“She doesn’t have to know.”
“I would know,” I reply, the words firm but quiet. “I should go.”
“We were each other’s first. And I’m right here...” she whispers, untying her robe to reveal a see-through camisole underneath.
I turn away immediately, fixing my gaze on the refrigerator where the magnets from Meesha and my travels create a colorful timeline of our relationship.
“Connor. Don’t you ever wonder—”
“No,” I interrupt, moving toward the hallway. “I love Meesha. This conversation is over.”
“I thought... I misread things.”
“Clearly. I’m here for my mother. Nothing else.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s forgotten,” I say simply.
When I open the front door, I’m met with a wall of white so dense it looks solid. The wind howls through the crack, blasting ice crystals against my face. I can’t even see my truck parked mere feet away.
“Tabarnac,” I mutter, slamming the door shut.
Frédérique stands behind me, concern replacing the earlier invitation on her face. “You can’t drive in that.”
I send a quick text to Meesha.
Storm’s bad. Stay at the hospital. Don’t try to drive home.
Her response comes quickly.
I know, babe. We’re all staying put.
I exhale slowly, but don’t fully relax. Opening my weather app, I check the forecasted path of the storm, estimating how long before it ends.
Six days later, I’m surrounded by wedding paraphernalia in my home office. Tiny bottles of maple syrup cover every surface as I tie each one with a silver ribbon, adding a small card with our names and wedding date. The repetitive motion is a welcome distraction from being stuck in this house with Maman and Frédérique.
“Connor?” Maman calls from the hallway. “You need to eat something, my son.”
“Later,” I answer, reaching for another bag. The storm that trapped me here nearly a week ago has morphed into the worst blizzard Winter Bay has seen during the month of April. Roads remain impassable, even for emergency vehicles, in many areas.
My phone buzzes with Meesha’s daily check-in. For the sixth day, I maintain the illusion that I’m at the rental house, not wanting to worry her with the knowledge that I’m trapped with my ex.
Another crazy shift. Thank God for hospital generators. I miss you so much.
I type back carefully.
Miss you too. Keeping busy with wedding stuff.
That much is true. Unable to escape, I’ve thrown myself into wedding preparations. The seating chart that caused so much debate is now finalized. I’ve confirmed our honeymoon reservations in Ibiza, compiled our music selections for the DJ, and sent final payments to all vendors.
“You’ve been working all day.” Frédérique appears in the doorway with a steaming mug. “Hot chocolate from your mother.”
The scent of rich cocoa is tempting. “Thanks, but I’m good. Tell Maman I appreciate it.”
“You’re quite dedicated,” she observes, gesturing to the maple syrup bottles. “Meesha is lucky.”
“I’m the lucky one,” I reply automatically, tying another ribbon.
