Page 100 of Small Town, Big Storm

My eyes burn and I settle my chin against his shoulder, exhaling softly.

“All good back there?”

“I think,” I murmur.“That for the first time in a long time everything trulyisgood.”

He pauses, and then suddenly, the cooler and blanket are on the ground and I’m on my feet and he’s in front of me, cupping my face in his hands, those gray eyes on mine, delving into the very depths of my soul.“Pop,” he whispers.“You mean that.”

It’s not phrased as a question.

But itisone, anyway.

“I do,” I whisper.“You’re here.I’m here.Holly’s here.We’ll figure out what it means, figure out how to move forward together.”

His eyes slide closed for a long moment, all the tension bleeding from his shoulders.“Thank you,” he whispers back.

“And what we do with Holly, how we tell her, that’s separate of whatever is between you and me.”

Those lids peel back, something dark crossing through his expression.“What are you saying?”

“I just mean…” For some reason, I can’t hold his gaze.Mine drifts from his and I stare unseeing at the trees, the branches swinging slightly in the summer breeze.“If we don’t work out, I’m not going to take Holly from you.”

His fingers flex on my cheeks, but he doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then he exhales, lightly brushes the backs of his knuckles along the column of my throat.“Thanks for that, Poppyseed.”He scoops up the cooler, the blanket, offers me his back again.“Can you hop up?”

I answer by stepping onto a log and jumping spider-monkey-style onto him.

He chuckles.“I guess that’s a yes.”

“It’s a yes,” I agree as we—or rather, ashe—starts walking again.

A winding path, blackberries ripe on the vine…and entrapped by dangerous poison oak.Laughter from further down shore, wind rustling lightly through the branches overhead.The crunch of Storm’s shoes on the path, the slight rattle of our trash in the cooler with each of his steps.

“So,” he says as we turn onto the main path.“How do you think we should handle telling Holly about me?”

The question is edgy, careful.

Like he expects me to shut him down, to tell him that we’re going to wait, that it’s too soon.

“Honestly,” I say.“I’m surprised that no one’s spilled the beans to her already.”

His stride hitches for a moment.

Then he keeps walking.

“We can tell her tonight.Explain in Holly-appropriate terms.I…” My mind starts working, thinking about how to phrase it, how much to tell her, wondering how she’ll react.

She likes Storm and has asked about her “real” dad a bunch.

But, as though she knew how much it hurt to not have Storm in our lives, my normally dog-to-bone (wonder where she getsthatfrom) daughter didn’t push.

“We don’t have to rush it, Pop,” he murmurs.“I just…”

Wants her to know her dad.

I want that too.

But part of me is still scared.