He’s probably avoiding calls because he knows if the drywall is toast, there’s untold devastation in her walls. And he’s responsible for all of it.
I’ve offered to help clear more out of her studio, and her response was, “I’ve got it, Aiden.” And the stupid part of me keeps wishing she’d let me be the guy who actually gets to help, instead of the guy doing it quietly behind the scenes.
I think…that I want to stand next to her in all of this. And it seems both too soon and too late. Maybe second chances force you to hold two opposing truths about your choices at the same time.
My truck idles in the parking spot of the grocery store parking lot, and I glance again at the list Owen has thrown together, listing things I need to pick up for our opening. As soon as we cross one thing off, two more jump onto the list.
At the moment, it feels like we’re hemorrhaging money, and I feel like a caged rat.
A caged rat in a Christmas village, surrounded by twinkle lights and cheer, growling at spreadsheets like the beast in his own enchanted lodge.
Thisis where my focus needs to be—not on the woman I left behind a decade ago. There’s no room in my life or schedule for a relationship and parenthood.
My email dings again, and instinct overrides my promise to myself that I will stop checking my email outside of office hours. A decision I regret as soon as I see another reminder from the Colorado Department of Revenue. I’ve got until December 15th to pay the full amount, or the lien process starts on January 2nd.
And once that lien starts, they won’t just send notices. They’ll start taking pieces of the farm. Everything my family built over generations—the outhouses, Dad’s Santa Barn, our home—gets sold off one auction at a time.
The words on the screen blur for a second.
I stopped paying attention to the numbers like I should’ve, like ignoring them might press pause on my grief. It didn’t, but at least shifted it from searing-hot pain to a whole-body ache. The farm is supposed to be my legacy, not my mistake, but right now the two feel uncomfortably similar.
There’s still a way to pull it off.Even though it feels like a terrible idea.
Sure, it solves my financial issues, and hers as well. But, we don’t need marriage—even the fake kind. That still comes with responsibilities and ramifications.
I wouldn’t hesitate if Phoebe weren’t in the mix. We’ll know it’s not real, but she won’t. And that’s why I can’t justify bringing it up to Chloe.
Plus, farm hours are long hours, and I’m not used to balancing. Especially not when I’m trying to make up for lost time.
Dad’s trust was meant to protect the farm, but sometimes it feels like a curse—marry for money or watch the land disappear. I’ve never wanted anyone,especiallyChloe, anywhere near that kind of bargain.
And I don’t want a deal to be the reason a kid has a safe bedroom.
But if things get worse, and my gut says they will, going home to her parents in Texas is probably her best option. There’s no reason for her to stay when her studio is unusable and they don’t have a place to stay.
Except that she’s fought to make roots here.
Except that, not all that deep down, the thought of losing Chloe when wejustfound each other again sits heavily in my stomach.
I run my hands down my face and climb out of the truck. Clutching the list, I race across the crosswalk to beat a row of cars and grab a cart on the way into the store.
The automatic doors whoosh open with a little chime, the same soft jingle that plays all over the Ridge this time of year. Today, it feels like ominous foreshadowing.
But it’s probably just the town messing with me.
Daniel
Ceiling seams upstairs are bowing.
I need them out for 2-3 days, minimum.
Me
More good news.
I sigh and scrub a hand down my face.
The second I called in help, I made this an “us” problem. It wasn’t intentional. I was just trying to help. Now I feel like it’s my responsibility to make sure that she’s safe.
