that sneaks up on you while you're busy convincing yourself you don't deserve it. Ever since the night we kissed, Cole had become an active constant in my life.
It started small. Cole showing up at my door on a Wednesday morning, coffee in hand.
"You didn't have to do this," I said, accepting the cup like it was made of gold.
"Sarah insisted." He leaned against my doorframe, all broad shoulders and soft eyes. "She said your coffee maker sounds like a dying animal."
"It does not."
"Her words were 'angry robot having a nightmare.'"
"She's six. What does she know about coffee makers?"
"Apparently more than you." He smiled, and my stomach did that fluttery thing I'd convinced myself I was too old for. "Ready?"
That became our routine. Morning pickups in his truck, Sarah providing running commentary from the backseat about everything from cloud shapes to the injustice of bedtimes.
"Uncle C, did you know that octopuses have three hearts?" she announced one morning.
"I did not know that," Cole said.
"And if they lose an arm, they grow it back."
"Convenient."
"Why can't people do that?"
"Evolution is unfair," I offered.
"Very unfair," Sarah agreed solemnly. "I'd like a backup arm."
"What would you do with a backup arm?" Cole asked.
"Hold more cookies."
I laughed so hard I snorted, which made Sarah giggle, which made Cole's eyes crinkle at the corners in that way that made me forget how to breathe.
The weekends were even better. We'd crowd into my tiny kitchen, a chaotic assembly line of breakfast production.
"You're burning the bacon," I pointed out one Saturday.
Cole frowned at the skillet. "It's not burning. It's crisping."
"There's smoke, Cole. I have a tutoring session in 3 hours.”
"Smoke is just... flavor escaping."
"That's not how cooking works."
"How would you know? You eat yogurt for breakfast."
"Yogurt is a legitimate breakfast food."
"Yogurt is a cry for help."
Sarah looked up from her station, where she was stirring pancake batter with aggressive enthusiasm. "I think Uncle C's bacon is on fire."
It was, in fact, on fire.
"Flavor," Cole muttered, flipping the charred strips onto a plate. "Escaping aggressively."
But somehow, despite the smoke alarm going off twice and Sarah getting batter in her hair, we'd end up at my small table with plates of mostly-edible food, laughing about nothing and everything.
It was during one of those breakfasts that it happened.
Sarah was reaching across the table for the syrup, her tongue poking out in concentration. "Mommy, can you pass the—"
She froze. Her hand hung suspended in midair. Her eyes went wide, darting between me and Cole like she'd accidentally detonated something.
"I'm sorry, I just—"
Her words stumbled into my consciousness. Mommy. It didn’t feel wrong, but hearing it left me frozen for a moment.
"Hey." I reached across and took her small hand. "It's okay."
"I did not want to say it weird."
"You didn't say it weird."
"It just came out." Her lower lip trembled. "Are you mad at me?"
"Sarah, look at me." I waited until her brown eyes met mine. "I'm not mad. I could never be mad about that."
"Really?"
"Really." My voice cracked slightly. "Actually, it made me really happy."
"It did?"
"It did."
She considered this, her face cycling through about seventeen emotions in three seconds. Then she smiled, bright and relieved. "Okay. Can you pass the syrup, please?"
I laughed, with an almost trembling voice. Cole's hand found mine under the table and squeezed.
Later, when Sarah was occupied with cartoons, he pulled me onto the back porch.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
"I'm great." I wiped my eyes. "I'm just... I'm really great."
"You're crying."
"Happy tears. They're different."
"Are they?"
"Completely different chemical composition. It's science."
He smiled and pulled me close. I pressed my face into his flannel, breathing in sawdust and pine and something that was just him.
"She loves you," he murmured into my hair.
"I love her too." The words came easily, naturally. "Both of you."
His arms tightened. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Good." I felt him smile against my temple. "Because I'm in love with you, Emma Reed. Completely. Inconveniently. Probably since that craft disaster."
"Inconveniently?"
"You've significantly complicated my hermit lifestyle."
