Chapter 13
Mason
I’m standing in the living room, staring at Megan as she eagerly points out the new decorations she picked up on her trip into town, a trip I thought was just for groceries.
“It’s…it looks great,” I say, my voice coming out a little too high-pitched to sound natural. I clear my throat, trying to recover.
The stuff is mostly white, a few brown things, and then…purple. And pink. A lot of it.
She’s still talking, waving her hand toward the mantle like she’s hosting her own HGTV show. “I thought the dark purple would make it feel more cozy, you know?”
“Yeah,” I mutter.
Then she heads toward the linen closet, and my stomach drops. I know that look.
“Now,” she says, grinning, “I saved the best for last.”
She pulls out a rolled-up rug and sets it on the floor. I freeze as she unrolls it. It’s pink. Not fully pink, but a lot of it. Bohemian style, little flowers everywhere.
“Oh.” I nod slowly. “It’s a little early to be shopping for the nursery, Meg, don’t you think? I mean, what if we don’t have a girl?”
She blinks at me, confused. “Nursery? Mason, this is for in here. The living room.”
“Oh.” I scratch the back of my neck. “Okay, got ya. Yeah, I mean—”
“It’s cute, right?!” she asks, eyes bright.
“Adorable,” I say, biting my tongue hard.
My dad’s voice echoes in my head—happy wife, happy life—like it’s on a loop.
“I just need help putting it in place,” she says, kneeling down.
“Right. Sure thing.”
I slide the coffee table out of the way and grab the other end of the rug. A tag flutters loose as we roll it out, landing face up in front of me. I glance down and stop cold.
“Two ninety-nine?” I say, picking it up. Then louder, “Two hundred and ninety-nine dollars?! Tell me that’s a joke.”
Megan’s face goes still, like she didn’t expect me to notice. “No. Rugs are expensive, Mason.”
“Holy—” I start, but clamp my mouth shut when I catch her expression. She looks…embarrassed. Small. Like she didn’t mean to make me mad.
I exhale, trying to reel it back in. “Alright,” I say finally, forcing a laugh. “No more rugs after this one though. This one better last a lifetime.”
That gets a smile out of her. It’s soft, real.
“Deal,” she says, leaning in to smooth out a corner.
I grin back, but mine’s mostly to cover the frustration boiling in my chest.
As she fusses with the edges, humming like everything’s perfect, I look around my once neutral living room, seeing the thin glass, the florals, the pink rug, and I realize this is what marriage looks like.
It’s a lot of compromise.
And, apparently, a lot of pink.
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