For a heartbeat, the grocery store falls away, and it’s just her and me and the same pull that’s been there since we were young, sneaking kisses between the trees.
It’s harder than it should be, not to tug her toward me and tuck her into my chest. She looks like she needs someone else to be strong, for just a second.
“You okay?” I keep my voice low, so hopefully Phoebe won’t hear.
“All good.” She smiles, the strain clear when it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
And then she takes a step back, whatever magical bubble we were in, bursting unceremoniously.
I know without a doubt she’s downplaying her finances and her state of mind.
If this were a fairy tale, I’d whisk her to a kitchen that never runs out of sugar. Instead, I’ve got a trust with strings and a farm on a clock.
But I do have an empty guest room that doesn’t drip. Several of them.
“Did you have a baby this morning?”
“What?” She blinks at me, like she’s waking up from a spell.
“You’ve got a little something there.” I point at a spot on her shoulder that looks questionable. It either came from a baby or a bird.
She glances down, and her shoulders drop. “I did. I met them at their house and performed a small miracle in their living room. It’s great to know that I’ve been walking around all day with baby throw-up on my shoulder. Fantastic.” She closes her eyes and blows out a breath.
“Hazard of the job.”
She raises her eyebrows in surprise as she looks up at me. Yes, I listened the other night when she nervously babbled about everything she does.
“Yes, actually.”
“You look beautiful anyway.”
The tips of her ears turn red, and she turns away from me.
“Hey, Bug, you ready to head home?” She glances over at Phoebe, who nods at her as she stands, looking almost as defeated as her mother had moments before.
“I’ll talk to you later?”
She nods as she wraps her arm around Phoebe and heads the opposite direction from me down the aisle. Their cart squeaks a little as they go, and something in my chest squeaks with it, like a door I’ve kept shut too long swinging on rusty hinges.
I glance at my watch, noting that I have just enough time to drop the groceries off at the house, with time left over for a special delivery back at hers.
We loved each other once. And if nothing else, she isn’t a stranger.
I tell myself this isn’t a real marriage, just help, but deep down, I know it’s not that cut and dry.
It feels wrong and right in the same breath—like asking her to move into a castle that’s only half lit and surrounded by a grief-filled moat, instead of one that’s bursting with light and love.
But I don’t know how else to help.
Except this.
I’ve spent years refusing to let a piece of paper decide my life. But Chloe needs somewhere safe to live, and Phoebe needs a Christmas that doesn’t fall apart.
If signing my name next to Chloe’s keeps the farm standing and gives her daughter a dry place to sleep, then maybe this isn’t a bargain at all.
It’s the first step toward bringing life back into the house and creating stability for all of us.
I turn the cart toward the registers, already knowing what I’m about to ask her, and bracing for the moment she tells me no.
