Page 1 of After the Rain

ONE

WHEN IT RAINS, IT POURS

WADE

T he smoke alarm shrieked like a banshee at seven-fifteen in the morning, and I knew my day was already fucked.

I lunged for the toast that had gone from golden to charcoal while I'd been absorbed in the Henderson building blueprints spread across my kitchen counter.

Coffee splashed from my mug onto the architectural plans, creating a lovely brown stain right over the load-bearing calculations I'd spent two hours perfecting last night.

"Daddy!" Cooper's voice carried from upstairs, followed by the thunder of six-year-old feet on hardwood. "I can't find my backpack!"

Of course he couldn't. Because it was Wednesday, which meant it was my custody day, and Murphy's Law had apparently taken up permanent residence in my life since the divorce.

I waved a dish towel at the smoke alarm until it finally shut up, then scraped the blackened bread into the trash. Cooper appeared in the kitchen doorway wearing his favorite dinosaur pajamas and a look of mild concern that somehow made my chest tight.

"Is breakfast ready?" he asked, climbing onto the barstool and surveying the chaos I'd made of our morning routine.

"Just about, buddy." I grabbed two pieces of bread and dropped them in the toaster, praying to whatever deity watched over single fathers that I wouldn't burn the second batch. "But first, tell me about this backpack situation."

Cooper's face scrunched in concentration. "I think it's in Mommy's car. From yesterday."

Right. Sarah had picked him up from school yesterday because I'd had a client meeting that ran late. The backpack was twenty minutes away at her house, and we needed to leave in fifteen minutes if Cooper was going to make it to school on time.

I felt that familiar knot form in my stomach, the one that appeared whenever I realized I was failing at this single-dad thing.

Six weeks since the divorce was finalized, and I still felt like I was fumbling through a playbook written in a language I didn't speak.

More than that—I'd been running on four hours of sleep and too much caffeine since the divorce papers were signed.

The kind of tired that sleep couldn't fix because it came from years of living wrong rather than one difficult night.

"Okay, new plan." I forced a smile and tried to channel the confidence I'd used to project during client presentations. "We'll make you a lunch here, and I'll text your mom about the backpack."

The toast popped up, only slightly darker than I'd intended. I slathered peanut butter on both pieces, cut them diagonally the way Cooper liked, and wrapped the sandwich in a paper towel.

"It looks extra crispy," Cooper observed, accepting his breakfast with the kind of diplomacy that made me wonder if six-year-olds were naturally better at handling life transitions than their parents.

"That's because I'm an architect, not a chef," I said, ruffling his hair. "Now eat up while I find you some lunch money."

I dug through the bowl on the counter where I threw loose change and receipts, coming up with three crumpled dollar bills and enough quarters to make Cooper feel rich.

While he ate, I shot off a quick text to Sarah about the backpack, then remembered the field trip permission slip Cooper had mentioned last night.

Shit. The permission slip.

"Cooper, buddy, where's that paper you need me to sign? The one for your field trip?"

His eyes went wide. "I forgot! It's in my backpack!"

The backpack that was in Sarah's car. Twenty minutes away.

I closed my eyes and counted to five, the way my therapist had taught me during those awkward sessions right after Sarah and I decided to separate. When I opened them, Cooper was watching me with the kind of careful attention that made my heart ache.

"It's okay, Daddy. Mr. Mitchell said if we forgot, we could bring it tomorrow."

Mr. Mitchell. Cooper's kindergarten teacher, who seemed to have the patience of a saint and the organizational skills I desperately lacked. Cooper had mentioned him every day since school started two weeks ago, always with the kind of enthusiasm he usually reserved for Lego sets and ice cream.

"Mr. Mitchell says a lot of smart things, doesn't he?" I said, grabbing a permission slip from the stack of school papers stuck to the refrigerator with dinosaur magnets. I forged my signature across the bottom in blue ink, trying not to think about the ethics of backdating paperwork.

"He's really nice," Cooper said around a mouthful of sandwich. "And he said he likes building things too. Like you."

There was something in Cooper's voice when he talked about his teacher, a warmth that made me curious despite myself. I'd only met the man briefly during orientation night, but I remembered thinking he looked young to be teaching and seemed to have genuine enthusiasm for working with kids.

