I stand too. She waves off my help, then pulls me into a hug before she heads down the hall. I stand there a long beat after the lights click off, already rehearsing how I’m going to tell Chloe the truth I should’ve told her years ago.
forty
CHLOE
We’re onlytwo days away from Christmas, and Phoebe’s fever breaks sometime after dawn.
After a decent stretch of holding her normal temperature, I draw her a bath that she says, “feels like the best bath she’s ever had”, and I believe her. She was sticky with sweat when I peeled her pajamas away.
I brush her hair, then let her pick out an outfit, and don’t force her to put up with my drying her hair. She needs a few kid moments while the family is still here, so she can enjoy them.
But I’ll make sure she doesn’t push too hard.
After I pull all her sheets and blankets off the bed, I head toward the laundry room and pause when Aiden comes into view, seated at the head of the table.
“She slept,” I say quietly. “I think the fever is finally gone.”
I lean on the wall, arms full, letting the relief roll through me.
He looks up from his tablet, a mug of coffee sitting untouched nearby. His shoulders drop a fraction.
“Good,” he says. “That’s—I can’t believe how much better I feel.”
“I told you that you didn’t know what you were inviting into this house. But I expected the germs to hold off a bit longer.”
He shrugs. “Still not sorry for it.”
The noise level seems high for 10 a.m., but we’ve lived in a state of semi-chaotic existence since my family got here. So it’s not surprising.
My mom’s voice drifts in from the living room, animated as she reads a book to Phoebe. Carter shouts something unintelligible about an issue with the Snowcat tour he wanted to go on, and Reid tells him to shut up. My dad tells them both to behave, and somewhere outside, boots stomp on the porch. Probably Owen coming in from the fields.
“I’m going to start this load—on, sanitize—wash my hands, and start breakfast. Does that work?”
“Evie covered it already,” he says softly, pointing toward the counters.
My eyes follow the direction he’s pointing, and snag on the fancy boxes laid out with multiple options. Donuts, pastries, sausage rolls.
“Oh.”
His brows draw together. “I think she was trying to help since she knows you’ve had your hands full with Phoebe.”
“It’s very thoughtful.” I nod.
My feet propel me toward the laundry room, so I don’t say anything else that might not sound grateful.
Because I am. It’s probably the nicest thing she’s done since we moved in here.
I open the washer, fully prepared to be frustrated, there’s a load already there—but it’s empty. Ignoring the sharp, disorienting feeling in my chest, I shove Phoebe’s sheets in and start the load.
It’s completely irrational to be upset that the washer is empty. Or because I don’t have to stand on my feet and cook breakfast for nine people. I’m only bothered by the lack of chores because doing something keeps me in front of people.
I’m afraid of disappearing.
Somehow, this house has shifted into a high-functioning machine I would’ve practically begged for a month ago. But I don’t know what to do with it.
Christmas is around the corner, and shopping is done. All my photography sessions are shot, and I’ve got turnaround room to spare. There’s no laundry to be done, no food to cook. My sick child has an entire living room of people to entertain her.
For the first time that I can remember, I don’t know what to do with the stillness. And worse, I don’t know how to process this ache—thispanic—that I could slip out of this house and take a quiet drive, and no one would notice.
