Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Jesse
Friday
The last time I was in a principal’s office, I was a kid myself.
Sitting here now, thinking about my children instead of my own mistakes feels like crossing some invisible line into adulthood.
I’ve been in this building a dozen times since the twins started school, every single time convinced this is the meeting where someone finally tells me I missed something important.
That there’s a gap I didn’t see. A wound I didn’t catch in time. That this is the moment my best just wasn’t enough.
Principal Cole flips through a folder and nods to himself, calm as if he’s reading quarterly earnings instead of notes about my kids. The sound of paper turning makes my stomach tighten.
I brace.
“Caleb’s reading has improved a lot,” he says. “He’s jumped nearly a full level since the beginning of the year.”
My chest tightens.
“And Eliza,” he continues, glancing up with a smile, “well, she’s a natural leader. The other kids look up to her. She organizes group work without being bossy. That’s rare at this age.”
I loosen. Just a fraction.
“Yeah?” I ask, keeping my tone light, as if this isn’t the kind of sentence I’ll replay later when I can’t sleep.
“Oh yeah,” he says easily. “They’re kind. Curious. Empathetic. They notice when other kids are struggling, and they look out for them.”
I swallow.
“They talk about you a lot,” he says next.
That one hits me square in the chest.
I nod once. Because if I open my mouth, I might say something embarrassing. Or worse, let myself believe it too much.
“In a good way,” he adds quickly, smiling.
The truth is, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop since the day Hayley left. Waiting for the moment someone points at me and says, “That’s where it went wrong.”
Because loving them has never been the hard part. The hard part has been trusting myself to do it right.
“Sometimes I just…” I trail off, scratching the back of my neck. “I don’t know. It’s just me. No backup. I worry I’m screwing something up without realizing it. Like there’s a class I missed or a manual they forgot to give me.”
He leans back in his chair, folds his hands, and studies me.
“Mr. Murphy,” he says, “I meet a lot of parents.”
That’s never reassuring.
“And I don’t say this lightly,” he continues. “Your kids feel safe. They feel supported. They feel loved.”
Those words settle low in my ribs, heavy and warm.
“They’re thriving,” he tells me. “You’re doing a good job.”
I nod again, slower this time. Letting it sink in.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
I shake Principal Cole’s hand, nod once more like that’ll somehow lock his words in place, and step back out into the hallway.
The bell rings somewhere down the corridor, shrill and bright, and kids spill out of classrooms in a rush of backpacks and sneakers and half-finished thoughts. I pause to the side, letting them rush past me, feeling oddly outside of time.
Safe. Loved. Thriving.
I repeat the words in my head as a checklist. Perhaps if I say them enough, they’ll stop feeling borrowed and start feeling earned.
Outside, the morning air hits my face. It’s the kind of weather that makes you stand a second longer than necessary just breathing. I do.
No rush. No emergency.
That’s new.
I walk instead of driving, hands shoved into my jacket pockets, boots scuffing the sidewalk as I head toward Main Street.
Colter Creek is waking up the way it always does. Shop doors opening. A truck rumbling past with hay bales stacked too high. Someone arguing good-naturedly about parking.
I pass the hardware store and catch my reflection in the window. Same guy. Same flannel. Same permanent squint from years of sun and worry.
But I feel steadier.
I think about the nights I lay awake listening to the twins breathe, counting seconds between inhales as if that could keep the world from taking anything else from us. The mornings I triple-checked lunchboxes, permission slips, and shoes on the right feet.
The way I learned to braid hair from a shaky YouTube video at midnight.
The way I still panic every time Eliza gets quiet.
The way Caleb’s laugh can undo a whole bad day in half a second.
I’ve always been afraid that one day they’ll look back and see the gaps. The places where a mom should’ve been. The times I didn’t know what to say.
But maybe they’re not keeping score the way I am.
The Buckhorn Diner comes into view, squat and stubborn as ever, and my stomach finally reminds me that pride and relief don’t count as breakfast.
I push the door open, bell jingling, and the smell of coffee and bacon wraps around me deliciously. Everything inside looks the same.
Vinyl booths, chipped mugs, the same crooked photo of a prize-winning pie from a decade ago. Comfort disguised as grease.
“Well, look at you,” Betty Lou calls from behind the counter before I’ve even made it two steps in. “Someone looks downright cheerful.”
“That obvious?” I ask, sliding into my usual booth.
“Like a kid who just found an extra fry at the bottom of the bag,” she says, already grabbing a plate.
“Kids are thriving,” I say, unable to keep it out of my voice. “I’m riding that high.”
Carrie Jo appears with a coffee pot. She summoned herself with gossip radar alone. “We love thriving kids.”
She pours, then pauses. Tilts her head. Squints at me, trying to read fine print.
Uh-oh.
“And?” she prompts.
“And… what?” I say, because apparently today I’m choosing bedlam.
Betty sets the plate down with just enough emphasis to make a point. “Don’t play dumb, Jesse Murphy. You’ve got that look.”
I lift a brow. “Which one?”
“The one where your face forgets how to behave,” Carrie says, grinning wide.
“That’s just my face,” I say mildly.
“Mmhmm,” Betty hums. “Sure it is. And my meatloaf is gluten-free.”
I take a bite of toast to buy time. “So what’s the gossip today?”
Carrie leans in, settling in for a sermon. “Word is you’ve been spending a lot of time over at Abilene Kentwood’s.”
I don’t even choke on my coffee. Progress.
“Her porch was falling apart,” I say easily. “I own tools. This is what happens when those two facts collide.”
“Mmhmm,” Betty says again, unconvinced but amused. “And the gutter? And the fence? And the way you look at her like she invented sunshine?”
“I look at lots of people,” I say.
Carrie snorts. “Not like that.”
I smile then. Not thin this time, just resigned. The smile of a man who knows he’s been clocked. “Town notices everything. Doesn’t mean there’s anything to notice.”
Betty props her elbow on the counter. “Honey, the town noticed Dakota Fletcher’s situation before she did. You think you’re subtle?”
“Devastating,” I mutter.
“Oh, relax,” Carrie says cheerfully. “We’re not warning you. We’re enjoying it.”
Betty nods. “It’s been a slow winter. This is nice.”
“Romantic hope,” Carrie adds. “With tools.”
I shake my head, laughing despite myself. “You two are ruthless.”
“And yet,” Betty says, “you keep coming back.”
“Because you feed me.”
“And thankfully,” Carrie says lightly, “you look happier than you have in years.”
That one sneaks in under my ribs.
I don’t answer it. I just eat, let them tease, let the warmth sit where it wants to.
Because the truth is, I don’t know what’s going on. Not really.
I know I care about Abilene. I know my kids adore her. I know when I think about her, my chest flips, complicated and hopeful all at once.
What I don’t know is what comes next.
So I finish my breakfast, trade barbs, and leave a good tip.
I step back out into the morning with town gossip trailing behind me with a grin and Principal Cole’s words still warm in my chest.
Safe. Loved.
I can do that.
I just hope I don’t screw it up.