4. Aria
Aria
Iaccept a bouquet of flowers from Micah, feeling a blush warm my cheeks. The gesture is thoughtful without being overly romantic—perfect for our complicated situation. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”
“Nothing compared to the smell of whatever you’re cooking,” he says, sniffing appreciatively as I step back to let him in.
“Just my grandmother’s chicken pot pie recipe. Nothing fancy.” I lead him into the open kitchen and dining area where Dean immediately spots Micah and lets out a squeal of delight, tiny legs kicking against the highchair.
“Hey, buddy!” Micah’s face softens with genuine pleasure. “Look at you, all ready for dinner in your fancy bib.”
Dean reaches out, fingers grasping at the air between them, and I can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. In the four months we’ve lived here, I’ve never seen him respond to anyone the way he does to Micah. It’s as if he recognizes something in him that I’m just beginning to see myself.
“He’s been excited all afternoon,” I say, finding a crystal vase my grandmother gave me and filling it with water for the flowers. “I swear he knew you were coming over.”
“Smart kid,” Micah says, gently touching Dean’s outstretched hand. “Must take after his mom.”
The compliment catches me off guard, and I focus on arranging the flowers to hide the pleased smile I can’t quite suppress. When I turn back, Micah has pulled a chair close to Dean’s highchair and is having what appears to be a serious conversation with my son about the merits of pureed vegetables.
“—totally underrated,” he’s saying earnestly. “People think you need fancy ingredients, but really, it’s all about simplicity.”
Dean responds by blowing a raspberry, which makes Micah laugh.
“Exactly my point,” he agrees, as if Dean had made a particularly insightful comment.
I feel something loosen in my chest—a tightness I hadn’t even realized was there. This easy interaction between them settles a fear I’ve carried since finding out I was pregnant: that Dean would miss out on these moments, these casual connections with people who genuinely care.
“Dinner’s ready,” I announce, setting the steaming pot pie on the table alongside a fresh salad. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“Starving,” Micah confirms, moving to the chair across from mine.
As we settle in to eat, a comfortable silence falls between us. The kitchen is bathed in the golden light of early evening, filtering through the gauzy curtains I hung last month. For the first time since moving in, the house feels truly lived-in—warm and full in a way it hasn’t before.
“This is incredible,” Micah says after his first bite, eyes widening with appreciation. “Seriously, Aria. I haven’t had homemade pot pie like this since I was a kid.”
“Like I mentioned, it’s my grandmother’s recipe,” I explain, pleased by his reaction. “She used to say good food is like a good photograph—it captures a moment and preserves it.”
Micah looks up, expression thoughtful. “That’s surprisingly profound. Your grandmother sounds like she was quite a woman.”
“She was. She taught me everything I know about cooking.” I pause, memories washing over me. “Even before she passed, she always told me to find my own path, not just follow the one laid out for me.”
“Sounds like she knew what she was talking about,” Micah says softly.
Dean chooses this moment to bang his small fist on the highchair tray, demanding attention.
“Someone’s feeling left out of the conversation,” I laugh, turning to him. “Though he already had his dinner. Made quite a mess of it too, didn’t you?”
“Not a fan of pureed pumpkin?” Micah asks, eyes twinkling.
“Oh, he loves it. Just not necessarily in his mouth. I had to give him a complete bath afterward. There was more on his clothes than in his stomach.”
Micah looks at me with sudden realization. “Wait, so you cooked his dinner, fed him, bathed him, and then made an entire meal for us? All while getting yourself and the house ready for company?”
I shrug, embarrassed by his tone of admiration. “It’s just what needs to be done.”
“It’s impressive,” he says, his gaze direct and sincere. “You make it all look so effortless.”
I laugh softly. “Trust me, it’s not. But you learn to manage. When it’s just you and a baby, you figure it out pretty quickly.”
“Still,” he insists, “you’re kind of amazing. You know that, right?”
The compliment warms me more than it should. I’ve been doing this alone for so long that I’ve stopped seeing it as anything special—it’s just survival. Hearing someone acknowledge the effort makes something in me ache in a way that’s both painful and sweet.
“Thank you,” I say simply, not trusting myself with more words.
Micah seems to sense my discomfort with the praise and gracefully shifts the conversation.
He tells me stories about growing up in Birch Springs—summer adventures in the woods behind his house, learning to fish in the creek that runs through town, the time he accidentally set off the fire alarm during a middle school dance.
His childhood sounds charmed in many ways—full of the kind of freedom and security I hope to give Dean. But there’s a shadow there too, in the way he never mentions his father, in how many of his stories feature just him and his mother against the world.
“Your mom sounds like she made sure you had a great childhood,” I observe.
His expression softens. “She did everything she could to make sure I never felt like I was missing out. Worked two jobs most of my life, but somehow never missed a school event.”
The fondness in his voice makes me wonder why he’s so reluctant to face her matchmaking efforts head-on. There must be more history there than he’s letting on.
A comfortable silence falls between us as we finish eating. Dean has grown quiet in his highchair, his eyelids drooping as the day catches up with him. The soft evening light filters through the windows.
Micah clears his throat gently. “So, not to presume anything, but I’m guessing you invited me over to discuss my... proposal?”
His choice of word makes me smile. “Proposal is a bit formal for asking me to be your fake girlfriend, don’t you think?”
