I thought that confronting her would settle something inside me. Instead, it just stirred everything up more. The look in her eyes when she realized the truth—it wasn't anger. It was betrayal. And damn if that doesn't sit like a stone in my chest.
She's more than her job. I see that now. I think I've always known it, but it's easier to pretend otherwise when you're trying not to fall.
Running both hands through my hair, I lean forward, elbows braced on my knees. What do I do now? Walk away? Keep texting like nothing's changed? Nothing feels like the right answer.
The office door creaks again. I look up as Finn strolls in, a travel mug in one hand and a smirk on his face.
"You look like you either lost a fight or just got dumped," he says.
I don't answer, leaning back in my chair, looking at him.
He raises an eyebrow. "Okay, so not a fight. What's her name?"
I shake my head. "Drop it, Finn."
He grins, sipping from his mug. "You get real moody when you're holding something in. You know that? Like a horse about to buck."
"Not now."
He shrugs. "Alright, alright. But when you're ready to talk, maybe try doing it before you implode. You've got that look again."
"What look?"
"Like you're halfway between punching a wall and writing a damn love letter."
He walks out with a chuckle, leaving me alone again.
And he's not wrong.
I thought calling her out would make me feel better. Like I was protecting the ranch. Protecting my family. But it doesn't feel like a win. It feels as if I took a sledgehammer to something delicate we built together, even if it was in the dark.
I don't know what happens next. Should I confesseverythingor bury it deeper? Should I walk away or fight for something I'm not sure I ever had?
All I know is she looked at me as if I was worth believing in. And maybe I still want to be.
Chapter 9
Kassi
By the time Emma and I get home, the sun is low and spilling gold across the floorboards, casting long shadows through the windows. Emma drops her backpack with a thud and kicks off her sneakers in opposite directions as if she's allergic to putting them where they belong. I should say something about it, but I don't. Not tonight. Not when the ache in my chest feels too raw, and I'm afraid my voice will crack if I push too hard.
"Mac and cheese or pancakes and bacon for dinner?" I ask, heading toward the kitchen, trying to inject some cheer into my tone.
"Can we do both?" She yells from the living room, where she's already sprawling across the couch as though she owns the place.
I smile. "Only if we're planning on running laps after."
"I'll do ten," she calls. "Maybe fifteen. But I want syrup on my pancakes. And not the fake kind. The good stuff."
"Deal," I smile, knowing my daughter is just as obsessed with my mom's homemade syrup recipe as I am.
I start pulling ingredients from the fridge and setting them on the counter. The ritual of it helps quiet my thoughts. Butter, milk, eggs. I whisk and flip while she dances around the kitchen on bare feet, occasionally hopping onto a stool to stir or steal a taste.
Dinner is easy. We eat on the couch, plates in our laps, cartoons playing softly in the background. Emma tells me a story about a bug she saw at recess that she swore looked like it was wearing glasses, and I laugh, even though my mind keeps wandering. To Asher. To Bear. To the things that aren't adding up the way they used to.
Bath time turns into a splash battle. I end up soaked, my hair clinging to my neck, but Emma's giggles make it worth it. She wraps herself in a towel and races down the hallway, leaving wet footprints behind her. I follow at a slower pace, my hands full of damp clothes and the weight of the day settling onto my shoulders.
Pajamas, teeth brushing, and stories. The usual bedtime routine. She chooses the book with the talking hedgehog and the stubborn princess who refuses to marry anyone until they can solve her riddle. I read it aloud while Emma listens, head resting on my arm, her eyes growing heavier with each page.