Her shoulders are tight, like she’s holding her whole world in place with posture alone. She needs a long bath and a night to herself. Mom always loved those—said the warm water helped her recharge.
“You two planning a cookie decorating day?” I grin.
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. I’ll definitely replay this idiotic moment in my head for at least a week.
Phoebe’s eyes fill, brimming with tears, and the fury in Chloe’s eyes flares bright and raw.
“Bug, would you grab my phone and go watch your show while I talk to Mr. Wheeler over here for a second?”
Phoebe nods glumly. Then she quietly hugs the sprinkles before returning all the things she’s wanted back on the shelf. After digging her mom’s phone out of her bag, she lowers herself onto the lowest shelf, quietly watching it.
I can sense the motherly lashing coming. That feeling never goes away. I’ve seen that look on my own mom’s face, on teachers’, on plenty of women who were done putting up with my nonsense. With Chloe, somehow, it makes me want to stand still, take it all in, and fix everything at once.
Chloe shoos me to a spot a few feet away. For a second, she stares at me, her lips pressed together. It’s probably telling when my urge is to yank her close, kiss her, then offer her the whole world, so hers is immensely less complicated.
“What are you doing?” Her voice comes out tired, rather than angry, as I’d expected.
“It was an honest question.” I shrug, aware I’ve screwed up somehow but not quite sure how.
“I don’t know how long you’ve been standing there, but I’m assuming you heard me tell her no.” She sighs.
There isn’t a good way to answer that, because she isn’t wrong. I definitely did. So I just grimace and shrug.
“Not that I need to explain anything to you, but I have my reasons.”
“Chloe,” I start, gesturing with my hand at the cookie display. “It’s just a few decorations. Just get them for her. There’s no reason to make her cry over a couple of sprinkles.”
I don’t know when I got so terrible at this.
She drops her head and pinches the bridge of her nose. It’s never a good thing, at least not in my experience, when women do that. When she lifts her head again, her green eyes glisten with unshed tears, and a lump lodges itself in my throat.
Decidedly, this feels worse than making her mad.
“You don’t get it.”
That’s stating the obvious. But I figure pointing that out will probably make things worse.
“Do you think I want to say no to Christmas cookie decorations?” She glances over at Phoebe, her hand on her chest.
“I’m going to assume that’s a rhetorical question.”
This is the part of her story I can relate to, on a different level: the quiet math of bills and stretching dollars further than they’re meant to go. Only mine is a self-imposed stress that I’ve refused to address.
“It’s not just my studio. It’s our home,” she adds quietly. “I don’t know if we can even stay there at this point, or where we’ll go if we can’t. Sprinkles aren’t the priority right now. And this isn’t the place to hash it all out.”
She’s right.
The answer to both our issues is staring me in the face, and the longer we stand here, the more obvious it becomes. But that’s also not a conversation for the bakery aisle of the Storywood Ridge Grocery.
A lonely tear blazes a path down her cheek, and without hesitating, I gently wipe it away with the pad of my thumb, hating that I might be part of the reason for it. I know it’s morethan me, but I’m acting dense and adding to her already full plate.
Of course, sprinkles aren’t a priority when your life is falling apart.
It’s just been so long since I saw outside my own circle of grief, it all feels clumsy.
Chloe needs solid.
My fingers pause at her jawline, delicately cradling her face. She reaches up and covers my hand, likely muscle memory from our time together, her eyes bright and glassy with emotion. The moment she touches me, warmth streaks up my arm, like a thaw after a long winter. I’m greedy for the way she makes me feel, like maybe I’m not dead inside, and I curl my fingers just a little tighter.
