To ask if she still loves me, or if that died when I left?
"I don't know," I admit. "When I saw her standing there, I—" I stop, unsure how to articulate the complicated tangle of emotions. "For a second, before I saw Ruby, it was like no timehad passed at all. Like I could reach out and touch her, and we'd still fit the way we used to."
"Did you love her?" Rowan asks quietly. "I mean, really love her?"
"Yeah." The word comes easily, truth I've never questioned. "I loved her more than I knew how to handle. She was the best thing in my life, and I left her anyway because I was too fucked up to stay."
"And now she's back," Griffin observes. "With your kid. What does that mean for you?"
"It means everything just got a hell of a lot more complicated." I stand, grabbing my clean clothes. "I need to shower. I smell like a chimney and I'm taking my daughter for hot chocolate."
My daughter. I'm going to have to get used to saying that.
They take the hint, filing out of the locker room one by one. Dallas lingers, his hand on my shoulder.
"You're going to be okay," he says. Not a question. A statement. "This is a lot, but you're going to figure it out. And we've got your back, whatever you need."
"Thanks, Cap." My voice is rough. "For not… I don't know. For not making this worse."
"Family doesn't make things worse. We make things bearable." He squeezes my shoulder once and leaves.
I'm alone with my thoughts for the first time since Sierra dropped a nuclear bomb in the middle of my life. I strip off my gear, my movements automatic, and step into the shower.
The hot water sluices over me, washing away the soot and sweat but doing nothing for the chaos in my head. I have a daughter. Sierra kept her from me. Sierra's here, in Blackwater Falls, in mystation, looking at me with those brown eyes that used to see all the parts of me I tried to hide.
And Ruby. God, Ruby. Those blue eyes that are mirrors of my own, watching me with a mix of hope and nervousness that made something in my chest crack open.
I think about what Sierra said, that she was afraid I'd look at Ruby and feel nothing. How could she think that? How could she look at that little girl, our little girl, and think I wouldn't love her on sight?
But then, I left. I walked away from everything, including Sierra. Why wouldn't she think I'd walk away from this too?
The thought makes me feel sick.
I finish showering quickly, dressing in jeans and a henley that's seen better days. My hands are shaking, really shaking now, not just the slight tremor that comes when I'm alone. I brace them on the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
I look tired. Old. The scar on my chin stands out pale against my jaw, a reminder of the beam that nearly took my head off two years ago. My eyes are shadowed, haunted in the way they always are after a call that brings back memories of the warehouse fire.
"Get it together, Lawson," I mutter to my reflection. "You're about to have hot chocolate with your daughter. Don't fuck this up."
My daughter.
I need to stop being surprised by that every time I think it.
When I emerge from the locker room, the hallway is suspiciously empty. The crew has made themselves scarce, giving us privacy, though I can hear the murmur of voices from the commonroom. They're probably watching through the windows, the nosy bastards.
The conference room door is still closed. I stand outside it for a moment, trying to gather myself, trying to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to say or do or be in this situation.
Then I hear Ruby's laugh, bright and clear, and Sierra's softer response, and I realize I'm stalling.
I open the door.
They're sitting close together now, Sierra's arm around Ruby's shoulders, and something about the picture they make, the obvious love and trust between them, makes my chest hurt. Sierra's been doing this alone for seven years. Every scraped knee and nightmare and triumph and challenge, she's handled it by herself.
Because I wasn't there.
Because I left.
"Ready?" I ask, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel.
