Aiden’s tax deadline ticks like a metronome in the back of my skull—December 15th, then January 2nd.
If I say yes, I uproot my daughter. If I say no, I could lose Christmas, clients, and the roof over our heads. Everything I’ve built here will vanish. And Aiden could lose the very thing that tore us apart to begin with.
All that pain we bled through a decade ago would be for nothing.
The last time I built my life around a man, he offered me certainty, then left me with a baby and a heap of broken promises. Before that, Aiden gave me silence over certainty, and then chose the trees over me.
Somewhere along the way, I learned to avoid risk. Renting my studio was the first time, in a long time, where I leapt without over-analyzing it to death. I stopped waiting for something to happen back home, for a happily ever to land in our laps.
And somehow, I’m right back in front of the man who taught me how much hope and uncertainty cost you. Howriskythey are.
Wanting him again would feel like volunteering to be abandoned twice. Needing him… well, that would cost more than I’m willing to give.
If I do this, I have to keep my independence.
“I can’t think,” I whisper.
Overwhelmed, I shove to my feet and walk to the window. There isn’t much to see beyond the darkness except the moon sitting low in the sky. It’s snowing again, which means I’ll have to get up early and shovel the sidewalk and driveway. Less than ideal circumstances to pack up and move away from here, and I don’t even know how long we’ll be gone or when we’ll come back.
Abby is opening her home to us with open arms, but it’s not a long-term solution. Aiden is offering his, but there are strings because of our history.
If I turn down this marriage proposal, we can’t live there. My heart couldn’t handle that, and it wouldn’t be fair to him.
Tomorrow means phone calls, packing, and shifting my life. Worse, tomorrow means consequences for anything I choose tonight.
“I know it’s a lot.” Aiden doesn’t move from the couch, like he thinks I need to process this alone.
Usually, I’d want space. Tonight, I don’t.
I draw in a massive breath, then blow it out.
“Let’s work through this,” I say, turning back toward him. “Knowing your dad, he set the one-year rule because he wanted to know the marriage would last. People don’t fake it for a year unless something real starts to grow.”
His mouth sets in a hard line. “I hadn’t really thought about the why behind the stipulations.”
“Oh no, I’m sure you hadn’t.” A laugh escapes me, inappropriate as it sounds.
His father was a wonderful man, but control seemed to be his love-language. The need to control Aiden’s life was what ultimately tore us apart, and now it’s pushing us together.
The irony hurts.
It was about control then, and it’s about conditions now. Two sides of a coin, only with the same ache and a different wound.
“Why are you laughing?” His brows draw together. “Is the idea of marrying me that comical?”
This only makes me laugh harder, which in turn makes me feel awful. He’s so concerned I’ll say no because it’s him, when he’s honestly the only reason I’m considering a yes.
Despite the risks.
I’m laughing because this whole situation is absurd: my studio, his farm, his father’s rules. Absolutely absurd.
“No,” I say quickly. “I’m laughing because this feels like one of those terrible romcoms Abby and I love to hate. The kind where everything goes wrong because no one’s allowed to have a normal conversation.”
“Is the idea of us starring in a romcom so terrible?” He murmurs with a raised eyebrow that makes my mouth go dry.
Suddenly, it’s not funny at all. The image of us, as a family, settles into my heart like it’s got its own zip code.
The idea is the exactoppositeof terrible.
