5. Micah
Micah
The Billings-Logan International Airport bustles with Friday afternoon travelers as I scan the arrivals board.
Mom’s flight landed ten minutes ago, which means she’ll be emerging from security any moment now.
My stomach tightens with a familiar mix of anticipation and anxiety that always accompanies her visits.
I spot her before she sees me—her petite frame moving purposefully through the crowd, wheeling a suitcase that looks almost as big as she is.
Even from this distance, I can read the tension in her shoulders, the slight pinch between her brows.
Mom has never enjoyed flying, viewing it as a necessary evil rather than part of the adventure.
But then she sees me, and her expression transforms. The years seem to fall away as her face lights up with a smile that’s always made me feel like the center of her universe.
“Micah!” She quickens her pace, nearly colliding with a businessman in her eagerness to reach me.
“Hey, Mom.” I enfold her in a hug, breathing in the familiar scent of her lavender perfume. No matter how complicated our relationship can be, this part is always simple—I’ve missed her.
“Let me look at you,” she says, pulling back and framing my face with her hands the way she’s done since I was a child. “Are you getting enough sleep? You look tired around the eyes.”
I gently remove her hands, smiling to soften the gesture. “I’m fine, Mom. Just busy with the studio. How was the flight?”
“Dreadful,” she says with feeling, smoothing her cardigan. “The man next to me took up half my seat and talked on his phone until a flight attendant made him stop. And there was turbulence.”
“Well, you’re here now,” I say, taking the handle of her suitcase. “Let’s get you home.”
As we cross to the parking garage, Mom loops her arm through mine, her fingers patting my forearm in that unconscious way she has—as if reassuring herself I’m really there. It’s these small moments of genuine affection that remind me why I go along with her more difficult tendencies.
“Did you have any trouble bringing the cookies?” I ask as we reach my car, remembering our conversation from earlier in the week.
Her eyes twinkle with mischief. “Not a bit. I told the security agent they were for my son who works too hard and never takes care of himself properly, and he waved me right through.”
“You’re incorrigible,” I laugh, lifting her suitcase into the trunk. “But that was probably unnecessary. I don’t think there’s a rule against bringing cookies on the plane.”
“Well, it gave me a chance to talk about my hardworking son,” she says primly, settling into the passenger seat. “Besides, they’re your favorite.”
As I pull out of the parking garage, I can feel Mom studying my profile. She’s always been able to read me better than anyone—a blessing and a curse, depending on the situation. Right now, I’m hoping the careful narrative Aria and I constructed will hold up under her scrutiny.
“Becky sends her love,” she says, turning to watch the landscape scroll past the window. “She wanted to come, but her arthritis has been acting up.”
“How is she doing?” I ask, genuinely concerned about my aunt. Her husband’s death three years ago had hit her hard, and I know Mom’s presence has been a lifeline.
“Better,” Mom says thoughtfully. “We joined a pottery class at the community center. She’s surprisingly good—makes these beautiful little bowls. And she’s started having coffee with the widower who lives next door.”
“That’s great,” I say, relieved to hear that my aunt is finding her way back to living rather than just existing. “I’m glad she has you there.”
Mom nods, a shadow crossing her face. “She still needs me. Some days more than others.”
I sense the unasked question hanging between us. “Are you thinking about moving back to Birch Springs?” I ask carefully, keeping my eyes on the highway stretching before us.
She turns to me, surprise evident in her expression. “Why do you ask that?”
I shrug, trying to seem casual. “Just wondering. You mentioned once that you missed it here.”
“I do miss it,” she admits. “And I miss being closer to you. But Becky and I have a good rhythm now. We take care of each other.” She pauses, studying me again. “Do you want me to move back, Micah?”
The question catches me off guard. “I just want you to be happy, Mom.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I sigh, knowing she won’t let this go. “I miss you too. But I know how much Aunt Becky relies on you, and I’m doing fine here on my own.” I flash her a reassuring smile. “Well, not entirely on my own anymore.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Yes, let’s talk about that. This neighbor of yours that you mentioned...”
“Aria,” I supply, feeling a flutter of nerves. This is it—the beginning of our charade.
“Yes, Aria,” Mom says, pronouncing the name like she’s testing it. “You said you two have been spending time together?”
