“All I see when I look around is my parents. And I miss them so much it’s hard to breathe.” He presses a hand to his chest, eyes closing. “But you remind me of the life they made here. The touches they left behind. I forget.”
This Aiden isn’t the one I remember. He was never this open before.
Did grief change him this much?
“Coffee before conditions?” he asks, a smile tugging at his lips.
I ignore his deflection—and the way my heart wobbles over a midday coffee offer—and trail behind him to the kitchen and gape at its size. Two of my kitchens could fit in here.
“You don’t need to make some if it’s not already done. But if it is, then yes. Between late nights editing, single mom life—I practically live off the stuff.”
“Trust me, it’s a staple here too. There’s almost always coffee ready to drink. Early mornings will get you.” He moves through the steps as if it were muscle memory, a melodic series of actions he’s done a thousand times.
“It’s been so long,” I say, drifting toward the window. “I can’t even imagine the scope of what you do out here.”
I’m genuinely mesmerized by the rows of trees, the old red barn, the shuttered outbuildings, and the mountains beyond.
This could be my daily view.
Are you kidding me?
“I gambled on your coffee,” he says, coming beside me with two mugs. “No fancy creamers, just a couple of teaspoons of sugar and some cream. We brew it pretty strong. Fix it if you need to.” He passes me a cup, and we lock eyes for one long moment.
For one wild second, I see two mugs on the counter beyond him. Every morning.
“It’s perfect.” I sip, shifting my attention back to the window. “Thank you.”
“Did I ever tell you the history of this place?”
I open my mouth to tell him yes, then realize I don’t want to deprive him of sharing about his family. It could be good for him.
“Maybe?” I offer instead. “But refresh my memory.”
“My great-grandparents built this as a lodge.” He takes a sip of coffee, his eyes trained on something I can’t see. “Then my grandparents turned it into an inn. They’re the ones who planted the trees. They needed something to keep snow from drifting and to serve as windbreaks. Somewhere along the way, it accidentally became a tree farm.”
His voice is low but steady, and I’m fascinated by how open he’s being. I stay quiet because I want to see how much he’ll tell me.
“My parents are the ones who saw all the holiday potential. I don’t remember a time when this place wasn’t Christmas for at least half the year. It’s too quiet now. I didn’t mean for it to happen... it just did. One season turned into two, and then consequences came calling.”
I curl my hands around my mug because if I don’t, I’m going to do something dumb. Like wrap my arms around him and step back into the past, like I never learned from it the first time around.
Maybe Abby is right, and we’re both kidding ourselves about what this really is. When two people loved each other as much as we did, that doesn’t just go away. Especially since we never really addressed it—we just abandoned it.
And now we’re two people shaped by different shades of grief.
I don’t know the kind of grief that fractures you from the loss. But I know the kind that forms when someone—who is still very much alive—chooses a life without you. And then chooses to pretend you never existed in the first place.
Aiden lost a whole future. Mine abandoned us. But maybe somewhere in the midst of all that, we can teach each other new lessons about choices.
There’s a tiny shake to his hand as he takes another sip from his mug, like he’s worried I’ll say no.
“I choose you.” My cheeks heat as the words burst out before I can consider the implications. “I mean, I’ll be your wife.” I flinch this time. “I’ll marry you.”
All the lights in the house brighten a hair, like it’s spotlighting a new path for us.
His breath catches, relief flashing across his face, followed by the quick shadow of responsibility. He doesn’t once mention my ridiculous word vomit, which makes me eternally grateful.
“I thought I was going to have to beg.”
