Abby reaches back into her tote like she’s pulling a rabbit from a hat and produces a tube of lipstick.
“You’ll have to kiss him to seal the deal, but it can be purely ceremonial.” She twists the tube of lipstick and grins. “One quick smooch, and done.”
I laugh, despite myself, and she swipes it on with exaggerated care.
I’m not sure I’m capable of that, but I’ll try.
“There,” she declares. “Now go find your groom before I start crying and ruin your face.”
My stomach swoops at the word groom.
The room feels too warm all of a sudden, like I’m being smothered in an electric blanket. I slip out into the hallway to breathe, then take the extra couple of steps into the living room, the cold air from the windows reaching for me like a friend.
Outside the glass, snow drifts past the glass in slow, lazy spirals.
Aiden stands on the porch, coat collar up, phone to his ear as he talks quietly to someone—Owen, probably—his breath fogging in the air.
He turns, as if he feels me looking.
Our eyes catch through the window.
And my body forgets every rule I just made.
twenty-four
AIDEN
When we agreedto this two days ago, I joked with Chloe that I’d never forget our anniversary because it’s on Thanksgiving.
Turns out I won’t forget for a different reason: the image of her in a wedding dress is officially branded on my brain.
She’s at the living room window like she’s trying to borrow courage from the snow, unaware I’m watching. The glass reflects her image—white dress, lace sleeves, and her dark waves tousled—like the house is urging us to accept that somehow, we’ve passed fake and this isveryreal.
I’m not ready for that yet, but my pulse is thrumming like it’s irrelevant.
My breath fogs in the collar of my coat.
I’m on the porch, mesmerized and pretending like I’m not fighting the urge to run to her, while Owen yaps in my ear about Opening Day logistics.
“Don’t forget to salt the drive again, check the wreath hooks, and don’t forget the extra stands for the gate.”
I glance away for just a second, my eyes following the snow as it falls a little heavier. When I glance back, our eyes catch through the window.
And the farm—impossibly—stills, like someone pressed pause.
The wind drops. A strand of lights along the porch beam stops its lazy flicker and steadies. The scent of pine sharpens like someone just snapped a branch in the cold.
Even the old porch boards stop their complaining.
Owen keeps talking.
I keep staring.
Chloe blinks first, her lips curving into a smile. Her hand rises in a small wave, and I think it might be the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.
I can’t stand a wall of windows between us anymore.
“Hey,” I say into the phone, voice rough. “I’ve got to go.”
