“Do you like Christmas cookies?” She continues, her gaze back on Aiden.
He pulls off his hat and runs a hand through his hair. “Snickerdoodles are my favorite.” My eyes meet Aiden’s over my daughter’s head. They hold questions,so manyquestions.
But, there’s also a hint of teasing.
“My mom makes amazing snickerdoodles.”
“I bet she does.” A smirk plays around his lips, confirming the tease in his gaze.
Heat blooms in my cheeks as more memories from a Christmas long ago flash into my mind.
His moods are giving me whiplash, but part of me is enjoying the torture.
“Mom, we should make some and bring them out here. I bet Mr. Wheeler gets super hungry working on these trees all day.”
“Mr. Wheeler does indeed.”
His smirk has upgraded to a full-blown grin, and I’m baffled by the range of emotions I’ve witnessed in the short time we’ve been here together.
“We’ll have to see about that.” I try to ignore the way he smugly crosses his arms and placates my daughter. “Let’s talk about it later, okay? Go find your friends, and I’ll be over in a minute. We can take some pictures!”
“I want one for my room, with my friends, ok? It was nice to meet you, Mr. Wheeler,” she calls out, waving as she runs toward a group of kids by the cutouts.
Compared to how close we were when Phoebe interrupted us, the distance between us feels like a chasm. I’d like to say I’m happy he’s further away, but the college-aged version of me is wistful for romance and butterflies. And I might’ve enjoyed the way he briefly came to my rescue.
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that way. But again, that’s not why I’m here, or where my focus should be.
There’s no time for romance or butterflies, not with my income hanging precariously in the balance. And not when things would probably end exactly like they did the first time we were together. I press my lips together and cross my arms, mirroring his stance.
I don’t need a fairytale right now; I need a plan and a way to keep the lights on.
His crooked grin chips away at my resolve. “Snickerdoodles, huh?”
“You’re impossible,” I exhale on a sigh.
“So, you have a daughter.” He toes the grass with his boot, silence falling between us again. “She looks just like you, Chlo.”
“So I’ve been told.” The use of my old nickname almost undoes me. There’s too much on my shoulders for all these... feelings. Sparks. Whatever they are. “She could talk to a telephone pole. You don’t have to humor her.”
His eyebrows knit together as he stares at me. “How old is she?”
He wrestles with his emotions, each of them playing across his face like the shadows of a flickering candle. He’s being careful with his words, like he’s trying to say the right things.
In another timeline, maybe we never broke up. Maybe we’d have a daughter or son, or both. And letting myself go to that place only reminds me how unprepared I was to set foot on this soil again.
“She’s eight. Full of questions and curiosity.”
My heart is racing. Based on the way the air between us crackles with energy, it’s clear we have things we still need to say to each other.
But it can’t be here. It needs to be on neutral ground, not somewhere so rooted in memories. The longer I stand here, the deeper I’m pulled into the past, and to my horror, there’s a part of me yearning for him.
Even worse: I want to be wanted. For Phoebe to be wanted. For someone else to help shoulder the invisible weight I carry from sunup to sundown, and to share my day with at the end of it all.
And the terrifying part is how easily I can picture him doing all of it. That kind of wanting doesn’t just put my heart at risk—it puts Phoebe’s there, too.
That’s enough to pull my scattered emotions back into the Aiden-shaped box that belongs at the top of my closet.
“I need to get to work,” he says, a little too fast. Like if he stays one more second, he’ll say something he can’t take back.“Owen gave me a few minutes to sort out some thoughts, and I’ve taken more than my share.”
