3. Micah
Micah
Back in my kitchen, I lean against the counter and replay the conversation with Aria in my head. My heart is still beating a little faster than usual—a side effect of taking such a ridiculous risk. But she hadn’t immediately shut me down, which was more than I’d dared hope for.
I pour myself a cup of coffee and glance out the window toward her backyard. The circular pillow where Dean had fallen asleep on my lap still lies on the grass. The weight of him had been surprisingly comforting—his complete trust as he settled against my chest, tiny fingers curled around mine.
Something about that moment had felt significant in a way I couldn’t quite name.
The coffee is bitter on my tongue, but I welcome the jolt.
I’d expected stuttering awkwardness when I approached Aria with my ridiculous request. Instead, our conversation had flowed easily, punctuated by Dean’s contented babbling.
There was an unexpected ease between us, as if we’d known each other far longer than a few casual fence-side chats.
My phone buzzes on the counter—Mom’s smiling face appearing on the screen. I take a deep breath before answering.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hello, sweetheart! How’s my favorite son today?” Her voice carries the same warmth and energy it always has, a force of nature compressed into my phone speaker.
I smile despite myself. “I’m your only son, Mom.”
“All the more reason for you to be my favorite,” she counters with a laugh. “How are things in beautiful Birch Springs?”
I glance out the window again, at the golden late afternoon light making the trees glow. “Same as always. Quiet. Peaceful.”
“And lonely?” she adds, the question casual but loaded.
I bite back a sigh, choosing my words carefully. “I’m not lonely, Mom. I’m busy with the studio, and I have friends here.”
“Friends are wonderful, but...” She trails off meaningfully.
“But they’re not what you have in mind,” I finish for her. “I know.”
“I just worry about you, Micah. That house is too big for one person.”
It’s an old conversation, one we’ve been having since I bought the three-bedroom house five years ago. I’d fallen in love with its character, the way light floods through the windows, the backyard perfect for summer barbecues. Mom had seen only empty spaces waiting to be filled with a family.
“Actually, I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” I say before I can stop myself. “I’ve been spending time with someone.”
The words hang in the air, not quite a lie but certainly not the full truth. It’s just vague enough that I could claim a misunderstanding later if Aria decides against my scheme.
“Spending time with someone?” Mom repeats, her voice rising with interest. “What does that mean exactly?”
I move to the living room, sinking into my favorite armchair. “It means I’ve been getting to know my neighbor. She moved in a few months ago.”
“A female neighbor,” Mom clarifies, as if making sure she’s understanding correctly.
“Yes, Mom. A woman lives next door to me. It’s not that unusual.”
“Don’t be smart,” she scolds, but I can hear the smile in her voice. “Tell me about her! What’s she like? What does she do?”
I find myself smiling, picturing Aria as I’d just left her. “Her name’s Aria. She works at the veterinary clinic and she’s...” I pause, searching for the right words. “She’s interesting. Easy to talk to.”
“Interesting,” Mom repeats, sounding thoroughly unimpressed by my description. “Is she pretty?”
“Mom,” I groan.
“What? It’s a simple question.”
I roll my eyes even though she can’t see me. “Yes, she’s very attractive. But that’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point, Micah? Are you dating this girl or not?”
The direct question catches me off guard, and I hesitate a beat too long.
“Oh! You are!” Mom exclaims, interpreting my silence as confirmation. “Why didn’t you just say so?”
“I didn’t say that,” I protest, but it sounds weak even to my ears.
“But you’re thinking about it,” Mom presses, her intuition as unnervingly accurate as always.
I sigh, rubbing my forehead. “Look, it’s... complicated.”
“Love always is, sweetheart.”
“I didn’t say anything about love, Mom.”
She makes a dismissive sound. “I’m bringing those oatmeal chocolate chip cookies you love. The ones with the secret ingredient.”
The abrupt change of subject is so typical of her that I can’t help but laugh. “Secret ingredient? You mean the extra cinnamon you think no one notices?”
“Micah Alexander Sutton! Don’t you dare tell anyone that recipe. It’s a family secret.”
“Who would I tell?” I ask, grinning.
“Your neighbor girlfriend, for one.”
