Ruby giggles at that, and the sound makes something in my chest warm.
This. I want this. Not just visits or phone calls, but everyday moments. Watching ducks together. Teaching her to ride a bike.Helping with homework. Being there for all the small, mundane, beautiful pieces that make up a childhood.
Maybe I can't have that here in Blackwater Falls. Not if Sierra's entire support system is three hours away. Not if uprooting Ruby would mean taking her away from her grandparents, her friends, everything she knows.
Which means maybe I need to be the one who moves. The thought still terrifies me. But as I watch Ruby's face light up at the ducklings, as I feel Sierra's presence beside me warm and solid and here, I think maybe it's a terror I could learn to live with.
For them. For this.
Maybe I could go home.
Ruby stands, brushing off her knees. "Can we get ice cream now? You promised ice cream."
"I did promise ice cream," I agree. "But it's only ten in the morning. Maybe we should save it for later?"
"Lunch first," Sierra suggests. "Then ice cream. Deal?"
"Deal," Ruby agrees readily.
We start walking back toward town, Ruby between us, holding both our hands. To anyone watching, we probably look like a normal family—mom, dad, kid on a Saturday morning outing.
But we're not normal, not yet. We're three people trying to build something new, trying to figure out if the pieces of our broken past can somehow fit together into a future.
But as Ruby swings our joined hands and chatters about the ducklings, I feel something I haven't felt in eight years.
Hope. Not certainty. Not confidence that everything will work out perfectly. Just hope that maybe, with time and effort and awillingness to face the things that scare us most, we might be able to make this work.
I glance at Sierra over Ruby's head and find her already looking at me. Our eyes meet, and in that moment, I see my own hope reflected back at me.
We don't have answers yet. We don't even have a plan.
But we have a starting point. A willingness to try. A shared commitment to putting Ruby first, even if it means facing our worst fears.
And maybe, just maybe, that's enough.
For now.
Chapter 8 - Sierra
"Please?" Ruby's using the voice, the one with just the right amount of pleading mixed with hope that makes it nearly impossible to say no. "You said Scout was judgmental and small and I really, really want to meet her. Please, Dad?"
We're standing outside the diner where we just finished lunch: burgers for Ruby and Cade, a salad for me that I barely touched because my stomach is still in knots. The afternoon sun is warm, and Main Street is busier now, people moving in and out of shops, living their normal Saturday lives while mine continues to tilt on its axis.
Cade looks uncertain, his hand rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture I remember from years ago. He always did that when he was uncomfortable, when he was trying to figure out how to say no to something.
"It's not that I don't want you to meet Scout," he starts. "It's just… My place is small. Really small. And messy. I wasn't exactly expecting company this weekend."
"I don't care if it's messy," Ruby insists. "I just want to meet your cat. Please? I promise I'll be gentle."
"She will be," I confirm, watching Cade's internal debate play out on his face. "But if you're not comfortable, we can wait for another time."
I mean it, too. The last thing I want is to push him into something he's not ready for. Inviting us into his space feels intimate in a way that touring the town doesn't. His apartment is his sanctuary, the place he rebuilt himself after everything fell apart.
But then Cade looks at Ruby's hopeful face, and I see his resolve crumble.
"Okay," he sighs, but he's smiling. "But I'm warning you, Scout is not friendly. She tolerates me because I feed her. She might not even come out if there are strangers in the apartment."
"I can be very quiet," Ruby promises solemnly. "Like a mouse. Cats like mice, right?"
