Your landlord’s voicemail is still full.
Then another.
Mrs. Smith
I need to know whether or not I should book another session for our Christmas cards. Can you please let me know by the end of the business day?
If I do, I’ll need a refund. Thank you!
Thenanother.
Ms. Paris
Just a friendly reminder that the class party fee is due before Thanksgiving break!
My chest squeezes. I can handle one curveball, maybe two—depending on the severity. But losing the apartment and the studio is more than I can deal with.
The refund requests are piling up faster than I expected, and it’s hard not to take them personally at this point. But I can’t, because I understand. I have nowhere to offer as a substitute, and the schedule is too tight to allow for too much hesitation.
If I send any more, I’ll barely be able to pay next month’s rent. Then, I’m still short on utilities and the class party fee. Which means I’ll have to pay those first, and cross my fingers I’ll keep enough sessions to pay rent.
And this is keeping plans too optimistic. The chances I’ll still have a studio next month feel slimmer with every discovery Daniel makes.
My castle, as Aiden so eloquently put it, is crumbling. Fast.
Across from me, Abby settles, drawing her legs to her chest, hugging them. She eyes me like I might fall apart at any moment, and honestly, I might.
Aiden’s words curl around me, like an uninvited ghost:Maybe this time, you’ll admit it’s too much to carry alone. Maybe this time, you’ll let someone shoulder it with you.
My eyes roam the walls, filled with pictures of Phoebe and me.
Phoebe as a toddler, another at her kindergarten graduation.
Self-portraits of us taken with a self-timer, broad smiles, and imperfect moments.
This decision—whether to accept Aiden’s proposal or not—weighs more than I know how to bear. I hate how much I want someone else to carry some of it for once, and especially how much I want that person to be Aiden.
“You’re hiding something. You seem frustrated by this fake marriage, and I personally cannot seeanythingfrustrating about marrying Aiden Wheeler. The idea might be crazy, but it’s definitely notfrustrating.”
“I don’t need a vocabulary lesson.” I grab the pillow from behind my back and smack her with it. “Iamfrustrated.He dropped the suggestion and didn’t have a clue what came next—what to do with this place, my clients.” I take a long sip of coffee, savoring the blend of cinnamon, nutmeg, and clove.
“You’re not scared of fake. You’re scared of real sneaking in the side door.”
“I am not.” I sigh.
“You didn’t mention Phoebe.”
“What about her?”
Phoebe’s paper chain of twenty-four red and green loops sits on top of a box waiting to move somewhere. She’s early, but that’s my daughter to a tee.
Always prepared for what’s coming. At least one of us is.
I wish one of those loops magically glowed with an answer instead of a number. Like a magic eight ball that isn’t full of vague phrases.
“You said he didn’t have a plan for this apartment or your clients—did he have one for Phoebe?”
I squeeze my eyes closed. “He wants us to move there, instead. He has extra rooms, and she actually seemed like the least of his worries.”
