I'm standing in the doorway of Room 7 at Crimson Ridge Elementary, and I swear to God my heart just fell clean through the floor.

Three weeks ago, I was in Houston framing houses and pretending I had my shit together. Two weeks ago, I got the call that my old man finally drank himself to death and left me the one thing I never wanted—that run-down bar on the edge of town I swore I'd never set foot in again. Last week, I loaded everything Annie and I owned into a U-Haul and drove back to the place I spent eighteen years trying to escape.

And last night—my first night back in Cimarron Ford County—I walked into the Longhorn & Lace trying to forget all of it.

That's where I met her.

The woman with the soft laugh and kind eyes who didn't flinch when I told her about Annie. Who listened to me talk for two hours like I was saying something worth hearing instead of just another widower drowning in his own head. The one who kissed me first in the parking lot under that busted neon sign, tasted like whiskey and something I'd forgotten the name for. The one who whispered stay when I started pulling away, and I did—God help me, I stayed—and for a few hours I felt like a man again instead of just a father running on fumes and guilt.

I left before sunrise. Didn't even leave a note.

And now she's standing there in a yellow sundress with little daisies on it, reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar to a semi-circle of five-year-olds sitting criss-cross applesauce on a rainbow rug, and my daughter—my Annie—is right there in the front row with her French braids I barely got right this morning, hanging on every word.

Her eyes snap up.

She sees me.

Her face goes pale, then pink, then full-on crimson, and I watch her fingers tighten on that book like it's the only thing keeping her upright.

"Mr. Sutton?" Her voice is steadier than it has any right to be. Professional. Careful. Like she didn't have her hands in my hair twelve hours ago. Like I didn't tell her things I haven't said out loud since Sarah died—about my old man, the bottle, the way I still can't drive past the intersection on 59 without my chest locking up.

"Yeah." My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. I clear my throat, step into the room, feel like every parent in this place can see exactly what happened last night written across my face in neon letters. "I'm, uh—here to pick up Annie."

I twist the hair tie on my wrist—one of Annie's, pink with a little butterfly—and try to breathe.

Annie's head whips around, and her whole face lights up. "Daddy!"

She scrambles to her feet and runs straight into my legs. I scoop her up automatic, settle her on my hip even though she's getting too big for it, press a kiss to her forehead because that's what I do. That's what I've been doing since the day Sarah's car got T-boned and shattered everything.

"Hey, baby girl." I smooth down one of her flyaway curls, keep my eyes on her face because I cannot—cannot—look at her teacher right now. "How was your first day?"

"So good, Daddy! We learned about butterflies and I made a friend named Macy and she has a horse and Miss {{user}} let me hold the class caterpillar and his name is Fred and—"

"That's real good, sweetheart."

I risk a glance up.

She's watching us. Watching me. And there's something in her expression I can't quite read—something soft and surprised and maybe a little bit wrecked. Like she's seeing me different now. Like the man who left her bed at dawn and the man holding his daughter are two people she's trying to reconcile, and she's not sure they fit.

"Ms. {{user}} is the best, Daddy," Annie says, oblivious, playing with the collar of my flannel. "She's really nice. And pretty. Don't you think she's pretty?"

I finally—finally—meet her eyes.

She's biting her bottom lip, cheeks still pink, and I can see her trying to figure out what the hell we do now. If I'm gonna bolt again.

"Yeah, baby," I say quietly, not breaking eye contact. "Real pretty."