Pocketful of Sand(21)

I can’t let it get to that point. I have to protect Emmy, first and foremost. And even though I feel like Cole could be good and…safe somehow, if the tide shifts, I have to be ready and willing to bail. Emmy comes first. Always. She has to.

The knock on the door pulls me from my troublesome thoughts. I glance at Emmy on the floor. She’s in the beginning stages of another drawing. She probably doesn’t even know I’m in the room. She loses herself when she has a crayon in her hand. I’m glad she has that respite from the world around her and the ugliness it can sometimes show.

I get up and walk to the door. As I near it, I don’t even have to stretch up on my toes to peek through the glass at the top. My heart is already pattering at the dirty blond crown I can plainly see. I know who’s outside. Every nerve in my body is screaming his name.

I slip off the chain and unlock the deadbolt, swinging the door open to Cole. His longish hair is framing his face and, despite the cold, he’s wearing only a sweatshirt and jeans. But I forget all about that when I look up. The moment I meet his intense cerulean eyes, I’m stuck. Trapped. Drowning in a sea of blue.

Neither of us says anything. The thump of my daughter running up to me and slamming to a stop against my thigh jars me back to reality. I glance down.

Her thumb is in her mouth, but she’s already smiling around it. Cautiously, she eases just far enough away from me to still be able to hold on, but also be able to reach Cole’s hand. She curls her fingers around his and tugs him toward us.

His eyes flicker back up to mine as he steps forward. Still caught in that blue gaze of his, I don’t retreat. We just stand in the doorway, almost chest to chest, his handsome face staring down into mine. Up close, I can count every long eyelash that frames his bright eyes, number every light brown whisker that dots his lean cheeks. He’s the perfect combination of beautiful and manly.

“May I come in?” he asks, his voice sending a chill skittering down my spine. I can feel Emmy pulling him in, pulling him closer to me. I don’t back down. Something in me craves his closeness. Wants more of it.

I tip my chin up, my lips tingling with an unspoken desire for him to touch them, caress them. Devour them. “Of course,” I reply, yet neither of us moves.

For several long seconds, we are rooted to this spot, the attraction between us as perceptible and vibrant as a living thing.

But then he moves to one side to step around me, letting Emmy drag him to the living room so she can show him her drawing. She picks it up and holds it out to him. He takes the paper gently from her fingers. It looks so small when it’s held in his big hands. He could easily crumple it, probably crush it into dust, yet he doesn’t. He holds it delicately, as though it’s the most precious thing in the world.

I was so lost in thought before Cole arrived, I wasn’t really watching what Emmy was drawing, but from Cole’s elbow I can plainly see that it’s her attempt at capturing them. She’s holding his hand and her shoes are at least five sizes too big. I’m guessing it’s from the day she went to fetch him for me when I was stuck in the tub, holding off a flood.

Cole squats down in front of her, turning the paper back to face her. “Is this me?” he asks, pointing to the tall man with pale yellowish-brown hair. Emmy nods, toying with the hem of her Hermione T-shirt. “This is really good.” Cole’s expression shows that he’s impressed and that he’s not just being kind.

I’m proud, of course. Emmy does a great job when she takes her time. She often adds details that surprise me. Every doctor she’s had since we left has encouraged her to draw as a means of therapy. Thankfully, she seems to really enjoy it.

Cole starts to hand the picture back to Emmy, but she pushes it back toward him. “Is this for me?”

She nods.

“Thank you. I know just where I’ll put it.”

He stands, holding the paper in one hand while he smiles down at Emmy. I can see the moment she becomes uncomfortable with his quiet attention. She lowers her eyes and edges toward me, eventually leaning her forehead against my side.

When Cole’s gaze leaves Emmy and lifts to mine, there’s a sadness in it, a grief that nearly staggers me. I can only imagine that he’s reminded of his loss every time he looks at my daughter.

“Cole, I…” I don’t even know what to say. I probably shouldn’t bring it up. For all I know, I’m not supposed to even know about his loss. But I feel the need to say something, to offer some sort of comfort, even though I know that there is none. I don’t think there is comfort for a parent who has lost a child.