“Pleasure to see you again,” I say, committing both hands to the luggage.
No repeat handshake, thanks.
“I have to say, Chloe, we were surprised when we pulled up.” Her mom’s laugh is light, but her eyes flick between us. “This is an upgrade from the last place.”
A strangled laugh escapes my wife’s throat.
“It’s a beautiful house,” Chloe says, words tumbling, fingers finding her necklace. “Aiden’s family has been here for decades. Maybe he can tell you some about the history later, after you get settled.”
They haven’t even been here five minutes, and Chloe is already redirecting their attention.
Without hesitation, I close the space between us, set one bag down, and gently pry her hand off the chain to lace our fingers.
She squeezes back once:thank you.
“Can I show you your room?” I ask, eager to give Chloe some breathing room. I’ll join her when I’m done.
We’ve already endured a full interrogation without a single question.
“I can do it!” Phoebe grabs both their hands. “Come on! You’re next to my room. Isn’t that the best?”
She tows them away before they can answer.
I take the moment of quiet to press a quick kiss to her forehead.
“If I’m not back in five, send a search party,” I murmur.
The faster I drop these off, the sooner I get back to her. With any luck, Phoebe will keep them admiring the mermaid and unicorn décor for a while.
Their room’s empty when I arrive.
What a relief.
From the next room, Phoebe’s giving a mile-a-minute monologue about mucking a stall in the barn this morning. I dump the bags and hustle back downstairs.
I only met her parents a couple of times while I was in Texas, and maybe a couple more times when I was able to visit. But from what I remember, there’s about a fifty-fifty chance they’ll be impressed with her saga.
“I think Phoebe’s giving them the full stable adventure,” I tell Chloe, laughing. “At her speed, they’ll process maybe ten percent.”
“That’s great,” she says, distracted, fingers back at her necklace.
“Hey.” I step in front of her. “Look at me. Listen to me.” I brush a stray hair behind her ear.
Her eyes refocus, locking on mine. For the first time since we found our way back into each other’s lives, I see it: fear.
I’m going to have to buy her a new necklace if she doesn’t stop white-knuckling the tiny state-shaped charm of Colorado.
“This is going to be fine,” I tell her, tipping her chin so I can see her pine-green eyes. “We’re partners, remember? You don’t have to face them alone.”
Her shoulders round slightly, and she nods. “I just don’t want them to be disappointed in me.”
My heart aches because, from my vantage point, I don’t see how they could possibly be disappointed in her. And I hate that she’s shifting into a different person around them, like they’re a job to manage. Not people who came to make memories.
It hits me all at once: this isn’t nerves. This is muscle memory.
First, I have to get her to relax, then I’ll figure out how to help it shift. I told her, when she first moved in, that her production doesn’t equal her value, but I’m getting a reminder of where she learned it.
Around them, love looks like approval—and approval looks like performance. I’d forgotten about the way she chased Dean’s Lists every semester, eager to prove her competence.