He winces slightly, his expression sheepish. “Yeah, it sounds ridiculous when you put it like that.”
“Because it kind of is,” I point out, but there’s no sting in my words. “Though I have to admit, I understand the impulse to avoid family pressures.”
Dean makes a tired sound, rubbing his eyes with tiny fists.
“Hold that thought,” I say, rising to lift him from the highchair. “Someone’s ready for bed.”
“Need any help?” Micah offers, already starting to gather dinner plates.
The question catches me off guard. It’s been so long since anyone has offered to help that I’m not sure how to respond. “You don’t have to do that. You’re a guest.”
“A guest who appreciates a home-cooked meal and is perfectly capable of clearing a table,” he counters with an easy smile. “Unless you’d rather I not touch your kitchen?”
For a moment, I consider insisting—I’m used to handling everything myself, after all. But Dean is getting fussier, and the thought of coming back to a clean kitchen is admittedly appealing.
“If you’re sure you don’t mind,” I say hesitantly. “I’ll just put him down and be right back.”
“Take your time,” Micah says, and I notice how natural he looks in my kitchen, as if he belongs there.
Dean settles against my shoulder as I carry him to the nursery, his small body warm and heavy with approaching sleep. I grab one of his prepared bottles from the refrigerator as we pass through, warming it briefly.
In the quiet of his room, rocking him as he drinks his bottle, I find myself thinking about Micah’s request. It’s absurd on the surface—pretending to date someone to avoid family pressure is the stuff of romantic comedies, not real life.
And yet, there’s something compelling about his earnestness, the way he asked without presumption, willing to accept my refusal.
There’s also something to be said for understanding difficult family dynamics.
My own mother’s disappointed face flashes in my mind—the way she looked at me when I told her I was pregnant and not planning to marry Dean’s father.
The cold judgment that never quite faded, even as my belly grew and her grandchild moved inside me.
“You’re throwing your life away, Aria. Call him. Make it right.”
But there had been nothing right about staying with someone who saw my pregnancy as an inconvenience, who had made it clear he wanted no part of fatherhood. I’d chosen Dean, chosen myself, over a relationship that would have slowly suffocated us both.
Dean’s eyes flutter closed, milk-drunk and content. I ease the bottle from his slack mouth and gently burp him before laying him in his crib. He looks so peaceful, so trusting, wrapped in his favorite muslin blanket.
“Sweet dreams, little one,” I whisper, tucking his stuffed elephant beside him.
When I return to the kitchen, I’m not surprised to find it spotless.
Micah has not only cleared the table and washed the dishes but has also packed the leftover pot pie into a container and stored it in the refrigerator.
He’s currently drying the last of the serving dishes, the dishtowel slung casually over his shoulder.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I say, leaning against the doorframe.
He looks up, his smile easy and warm. “I wanted to. Least I could do after that meal.” He hangs the towel neatly and turns to face me. “How’s the little man?”
“Out like a light. He had a big day.” I move further into the kitchen, drawn by the comfortable atmosphere he’s created. “Thank you for cleaning up.”
“My pleasure. My mom raised me right—never leave a mess for your host.”
The mention of his mother brings us back to the topic at hand. I take a deep breath, making my decision. “About your request...”
His expression grows serious, attentive. “Yes?”
“I’ll do it,” I say simply.
His eyes widen slightly. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly self-conscious. “But I have conditions.”
“Name them,” he says immediately, and I can’t help but smile at his eagerness.
“First, this is temporary—just while your mom visits. Once she leaves, we go back to being neighbors.”
He nods. “Of course. Absolutely.”
“Second, we need to get our story straight—how we met, when we started dating, all of it. Nothing too elaborate, but enough that we don’t contradict each other.”
“Makes sense,” he agrees. “We could say we’ve been seeing each other casually for a few weeks? Nothing too serious yet, but heading that way?”
The idea of casually dating Micah sends an unexpected flutter through me. “That works. It explains why she hasn’t heard about me before.”
“And third?” he prompts.
I hesitate, then decide to be direct. “You mentioned a photoshoot for Dean and me as part of the deal. I’d like to add occasional babysitting to that. Just once in a while, so I can have a few hours to myself.”
His face softens with understanding. “Done. I’m happy to watch Dean anytime you need a break.” His expression turns playfully serious. “As long as you trust me with him.”
“Strangely enough, I do,” I admit, surprised by how true it is. “He adores you, and you’re good with him.”
A silence falls between us, more charged than before. Micah takes a half-step closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and clean.
“I should tell you,” he says quietly, “I might have already mentioned you to my mom.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Not as my girlfriend,” he clarifies quickly. “Just that I’ve been spending time with my neighbor. She... may have jumped to conclusions.”
“Presumptuous of you to assume I’d say yes,” I note, but there’s no heat in my words.
He has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “I know. I’m sorry. I just needed to lay some groundwork in case you agreed. And technically, everything I said was true. You are my neighbor, and I do enjoy spending time with you.”
The sincerity in his voice makes my pulse quicken. “That was smart thinking, actually,” I concede. “It’ll make the whole thing more believable.”
“So we’re really doing this?” he asks, a hint of wonder in his voice.
“We’re really doing this,” I confirm. “A fake relationship.”
If it’s fake, why does it already feel like something more?