It’s not all that surprising, really, and it explains the draw to his farm. It always felt most like home.
There are a hundred questions on the tip of my tongue, but I stay quiet.
I know he lost his parents a couple of years ago, and the farm has been quiet ever since. He loved them fiercely—his grief probably feels like a prison sentence he doesn’t know how to end.
His farm is a castle gone dim, all that magic shut up behind locked doors while he walks the halls alone.A beautiful, pine-scented prison with twinkle lights and ghosts in every row.
Between Phoebe’s bedtime stories and my mom’s most recent offer to get us back to Enchanted Hollow—she makes them almost daily at this point—fairytales are heavy on my mind.
But I think I’m where I belong, if I can just get my feet under me again.
I need to remember the promise I made myself. That I wouldn’t entertain the idea of romance unless he felt like someone who would be a partner in the trenches.
Idon’t needa prince of a haunted tree farm.
And yet, some treacherous part of me wonders what it would cost, for both of us, if this grief-struck man became part of my story again. Because wanting him back into our lives feels less like hope and more like a risk that I’m not sure I’m brave enough to survive.
six
AIDEN
I don’t knowwhat I was thinking, asking Chloe to meet me here today. For the last twenty-four hours, I’ve played our conversation on repeat in my head, cringing at appropriate times and aching over others.
This is well outside of my normal. For the last couple of years, I’ve gotten used to everything being delivered, even if it takes longer to get here. It keeps me away from people.
I wasn’t always this way. In fact, I used to duck into downtown small businesses often. Storywood Sweets, most of all.
But instead of feeling encouraged by a town that’s always celebrated our farm, I feel like I’m on display. The oldest son, who inherited the kingdom he didn’t ask for after the tragedy.
I keep my head down and take the back booth.
The pity on everyone’s face and the quiet whispers, the eyes that follow me everywhere. They all make my skin crawl.
Even though the cold outside chills the air on the inside of the giant picture window, I scoot closer to it. Families pass by,parents clutching their children’s hands as they excitedly point to the Christmas decorations slowly going up around downtown. Twinkle lights flicker in the reflection on the glass, framing my face like I’ve been dropped into one of the town’s Christmas stories, and I hate how wrong I look in it without my parents here.
I wonder if I’ll ever get used to it.
Grief tightens its grip on my heart, urging me to reschedule. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to Chloe—I don’t want to deal with all ofthis. Evelyn and Owen recently started referring to me as Scrooge and the Grinch. Apparently, all I do is grumble about decorating the farm, but it isn’t because I hate Christmas.
It’s because I hate what it reminds me of.
Our family was shattered to pieces one cold night in December, and things haven’t ever been the same.
I squeeze my eyes closed, as if I can will away the memories. Dean Martin sings over the speakers about how cold it is outside. The old speakers crackle right on the word “home,” like even the sound system is reminding me of my loss.
This song always played nonstop during this season on the farm.
Things won’t get better if I don’t stop doing this to myself. But it’s hard when—for a time—it’s all our world revolved around.
So I force my mental attention to the one person whoisstill here. Chloe. And naturally, I flip through our brief reconnection yesterday—for the hundredth time—like pictures in a catalogue. While it eases the grief I’m feeling about my family, it shifts into new territory.
Like how long she’s been here, and why she isn’t in Texas. How long has she been raising her daughter alone?
Questions bubble up in my chest.
The smell of warm sugar and vanilla in the air makes my stomach growl. Mom always baked endless treats for the holidays. For a second, I feel like I could turn and see her at the stove behind the counter, humming.
“Hey, honey, long time no see. You’ve been scarce around these parts.” An older woman stands at the end of the table, her eyes crinkling as she smiles.
