Chapter 14 Cole #2
"It's not simple. It's terrifying." My thumbs brushed the tears from her cheeks. "You think I'm not scared? I'm standing here with my chest cracked open, begging you not to leave, and you might still say no. That's the risk. That's always the risk."
"Cole—"
"I love you, Emma. I love your kindness and your strength and the way you make Sarah laugh. I love how you sing along to the radio when you think no one's listening. I love that you hid in a supply closet to avoid me and then felt bad about it."
She choked out something that was half laugh, half sob.
"I don't know how to do this without you," I said, abandoning any pretense of composure. "I don't want to learn. I spent fifteen years being fine alone, and then you showed up with your glitter glue and your sad eyes and your ridiculous bravery, and now alone sounds like a prison sentence."
"That's not fair."
"I know. None of this is fair." I rested my forehead against hers. "But I'm asking anyway. Please don't give up on us because you're scared of what might happen. I'm scared too. We can be scared together."
For a long moment, neither of us moved. I could feel her breath, quick and shallow. Could feel the war happening inside her.
Then she pulled back.
"I can't," she whispered. "Not right now. I can't just... decide. My head is a mess. Every time I think I know what I want, the fear comes back, and I can't breathe."
The hope that had been building crashed hard. But she wasn't saying no. Not completely.
"What do you need?" I asked, even though the words cost me everything.
"Time." She wiped her face with shaking hands. "Space. Real space, not just a day. I need to figure out if I can actually do this or if I'm just going to keep hurting you."
"How much time?"
"I don't know."
"Okay." The word scraped my throat raw.
"Okay?" She looked surprised, like she'd expected me to fight.
"I don't like it. I hate it, actually." I stepped back, giving her the distance she'd asked for. "But I'm not going to force you into something. That's not how this works."
"Cole—"
"Just know this." I held her gaze, putting everything I had into the words. "I'm not giving up. You take your time. You think. You feel whatever you need to feel. But when you're ready, if you are ready, I'll be here. We'll be here. Waiting."
Her face crumpled. "What if I decide I can't?"
The question was a knife. I made myself answer honestly.
"Then I'll respect that. It'll break my heart, and Sarah's, but I'll respect it.
" I moved toward the door, each step harder than the last. "But Emma?
I don't think you're going to decide that.
I think you're braver than you know. I think you're going to fight for this, for us, because what we have is worth fighting for. "
I reached the door, hand on the knob. Every instinct screamed at me to turn around, to hold her, to refuse to leave until she promised to choose us.
I made myself keep walking.
"Cole." Her voice stopped me on the porch.
I turned. She stood in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself, tears still wet on her cheeks.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For not giving up."
"I couldn't if I tried."
I walked to my truck. Got in. Started the engine.
I didn't look back. If I saw her standing there, alone in the doorway, I'd break. I'd run back and make promises I couldn't keep, and that would destroy whatever fragile chance we still had.
The drive to Maggie's was a blur. I parked in her driveway and sat there for a minute, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles went white, willing myself to hold it together.
Sarah came running out before I could compose myself.
"Uncle C!" She crashed into my legs the moment I stepped out. "Did you fix it? Is Emma coming over?"
The hope in her voice hurt to hear.
I knelt to her level. "We talked, sweetheart. But Emma needs some time to think."
"Think about what?"
How do you explain adult fear to a six-year-old? How do you tell her that the woman she loves is terrified of loving her back?
"Grown-up stuff," I said, the most inadequate answer in history. "It's complicated."
"But she still loves us, right?"
"Yes, busy bee." I pulled her into a hug, hiding my face in her hair. "She still loves us."
"Then why does she need to think?"
"Because sometimes love is scary. Even when it's good."
Sarah considered this with six-year-old seriousness. "That's dumb."
"Yeah," I agreed, my voice rough. "It kind of is."
Maggie appeared on her porch, coffee mug in hand, questions in her eyes. I shook my head slightly. Later.
In the truck, Sarah buckled herself in and stared out the window.
"Uncle C?"
"Yeah?"
"If Emma doesn't want to be scared anymore, can we go camping?"
The question, so simple and hopeful, nearly undid me.
"Yeah, sweetheart," I managed. "If she decides that, we'll definitely go camping."
"With the sleeping bag with stars on it?"
"With all the sleeping bags."
She nodded, satisfied with this answer, and started humming to herself.
I drove us home, the road winding up the mountain that Emma feared, toward the cabin that suddenly felt too big and too empty.
She might choose courage. She might choose fear.
All I could do was wait.
And hope that what we'd built, the quiet mornings and shared laughter and the kisses under a million stars, was worth more than the terror whispering in her ear.
Hope was a fragile thing. Easily crushed.
But I held onto it anyway, because the alternative was giving up.
And I'd promised her I wouldn't do that.
Not now.
Not ever.