I nod, keeping my eyes fixed on the road.
“We have. It sort of... evolved naturally. She moved in next door about four months ago, and we kept running into each other.” I can’t help the small smile that forms as I remember our meeting in the park.
“Dean—that’s her son—he took a shine to me right away. ”
“Her son,” Mom repeats, her tone carefully neutral. “How old is he?”
“Eight months,” I answer. “He’s a great little guy—smart, happy. You’ll like him.”
Mom is quiet for a moment, processing this information. “And you’re... dating this woman? Seriously?”
I take a deep breath, committing fully to our story. “We are. It’s still pretty new, but yes, we’re together.” I feel a twinge of guilt at the deception, but remind myself it’s temporary and ultimately harmless.
“That was fast,” she observes, a slight edge to her voice. “Four months ago she moves in, and now you’re a couple?”
“We’ve only been dating for a few weeks,” I clarify, sticking to the timeline Aria and I had agreed upon. “But we’ve been getting to know each other as neighbors for months.”
“And where is her child’s father in all this?”
I tense slightly, having anticipated this question. “He’s not in the picture. Never has been, from what I understand.”
Mom makes a soft sound—not quite disapproval, but not acceptance either. “So she’s raising that baby all alone?”
“She is,” I confirm, feeling a surge of protectiveness toward Aria. “And doing an amazing job of it. She works full-time at the vet clinic, keeps a beautiful home, and Dean is thriving.”
“Hmm,” is all Mom says, turning to look out the window again.
I recognize the tone—it’s the same one she used when I announced I was majoring in photography instead of business. It’s her waiting-to-see-if-you’ll-come-to-your-senses tone, and it sets my teeth on edge despite my best efforts.
“You’ll like her, Mom,” I say firmly, needing to establish this now. “She’s kind, funny, and incredibly strong. She made a difficult choice to leave her hometown and start fresh here, all for her son’s well-being.”
Mom turns back to me, her expression softening slightly. “You really care about her, don’t you?”
The question brings me up short. Because the truth is, I do care about Aria—more than I’ve been willing to admit to myself. These past few days of planning our “relationship,” sharing meals, and strategizing have only deepened my growing attraction to her.
“I do,” I say simply, and it doesn’t feel like a lie at all.
Mom nods, seeming to accept this for now. “Well, I look forward to meeting her.”
The rest of the drive passes in easier conversation—updates on people from Mom’s neighborhood, questions about my recent photography projects, amusing stories about Aunt Becky’s catastrophic attempt at making sourdough bread.
By the time we turn onto Juniper Street, some of my earlier tension has eased.
“I arranged for us all to have dinner tonight,” I mention as we approach my house. “Aria makes an incredible chicken pot pie.”
Mom’s eyebrows rise again. “Oh? I was planning to cook for you tonight. I brought all those spices you can’t find at your grocery store.”
I should have anticipated this. Mom’s way of showing love has always been through food—specifically, feeding me what she considers proper home-cooked meals. “Maybe tomorrow night?” I suggest. “Aria’s been planning this dinner since yesterday.”
Mom looks disappointed but nods. “Of course. That’s fine.” She pauses. “Could we at least have it at your house? I’d like to settle in before meeting new people.”
This, at least, is a reasonable request. “Sure, I’ll call her and let her know.”
As I pull into my driveway, I’m surprised to see Aria outside her house, watering the row of potted herbs that line her front porch. She looks up at the sound of my car, and even from this distance, I can see her shoulders straighten slightly—bracing herself.
“Is that her?” Mom asks, following my gaze.
“Yes, that’s Aria,” I confirm, putting the car in park. “Remember what I said earlier—she’s important to me.”
Mom gives me a look that’s half exasperation, half affection. “I’m always nice, Micah.”
I choose not to contradict this demonstrably false statement, instead getting out of the car as Aria sets down her watering can and approaches.
The sight of her walking toward us—her dark hair caught up in a casual knot, wearing simple jeans and a soft green top that brings out her eyes—fills me with unexpected warmth.
“Hey,” I say, meeting her halfway. The plan we’d worked out called for natural, casual affection—nothing over-the-top that would seem performative.
Aria slips into the role effortlessly, sliding an arm around my waist and leaning slightly into me. “Welcome back,” she says, voice warm with genuine welcome. “How was the drive?”
