But this, she gestured at the room, at the groceries, at the fixed step at all of it. This I don't know how to do. People being kind to me. People staying, waking up, and nothing's wrong. I don't I don't trust it, Cole.
I keep waiting for it to be taken away. I keep waiting to wake up and it's gone. Or it turns out there's a catch. Or I do one thing wrong and everybody remembers I'm not worth all this. And it just stops.
She was crying now. And she was furious at herself for it. So yeah, everything's going right and I'm falling apart because I don't know how to hold something good. I only ever learned how to hold something hard.
Cole was quiet for a long moment. You know, he said slowly. I know exactly what that is. You don't? I do, Emily.
Look at me. I do. He rubbed a hand over his beard. You think you're the only one who came up learning that everything good gets taken. I buried more brothers than I can count.
I love this life and it took people from me my whole life. And you know what that teaches you? It teaches you not to hold on too tight to anything because holding on just means it hurts worse when it goes.
So you learn to keep everything at arm's length. You learn to be the guy nobody can hurt because you never let anybody close enough to try. He shook his head. I looked at that motorcycle everyday for 25 years and I loved it more than I let myself love most people because a motorcycle can't die on you the way a person can. You think I don't know what you're talking about. I've been doing it longer than you've been alive.
Emily stared at him. "So, how do you..." She started. "How do you stop?"
"I didn't," Cole said simply. That's the ugly truth of it. I never learned. I'm 60 years old and I've kept the whole world at arm's length my entire life. And it worked.
It kept me from getting hurt. And it also meant I got to the top of everything and looked around one day and realized I didn't actually let anybody all the way in. Not one person.