I don’t bother correcting her this time. “I’m not sure they’d let you bring a suitcase full of cookies through airport security.”
“Let them try to stop me,” she says with such conviction that I almost feel sorry for any TSA agent who might question her. “Anyway, I should go finish packing. My flight is the day after tomorrow.”
“I’ll be there to pick you up,” I promise. “Text me when you land.”
“I will. Love you, sweetie.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
I set my phone down and exhale slowly. That conversation could have gone worse, but now Mom definitely expects to meet Aria—girlfriend status or not. The pressure to convince Aria has just increased tenfold.
But I can’t go back over there so soon. The ball is in her court, and pushing would only make me seem desperate.
I spend the next few hours in my home office, editing photos from yesterday’s senior portrait session.
The MacKenzie twins had wanted something “edgy and artistic” that would still please their conservative grandparents—a challenging balance to strike.
I lose myself in the work, the familiar rhythm of selecting, adjusting, enhancing.
By late afternoon, I’ve finished the entire set and sent the proofs to their mother for review. I stretch, my back stiff from hunching over the computer.
The sudden ring of my phone startles me. Unknown number. Probably a telemarketer, but I answer anyway.
“Micah Sutton.”
“Hey there, Micah Sutton.” Aria’s voice, warm and slightly teasing, sends an unexpected current through me.
“Aria,” I say, unable to keep the smile from my voice. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”
“Just finished work, actually. What’s up?”
There’s a brief pause on her end. “I was wondering if you had dinner plans tonight?”
My heart rate picks up a notch. “No specific plans. Why do you ask?”
“Well,” she says, a hint of humor in her voice, “Dean and I were just discussing our evening, and he suggested we invite you over. I’m making chicken pot pie.”
I find myself grinning at the image of Aria having a serious conversation with her eight-month-old about dinner guests. “Did he now? Dean must be quite the conversationalist.”
She laughs, the sound bright and genuine. “Oh yes, very opinionated about dinner companions. So, are you free around six?”
“For homemade pot pie? Absolutely.”
“Great,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Just a warning—I’m also making pureed vegetables for Dean. Green beans and pumpkin. You’re not obligated to try those.”
“I don’t know, sounds pretty gourmet to me,” I joke. “Six o’clock works perfectly.”
“See you then.”
After we hang up, I stand in my kitchen for a moment, processing what just happened. An invitation to dinner could mean anything—a neighborly gesture, a chance to discuss my proposal further, or maybe even her way of saying yes to the whole arrangement.
Whatever her intentions, I find myself looking forward to it with an eagerness that catches me off guard. I glance at the clock: 4:30. I have plenty of time to shower and change before heading next door.
Under the shower spray, I consider what this dinner invitation might mean. If she’s going to agree to my plan, we should probably establish some ground rules. What backstory should we create for our “relationship”? How recent is it supposed to be?
These questions spin through my mind as I dress in dark jeans and a blue button-down shirt that my ex-girlfriend once told me matched my eyes. I hesitate, then roll the sleeves up to my elbows—more casual, less like I’m trying too hard.
At 5:55, I head next door, a small bouquet of wildflowers from my garden in hand. It feels like the right gesture—appreciative but not overly romantic. The flowers are bright yellows and purples, cheerful without being too intimate.
Standing on Aria’s porch, I take a deep breath before knocking. Whether she’s agreeing to my scheme or just being neighborly, something tells me this evening will change things between us. I’m just not sure exactly how.
I knock, listening to the soft footsteps approaching from inside. When the door swings open and Aria stands there in a simple light blue dress, her hair falling loosely around her shoulders, I’m momentarily at a loss for words.
“Right on time,” she says, her green eyes meeting mine with a warmth that makes my carefully rehearsed greeting evaporate completely.
I hold out the flowers, finding my voice again. “For the chef. And her very discerning dinner consultant.”
Aria’s smile widens as she accepts them, and something shifts in the air between us—a subtle change that feels significant in ways I can’t yet define.
“Come in,” she says, stepping back to welcome me into her home.
As I follow her inside, I realize I’m holding my breath, waiting to see what the evening will bring. Whatever happens, I have a feeling it’s going to be more complicated than I initially planned.
And strangely, I’m okay with that.