The simple contact of her body against mine sends a current through me that I’m not entirely prepared for. Acting on instinct rather than our carefully discussed boundaries, I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the light floral scent of her shampoo.
“Traffic was light,” I answer, surprised by how natural this feels. “Aria, I’d like you to meet my mother, Patricia Sutton. Mom, this is Aria Wellington.”
Mom approaches, her expression carefully composed as she surveys Aria. I can see her taking in every detail—from Aria’s simple silver earrings to her lack of makeup to the small soil stain on the knee of her jeans.
“It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Mrs. Sutton,” Aria says warmly, extending her hand. “Micah speaks so highly of you. I feel like I already know you from his stories.”
Mom shakes her hand, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “How nice. I wish I could say the same, but Micah’s only mentioned you quite recently.”
“Mom,” I warn quietly, already sensing the direction this could go.
“It’s fine,” Aria says smoothly, her smile unwavering. “We’ve been taking things slow, getting to know each other. But I’m so glad you’re here now—Micah’s been looking forward to your visit for weeks.”
It’s a perfect deflection, redirecting the conversation to safe territory—Mom’s relationship with me—and I feel a surge of gratitude for Aria’s quick thinking.
Mom’s expression softens marginally. “Has he? Well, I’ve been looking forward to it too.” She glances toward my front door, clearly eager to end this initial encounter. “I should probably go freshen up after that flight.”
“Of course,” I say. “I’ll bring your bag in.”
“It was lovely meeting you,” Aria says, stepping back. “I’ll see you both at dinner.”
Mom nods, already turning toward the house. “Yes, dinner.”
As she walks away, I turn to Aria with an apologetic grimace. “I’m so sorry about that. She’s just?—”
“Protective,” Aria finishes for me, understanding in her eyes. “It’s okay, Micah. I can handle it.” She glances at my house, ensuring Mom is out of earshot. “So dinner at your place instead?”
“If that’s okay? She wanted to settle in before socializing.”
“Of course. We’ll be there at six.” She gives my arm a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be fine.”
I’m not entirely convinced, but her confidence steadies me. “Thank you for doing this,” I say quietly, meaning it more than she knows.
“Hey, it’s what fake girlfriends are for,” she replies with a wink, but there’s something in her expression that makes me wonder if she’s feeling the same confusion I am about where the pretending ends and reality begins.
As she turns to go back to her house, I watch her for a moment, struck by her grace under pressure. Whatever happens during this visit, I realize I’ve already incurred a debt to Aria Wellington that no amount of photo shoots or babysitting could possibly repay.
I grab Mom’s suitcase from the trunk and head inside, steeling myself for what promises to be an interesting five days. Mom has already made herself at home in the kitchen, unpacking a paper bag filled with spice bottles and examining my refrigerator contents with a critical eye.
“Your neighbor seems... friendly,” she says without looking up.
“She is friendly,” I agree, setting the suitcase by the stairs. “And kind, and smart, and a wonderful mother.”
Mom closes the refrigerator door, turning to face me. “Micah, I know you have a soft heart. It’s one of your best qualities. But sometimes it leads you to take on other people’s problems as your own.”
I feel heat rising to my face. “Aria and Dean aren’t ‘problems,’ Mom. They’re people I care about.”
She sighs, approaching to lay a hand on my arm. “I just don’t want to see you getting hurt. A single mother with a baby—that’s a lot of responsibility to take on.”
“I’m twenty-eight years old,” I remind her, keeping my voice even. “I think I can decide what responsibilities I’m ready for.”
We stand there for a moment, at an impasse that feels all too familiar. Finally, Mom pats my arm. “I’m going to go unpack and take a shower. We can talk more later.”
As she heads upstairs with her suitcase, I sink into a kitchen chair, running a hand through my hair. Even though she always wants to set me up, I’d anticipated some resistance from her, but the immediate dismissal of Aria—before even getting to know her—stings more than I expected.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Aria: Just checked the pot pie. Perfect golden crust. Operation Mother-in-Law Charming is a go.
Despite everything, I find myself smiling. If anyone can win over my mother, it’s Aria. And if not, well... this is only temporary, right?
So why does the thought of our relationship’s fictional expiration date suddenly feel like a weight on my chest?