Page 115 of Cooking Up My Comeback

“How do you know about the sidewalk chalk?”

“He left it on the porch with a note saying he hoped we’d have fun with it. Very grumpy-guy way of saying he cares.”

My heart does that fluttery thing. Because she’s right. Brett doesn’t say romanticthings easily, but he shows up. He pays attention. He buys sidewalk chalk for kids who aren’t even his.

“Maybe you’re right,” I say.

“I’m always right. It’s my gift.”

The school drop-off fills me with determination instead of dread. Crew keeps asking when Brett’s coming back, but now his questions feel hopeful instead of heartbreaking. Mason wants to show Brett his hopscotch court design. Tally reminds me Brett’s probably sitting somewhere being grumpy about everything instead of talking about his feelings like a normal person.

“So maybe,” she says as I drop her off, “you should be the one who talks about feelings. Since you’re good at that.”

By the time I wave goodbye to Mason’s kindergarten class, I feel like the mother who’s about to fight for what matters instead of running from it.

I’m sitting in the school parking lot gathering courage when my phone rings. Brett’s name lights up the screen, and my traitorous heart does the fluttery thing it always does.

This time, I answer on the second ring.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi.” His voice sounds rough, like he hasn’t slept either. “How are you?”

“Terrible. You?”

“Same.” A pause. “I’ve been sitting in my truck outside Home Depot for an hour trying to figure out what to say.”

“Home Depot?”

“Security cameras. For your cottage. Someone’s been stalking my...” He stops. “Someone’s been stalking you. Figured you should have cameras.”

Even when he’s hurt and probably furious with me, he’s buying security equipment to keep me safe. Classic grumpy Brett, showing love through practical actions instead of pretty words.

“You don’t have to do things,” I say softly.

“Yeah, I do.” His voice gets gruff. “Can’t exactly protect you if you won’t let me near you.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“From what? People taking pictures? Fake health complaints? You think I can’t handle some idiot with a camera?”

“From me,” I whisper. “And my mess and everything that goes wrong when people get close to me.”

The silence stretches so long I start wondering if the call dropped.

“Brett?”

“You want to know what I think?” His voice carriesthat edge he gets when he’s trying not to say something he’ll regret.

“Tell me.”

“I think you’re scared. I think running away feels safer than staying and fighting. And I think you’re wrong about being a mess.”

“But the stalker, the health department, Chad?—”

“Are problems we solve together. Not reasons to give up.”

“What if I mess this up again? What if I’m not brave enough?”