"Finish up, buddy. We need to get you dressed."

Cooper polished off his sandwich and we headed upstairs for the morning battle with clothes, teeth, and hair.

He picked out his favorite shirt with dinosaurs on it, which was starting to look a little small but still technically fit.

I helped him brush his teeth, wiped toothpaste fingerprints off the bathroom mirror, and attempted to tame his cowlick with water and prayer.

Looking at our reflection in the mirror, I saw a father and son who were making it work, even if we looked a little rough around the edges.

Cooper's hair stuck up in three directions despite my efforts, and I had coffee stains on my polo shirt, but we were fed, dressed, and mostly ready to face the day.

The reflection reminded me of something Sarah had said during one of our last real conversations as a married couple.

"You always look like you're performing being happy instead of actually being happy.

" At the time, I'd brushed it off as stress from work, from the pressures of parenting, from the million small compromises that wore down any marriage.

But now, looking at myself—really looking—I wondered if she'd seen something I'd been too afraid to examine.

"Shoes!" I said, remembering the last crucial element.

Cooper ran to his room and came back with his sneakers on the wrong feet. I started to correct him, then checked the time on my phone. We were already running late, and honestly, nobody at kindergarten was going to judge a kid for mixed-up shoes.

"Looks good, buddy. Let's hit the road."

I grabbed my travel coffee mug, the architectural plans that now bore a coffee stain, my wallet, and the keys.

As we headed out the door, I caught sight of my reflection in the hallway mirror and realized I was still wearing my wedding ring.

I stopped, holding Cooper's lunch bag and permission slip, staring at the gold band that had felt like a natural part of my hand for fifteen years. Now it looked foreign, like evidence of a life I'd been trying on rather than living.

"Daddy? We're going to be late," Cooper called from the truck.

"Just a second, buddy."

I set everything down and worked the ring off my finger. It came away easier than I'd expected, leaving a pale band of skin that had been hidden from the sun. For a moment, I held it in my palm, this symbol of promises I'd meant to keep but had never truly understood.

I slipped it into my pocket instead of putting it back on. The absence felt strange but not wrong—like taking off shoes that had never quite fit.

I grabbed our things and headed to the truck, where Cooper was already buckled into his booster seat and chattering about his plans for the day.

"And then after snack time, Mr. Mitchell said we're going to work on our letters, and I want to show him my Lego spaceship. Do you think he'll like it?"

"I think he'll love it," I said, and meant it. Any teacher who could make Cooper this excited about school deserved appreciation.

The drive to Cedar Falls Elementary took twelve minutes on a good day, fifteen when I got stuck behind Mrs. Henderson's ancient Buick. Today I lucked out and hit mostly green lights, pulling into the school parking lot with three minutes to spare.

The morning drop-off zone was controlled chaos. Soccer moms in pristine SUVs with organized console compartments navigated around dads in business suits who were checking their phones while their kids gathered backpacks and lunch boxes. Everyone seemed to have their routine down to a science.

I felt like an impostor in my wrinkled polo shirt, architectural plans threatening to spill from the passenger seat every time I took a corner too fast. But Cooper didn't seem to notice my frazzled state. He was too busy scanning the sidewalk for his teacher.

"There's Mr. Mitchell!" he announced, practically bouncing in his booster seat.

I followed his gaze and saw the blonde teacher standing at the kindergarten entrance, greeting students with what looked like genuine enthusiasm.

He was crouched down to talk to a little girl who looked like she might cry, his voice too quiet for me to hear but his body language radiating patience and kindness.

Cooper was out of his booster seat and halfway to the sidewalk before I'd even turned off the engine. I grabbed his lunch bag and permission slip, locked the truck, and hurried to catch up.

"Cooper! Wait up, buddy."

He slowed down just enough for me to fall into step beside him, then immediately picked up the pace again as we approached his classroom. Mr. Mitchell looked up from his conversation with the tearful little girl, who was now smiling and skipping toward the door.

"Good morning, Cooper," he said, his voice warm and familiar. "And good morning, Mr. Harrison."

Up close, he looked even younger than I'd remembered. Maybe early thirties, with wire-rimmed glasses that he adjusted when he smiled. He had the kind of easy confidence with children that suggested natural teaching ability rather than just training.