"How tragic for you."
"Devastating." He pulled back to look at me. "Worth it, though."
I kissed him because words felt inadequate. Because for the first time in over a year, the future didn't look like a minefield. It looked like Saturday mornings, burnt bacon, and a little girl who just called me Mommy.
That was the fairytale. That was the dream I let myself believe in.
And then Tuesday happened.
I was grading spelling tests at my kitchen table, a mug of tea cooling beside me. Tommy had spelled "beautiful" as "bootiful," which honestly seemed reasonable. Outside, the wind had picked up, rattling the windowpanes in their frames.
The knock at the door broke the monotonous peace.
I opened it to find a park ranger, his uniform crisp, his expression carefully neutral.
"Evening, ma'am. Sorry to disturb you."
"Can I help you?"
"We're notifying residents near the forest perimeter." He shifted his weight, a small movement that made my stomach clench. "We have a missing couple. Didn't return from their hike this afternoon."
Missing. Hike. Didn't return.
"What happened?" My voice sounded strange. Distant.
"Weather changed quicker than forecast up on the ridge." He consulted his clipboard. "Search teams are mobilizing now."
"The ridge," I repeated.
"Yes, ma'am. We're advising everyone to avoid the northern trailheads."
"Were they experienced? The couple?"
He looked up, something flickering in his eyes. Pity, maybe. "We're not sure yet. Could be lost, could be sheltering. But we’ll do our best to find them."
We'll do our best to find them. Professional optimism. Practiced reassurance.
I'd heard it before.
"Thank you for letting me know," I heard myself say.
"Of course. Have a good evening."
He walked back to his vehicle. I watched him go. The door was still open, cold air rushing past me into the cabin. I should close it. I should move.
I couldn't move.
"Your sister... there was an accident on the trail."
Different ranger. Different porch. Same words dressed in different clothes.
My knees buckled.
I hit the floor hard, my back slamming against the door, forcing it shut. The cold of the floorboards seeped through my jeans. My hands were shaking. When had they started shaking?
"Okay," I whispered to no one. "Okay. Breathe. Just breathe."
I tried. The air wouldn't come. My lungs had forgotten how to work.
I crawled my way back into my house. The spelling tests were scattered across the table above me. Tommy’s unique spelling, cheerful, and oblivious. The tea sat cooling. Normal things. Evidence of a normal evening in a normal life.
The wind screamed outside. It sounded like the mountain laughing.
My phone buzzed on the table. I reached up blindly, grabbing it.
Dad. The screen pulsed with his name.
I watched it ring. Once. Twice. Three times.
"Answer it," I told myself. "Just answer."
Four times. Five.
I couldn't.
It went to voicemail. A moment later, the notification appeared. I pressed play with numb fingers.
"Hey, sweetheart." His voice, warm and familiar, cracked something inside me. "Just checking in. Weather looks rough up your way. Call me when you can. Love you, Em."
Love you, Em. The same sign-off, every message, for the last year.
I should call him back. I should let him know I was safe. But his voice reminded me of hospital rooms and funeral homes and the slow erosion of a family. First, Mom. Then, Lily. Now just the two of us, orbiting each other at a careful distance.
If I let him get closer, I'd lose him too. That was the math. That was the price.
My phone buzzed again. Cole this time.
A photo filled the screen. Him and Sarah, grinning beside a beehive. Sarah was drowning in an oversized bee suit, only her bright eyes visible. Cole's arm was wrapped around her, his smile easy and unguarded.
Assistant beekeeper's first inspection, the caption read. She named the queen Beatrice.
The image blurred. I blinked, and tears splashed onto the screen, distorting their happy faces.
Another buzz. Another text.
Cole
Sarah says Beatrice has better hair than me. Feeling personally attacked by a bee.
I laughed, but my voice was broken.
Buzz.
Cole
How was your day?
Buzz.
Cole
Thinking about you.
I started typing a response. Good day. Miss you too. Normal words. Safe words.
My fingers hovered over send.
I deleted it.
