I suck in a breath, my heart rate climbing at his touch. “Yep, still can’t stand up without falling over.”
“Mom! Look at all these trees. Can we get one?”
I wince as the moment shatters, hobbling a step or two away from Aiden. This is not exactly how I pictured these two meeting, either. Not that I ever pictured it. (Maybe once or twice on a lonely night.)
Phoebe is a tiny stamp of me, her hair the same chestnut color as mine but pulled into two braids. She skids to a stop, vibrating with the excitement of a field trip.
“You know what, bug? Not today.” With a lot of effort, I crouch down and smooth Phoebe’s braids. It takes everything in me not to whimper in pain as my weight shifts, but a small one escapes anyway.
“I heard that,” Aiden mumbles from behind Phoebe.
Of course, he heard that. Superheroes have super hearing.
She clasps my hands, dragging my full attention back to her. Her eyes are bright, and her little cheeks are rosy from the cold, but also probably from the excitement.
“Because we can’t get it home? I learned so much from Mr. Owen. Do you know that trees take several years to get big enough to cut down? Or that Christmas trees can remove dust and pollen from the air? Isn’t that so cool?”
As usual, Phoebe’s words burst out at record speed—a breathless rush.
“I did not know all of that.” I raise her hands to my lips and kiss them.
Guilt nudges at me. I’d only meant to step away for a minute, not ten or more. It’s so easy to get lost among the trees, especially with Aiden. But that’s not why I’m here.
I came for stability—for her, not for second chances.
Behind my daughter, he takes a step back, eyes wide, like a deer caught in headlights. Is it because I’m a mom, or because in a snapshot of time, it’s easy to see what we could’ve been?
My traitor of a heart leans toward the latter.
It’s clear he’s not sure how to navigate this situation, but—newsflash—neither do I. Doing my best to communicate telepathically, I shoot him a look I hope he remembers well enough to translate to:please, just give me a minute.
“Yep, they also provide oxygen. You know, to help us breathe. Can we plant a tree at our house?”
I blow out a breath at the sheer information she’s tossing at me. “I don’t think we have room at our place right now. There’s hardly any grass around the building.”
“Then can we get one to take home and decorate?” She fists her mitten-covered hands beneath her chin and does a small dance in place.
“You know?—”
Her attention swivels from me to Aiden, and my stomach flips. “Hi! I’m Phoebe Brooks!” She takes a couple of steps toward him, her hand outstretched.
I guess we’re doing this.
“Aiden Wheeler.” His grip is careful, like she’s something fragile.
For a second, I see Aiden from before. The one who loved with his whole, huge heart and could easily love Phoebe, too—if he let himself.
And based on the tenseness of his body, I think he knows it, too.
“LiketheMr. Wheeler from Whispering Pines Tree Farm?”
“The one and only.” He chuckles.
His mood has shifted, and he’s masking, the vulnerable Aiden disappearing behind a wall of business. The tension is still there in his mannerisms, but I only know that because of history. He hides whatever bothers him well. Always has.
“That’s so cool. Mom, he lives on a tree farm,” she practically shrieks, her attention bouncing between the two of us.
I nod, pushing myself to my feet. “That’s very cool, bug.”
