Page 15 of Protected By the Single Dad Sheriff

"It's fine. I fall asleep on this couch half the time anyway." It's true. Many nights, after the girls are in bed, I sink onto this couch intending to watch just a few minutes of TV and wake up hours later with a crick in my neck.

"Thank you." She takes the towel and toothbrush, her fingers brushing mine. "For everything. Most people wouldn't have gone to all this trouble."

I shrug, uncomfortable with her gratitude. "It's my job to help people."

"Is it your job to bring them home and feed them mac and cheese?"

"No," I admit, a warmth spreading through me at the gentle teasing in her voice. "That part's... not standard procedure."

"I gathered." She smiles slightly. "Your daughters are wonderful. You’re a great single dad. You're doing an amazing job with them."

Most people either avoid mentioning my single-parent status or offer pitying platitudes about how "strong" I am. But there's a genuine admiration in her words.

"I'm sorry about Sophie," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "About what she said regarding her mother's chair. Kids that age don't have filters."

Isabella shakes her head quickly. "Please, don't apologize. She's processing her loss in her own way. It's healthy."

"Still. It couldn't have been comfortable for you."

She considers this. "Actually, I appreciated her honesty. Adults spend so much time talking around difficult subjects. It's refreshing, the way children just say what they're thinking."

I sit down on the opposite end of the couch, maintaining a respectful distance even as something in me yearns to be closer.

"Claire, my wife, she was like that too. Straightforward. No games." The memory brings both pain and comfort, as it always does.

"How long were you together?" Isabella asks softly.

"High school sweethearts. Married right after college." I find myself calculating the years. "Would have been fifteen years this December."

"I'm so sorry, Jake."

It's the first time she's used my first name, and something about the way she says it makes my chest constrict. Not just grief—something else. Something I'd almost forgotten existed.

"Four years ago," I continue, surprising myself with my openness. "Car accident on Highway 14. Drunk driver crossed the center line. She was coming home from her book club." I swallow hard, the memory still razor-sharp despite the passage of time. "I was supposed to pick her up, but there was an incident at the station. I asked her to drive herself."

Isabella moves closer, and I feel the couch dip slightly with her weight. "It wasn't your fault."

"Logically, I know that," I say, staring at my hands. "The drunk driver is serving fifteen years. But if I'd just left work on time..."

"You can't live in that alternative universe," she says gently. "Trust me, I've tried. The 'what-ifs' will destroy you."

Something in her tone suggests personal experience. "What's your what-if?" I ask.

She looks down at her hands, twisting them in her lap. "What if I'd stood up to my parents years ago? What if I'd pursued art instead of the business degree they wanted? What if I'd refused the first date with Sebastian instead of agreeing because my father thought it would be 'advantageous'?" She gives a small, bitter laugh. "Today was my first real act of defiance."

"Better late than never," I offer, wanting desperately to comfort her.

"Maybe." She sighs, and the sound carries the weight of years of suppressed desires. "My entire life has been a curated performance—the right schools, the right clothes, the right fiancé."

"Until today."

"Until today," she agrees. "When I realized I couldn't breathe inside that dress, inside that church, inside that life."

We fall silent for a moment. Outside, an owl hoots softly in the darkness. Inside, the refrigerator hums and the old grandfather clock in the hallway—a wedding gift from Claire's parents—ticks steadily.

"It's been hard," I find myself admitting, my voice rough with emotion. "Since Claire died. Not just the grief, but the practical stuff. Being both parents. Working full-time. Trying to remember permission slips and softball practices and dental appointments."

"You seem to be managing it all beautifully," Isabella says, her voice gentle.

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