What was I doing? What had I been doing all this time?
Cole lived on that mountain. He walked those trails like I walked to my mailbox. He checked hives on steep slopes in uncertain weather. He was strong and careful and experienced.
So was Lily.
Sarah ran those trails like a playground. She knew every rock, every root, every shortcut. She was learning to love the wilderness the way her uncle did.
The wilderness that didn't discriminate. That didn't care how much you were loved or who needed you.
I'd painted a future in my head. Cozy winters in his cabin. Summer picnics in wildflower meadows. Sarah calling me Mommy without hesitation. Growing old together on that beautiful, deadly mountain.
"What were you thinking?" I whispered.
The wind answered with another howl.
I pulled myself off the floor. My legs were unsteady, but they held. I paced the small living room, five steps one way, five steps back.
Buzz.
Cole
Are you there?
Did you fall asleep grading papers again?
I stared at the message. So normal. So sweet. So completely unaware that I was falling apart in my kitchen.
I should respond. I should tell him about the ranger, let him reassure me. That's what couples did. That's what trust looked like.
My fingers moved before I could stop them.
Emma
Long day. Going to bed early. Talk tomorrow.
I hit send. The lie tasted like ash.
His response came immediately.
Cole
Everything okay?
Emma
Fine. Just tired.
Cole
You sure?
No. Nothing is fine. Nothing will ever be fine.
Emma
Positive. Kiss Sarah goodnight for me.
Cole
Will do. Sweet dreams, Emma.
I turned off my phone.
The cabin was too quiet now. The wind had died to a whisper, which was somehow worse. I could hear my own heartbeat, too fast, too loud.
I thought about Sarah's face that morning. Mommy. The hope in her eyes when I said it made me happy.
I'd done that. I'd let her believe in something.
When I pulled away, and I would, because this fear was rotting the foundation of everything I touched—she would be devastated. She would think it was her fault. She would learn, again, that loving people meant losing them.
That damage would be on me.
"Stop it," I said out loud. "You're spiraling."
But the spiral had teeth.
I saw Cole carrying me up the mountain, his arms steady and sure. I saw him teaching Sarah to read the weather, to respect the wilderness. I saw twenty years of happiness ending with a knock on a door, a ranger's careful expression, words like "accident" and "didn't suffer."
I saw myself at another funeral. A small one this time. A man who'd shown me what love could look like and a girl who'd called me Mommy.
"Stop." My voice cracked. "Please stop."
I made it to my bedroom. I didn't remember walking there. The sheets were cold as I crawled in, still wearing my clothes.
The ceiling was a blank canvas. I stared at it for hours.
At some point, the tears came. Silent and steady, soaking my pillow.
This was the right choice. Pulling away now, while the wound was clean. Before I was in too deep to survive the loss.
But the voice in my head, the honest one I couldn't silence, whispered the truth.
You're already in too deep. You've been in too deep since the craft table.
And another truth, crueler still:
You're not protecting yourself from loss. You're creating it. Right now. With your own hands.
The mountain wasn't taking them from me. I was pushing them away. Choosing to lose them because the uncertainty of maybe was worse than the certainty of now.
It was the stupidest, most self-destructive logic I'd ever employed.
And I couldn't stop.
The wind picked up again around midnight, howling through the pines like a warning. Or maybe a lament.
I lay in the dark, listening to the mountain breathe, and told myself this was protection.
It felt like dying.
But dying slowly, on my own terms, seemed preferable to dying all at once when the ranger came again.
When, not if.
That was the lesson the wilderness had taught me. Love was a loan, and the mountain always collected.
I pressed my face into my tear-soaked pillow and waited for morning.
It was going to be the hardest conversation of my life.
But it was better than waiting for a knock that would end it for me.
Better than standing on another porch, hearing another ranger's careful words, feeling my world collapse into rubble.
Better, I told myself.
Better.
I knew this was not reality.
It was a lie.
But I clung to it anyway, because the alternative was hope.
And hope, I had learned, was the cruelest thing of all.