Not because they’d call me out, or scream that we’re faking this whole thing. My parents would never embarrass me like that, even if they suspected it. They’ll just go silent. Their disappointment will fill the room like smoke, and it’ll be worse than yelling.
And Phoebe will pick up on it. She always does. Then, we’ll have to haveanotherconversation about why my mother nitpicks me to death in the name of “love”.
I squeeze my eyes shut and inhale slowly.
Okay. Deep breaths, Chloe.
Damage control.
I sit here for too long, attempting the world’s biggest pep rally in my brain, but it’s like the sound system died and half the cheerleaders are injured. My nervous system can’t hack it.
Out of habit, I twirl the rings on my finger. The ones that symbolize a line I knew I’d never bounce back from, but crossed anyway.
This was supposed to be sensible.
Survival.
A solution to both our problems.
And I’m pretty sure it’s only forcing me to lie to myself, every day, about how I’m not in love with my husband.
My mother is going to see how far gone I am, and it’s going to be terrible.
When I can’t take it anymore, I stand and walk down the hall to Aiden’s office. I take longer than I should to get there, my hands sweaty by the time I knock.
I’m less concerned about disrupting his work and infinitely more concerned about how he’s going to handle a crowd during the toughest time of year for him.
“Aiden?” I ask quietly, sort of hoping he won’t hear me.
“Come on in,” he calls.
Of course, his voice is steady.Of course it is.
The man acts like he’s built out of cedar and responsibility. And I’m about to come in here with an axe and whittle him down.
I crack the door like it’s a shield and peek around it.
He’s leaned back in his leather chair, paperwork spread across the desk. He looks up with one eyebrow raised, the warm wood walls making him look even more like he belongs in this house. Like this farm is stitched into his bones.
My brain, ever the avoider, immediately starts redecorating.
Metal prints would modernize the space. A gallery wall on that empty paneling—photos of his trees, with his siblings, our wedding photo.
That would be a perfect Christmas present idea.
Focus.
“Chloe.”
I blink. His attention is on me like a spotlight.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, already shoving to his feet. “Are you okay? Is Phoebe okay?”
“I’m fine,” I rush. “Phoebe is fine too.”
A fraction of tension eases out of him, but he doesn’t sit back down. Like he needs proof, he walks closer, concern etched into his face.
“What’s going on? It looks serious.”
