The hot chocolate place is called "Melt," and it's exactly the kind of trendy small-town café that would never have survived in our old town but somehow thrives in Blackwater Falls. Exposed brick walls, Edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling, chalkboard menus with elaborate handwriting, and the rich smell of chocolate so thick I can taste it the moment we walk through the door.
Ruby's eyes go wide, taking in everything at once: the display case full of pastries, the enormous menu board, the barista doing something complicated with a milk frother that creates clouds of steam.
"This is the best place I've ever seen," she breathes, and I can't help but smile despite the knot of anxiety in my stomach.
Cade's walking beside me, close enough that I can smell the clean scent of his soap, something very woodsy and masculine. He showered at the station, changed into civilian clothes, and he looks so much like the man I used to know, but different too. More carved out, like someone took everything soft in him and burned it away, leaving only the essentials.
I suppose that's what trauma does. What surviving does.
"What can I get you?" Cade asks Ruby, and there's something different his voice. Like he's still figuring out how to talk to her, what tone to use, how to be a father when he's had exactly twenty minutes to process that he is one.
Ruby studies the menu with an intensity usually reserved for final exams, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Another gesture of Cade's. God, they're so alike it's almost absurd.
"The Alpine Special," she decides. "With extra marshmallows. And… Can I get whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles?"
"You can get whatever you want," Cade says, and I see his throat work as he swallows. "It's not every day I get to buy hot chocolate for my… for my daughter."
He stumbles over the word, and my heart clenches. This is all so new for him. So overwhelming. And here I am, expecting him to just adjust, to be okay with the fact that I kept Ruby from him for seven years.
"I'll have the same," I say when the barista, a young woman with purple hair and kind eyes, looks at me.
"Make it three," Cade adds. "And whatever pastries she wants." He nods toward Ruby.
"Oh, you don't have to—" I start, but he cuts me off with a look.
"I want to." There's something fierce in his eyes, something that says this matters. That buying our daughter hot chocolate and pastries matters in a way that goes beyond the simple transaction. "Please."
So, I let him. Ruby chooses a massive chocolate croissant that's probably bigger than her head, and we find a table in the corner, away from the other patrons. The café is moderately busy, a few people working on laptops, a couple sharing a slice of cake, an older man reading a newspaper.
Normal people doing normal things, completely unaware that my world is currently imploding in the best and worst way possible.
We sit, Ruby between Cade and me, and for a moment, nobody speaks. The silence stretches, awkward and heavy, until Ruby, bless her complete lack of social anxiety, breaks it.
"So," she says, swinging her legs under the table. "What do you do when you're not fighting fires?"
Cade blinks, clearly not expecting such a direct question. "I… well. Not much, honestly. Read, sometimes. Take care of my cat."
Ruby's entire face lights up. "You have a cat? What's their name? How old are they? What do they look like?"
"Her name is Scout. She's eight years old, which means I got her right when I moved here." His eyes flick to me briefly, and I know he's doing the math. He got Scout around the same time Ruby was born. "She's a tabby. Gray and white. Very small, very judgmental."
"I love her already." Ruby bounces in her seat. "Can I meet her sometime? I'm really good with animals. Mom says I'm gentle."
"You are gentle," I confirm, my voice soft. "The neighborhood cats all love you."
"You can meet Scout," Cade says, and there's a promise in his words. Sometime. Not today, not tomorrow, but sometime. An acknowledgment that this isn't a one-time thing, that he's not going to disappear after one hot chocolate. "She doesn't usually like people, but I think she'd like you."
The barista brings our order, three enormous mugs of hot chocolate topped with towers of whipped cream, marshmallows, and in Ruby's case, enough chocolate sprinkles to constitute a health hazard. The croissant comes on a separate plate, and Ruby immediately tears into it with the enthusiasm of someone who didn't eat much breakfast because she was too nervous about meeting her father.
I should have made her eat more. Should have insisted. But I was too nervous myself, too caught up in my own anxiety to be the parent I should have been.
"Tell me about you," Cade says to Ruby, wrapping his hands around his mug like he needs something to hold onto. "What do you like? What are you good at?"
Ruby considers this, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of croissant. "I like animals. A lot. I want to be a vet when I grow up. Or maybe a firefighter like you. I haven't decided yet."
"Those are both good choices." Cade's smile is small but genuine. "Very different, though."
"I know. That's why it's hard to choose." Ruby takes a sip of her hot chocolate, gets whipped cream on her nose, and doesn't seem to notice. I reach over to wipe it off, and she barely acknowledges it, too focused on her conversation with Cade. "Vets save animals, and firefighters save people. Both seem important."
