eleven
AIDEN
My mother’ssolution to most problems revolved around food. If we felt sick? Here’s some soup. Had a bad dream? I’ll make waffles. Rough day? Fresh plate of cookies.
It’s one of the things I love and miss most about her. If I have a rough day now, I have to make those things for myself. I can do a lot of things, but baking isn’t one of them. And buying baked goods elsewhere doesn’t have the same effect.
Somewhere deep in the pine line of Storywood Ridge, a gust hums a minor chord—soft and unplaceable. It reminds me of the farm, where the trees still remember Christmas even when I pretend I’ve forgotten it.
My mother is why it feels natural for me to show up at Chloe’s house with food to apologize and a present to make Phoebe’s day a little brighter.
And maybe shoulder a little of Chloe’s plate.
To make up for overstepping, I stopped by the store and bought the works. Cookie dough, icing, cutters of all kinds, and all the decorations I can grab. Kids need to decorate sugarcookies. It’s a non-negotiable tradition that’s always been one of my favorites.
One glance in my rearview makes me wonder if I’ve gonetoofar. The backseat of my car has too much for one baking session.
Our farm might’ve struggled here and there over the years, but that’s something I can say for my parents—no matter what the world was like outside our home, we still had the traditions.
Since Chloe is struggling—by no fault of her own—I want to make sure Phoebe doesn’t miss out either.
My truck rolls to a stop in front of her studio, and I gaze up where warm light fills the windows of her space.
Grief can’t ignore the spirit of the season forever. Maybe the farm always knew that, and I’m finally remembering. Either way, it’s what Mom would do if she were here.
But she’d probably feel a lot steadier about it.
I don’t want Chloe to think I’m trying to upstage her. That’s not what this is. Coming from anyone else, it probably wouldn’t even occur to her. It’s a problem with a solution, and lately I’ve felt fresh out of those.
ButthisI can fix.
Nervous, I turn the ignition off and grab the bags of goodies, along with the poinsettias—one for each side of her fireplace—I bought on a whim for Chloe.She always loved the bright colors, and notoriously stuffed her spaces full with anything Christmas she could get her hands on. When I saw them in the store, I grabbed two without giving it much thought.
Now I feel like a man on a first date who should’ve givenall of thisa whole lot more thought.
The world pauses for just a moment, then snow slides from the roofline with a tiny sigh.
My truck reverberates when I close my door, and I make my way up her shoveled sidewalk and up the stairs that lead to asecondary door—her residence. I juggle the plants and bags and press the doorbell, letting a shaky breath escape.
When the door swings open, pine-colored eyes blink in surprise.
“Aiden? What are you?—”
“I might’ve done something. Don’t be mad; it’s for a good cause.” My cheeks heat, and I shrug, the bags and poinsettia pots rustling and crinkling with my movement.
Her eyes narrow, and she crosses her arms. She is the cutest, most annoyed woman I’ve ever seen.
My heart thuds an uninvited note against my ribs. These feelings are inconvenient and growly with want when I don’t reserve the right to want anything.
But this moment feels so domestic, I can’t help it.
“Why are you here? Did you think of another way to dog on my parenting skills?” She tips her head to the side.
I huff out a breath and adjust my armful of groceries.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
Chloe opens her mouth to say something sharp, but the lights above us flicker—once. Then twice. Too steady to be electrical.
