He stands, stepping toward the bed.
I hold up a hand. “I’m fine,” I say, even though my voice wobbles. “It was a long time ago.”
His mouth draws into a hard line, and he ignores my attempt to deflect. By the time he makes it to my side of the bed, a traitor tear slides down my cheek.
“You’re not fine,” he says softly, brushing it with his thumb.
“But Iam. I wasn’t then, but I am now. I chose wrong, and for a long time, it felt like every day was a reminder of that.”
Especially when I never slept. Phoebe was a miserable baby, and for months, the only way she’d sleep was on me. For a short stint, I couldn’t even sit down without upsetting her sensitive tummy.
It was hard—so hard—but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
He studies me, his jaw working. “Why him, Chlo?”
I don’t mean to, but I shift out of his touch. Just barely. This is a harder truth than talking about being left with an infant, because Trevor was right on the heels of our breakup.
“I don’t expect you to understand it,” I whisper.
“Try me. Please.” His voice is equally quiet.
“He was confident, I guess? Trevor never wavered. If he wanted something, he went after it.”
Aiden winces, and I pretend I didn’t see it.
“He had plans,” I add softly. “And I fit neatly into them. Looking back, I can’t believe I wanted to ‘fit neatly’ anywhere, but?—”
“I couldn’t give you that,” he finishes for me. “Every time you tried to plan our future, I couldn’t figure out how to blendour worlds.” His chest heaves with shorter breaths. “I’m sorry, Chloe. It’s not an excuse, but I didn’t understand that every time I asked you to wait, I was also pushing you away.”
Aiden’s words heal something in my early twenty-something-year-old heart.
“I would’ve waited as long as you needed, Aiden. All I needed was reassurances that we were working toward something together.”
I move closer to him on the bed, closing the space I created between us.
He’s quiet for a long moment, studying my face. “Do you have that now?”
“Well, you married me, didn’t you?” I joke, but it falls flat.
Aiden’s eyes crinkle around the edges. “Took me ten years longer than it should’ve to make you my wife, but yeah. Still doesn’t answer my question.”
“I think we’re working toward that,” I say carefully. “There’s no rush.”
He huffs out a breath, but doesn’t say anything, so I know he doesn’t love that answer. Maybe after we’ve acclimated to sharing a bedroom and the dust has settled from having our families under one roof, I can give him a more honest one.
It’s all too chaotic for me right now.
“Safer subject then. What happened with teaching? Where did photography come from?”
“I wouldn’t call this a safer subject.”
He growls. “What does that mean, Chloe? How is it not safer?”
“I started photography classes in my senior year of college. Originally, it started as an elective to fill the last of my credits, but then I realized I was good at it.”
His face softens to something that looks almost wounded. “You never told me that. Why?”
“You were busy with the farm. Every time we talked, you seemed distracted with your dad or whatever was happening here, so I just kept it to myself.”
