6. Aria
Aria
Ipause at Micah’s front door, taking a deep breath to steady myself. Dean is contentedly settled in his carrier, unaware of the butterflies swarming in my stomach. The casserole dish holding my chicken pot pie is still warm through the kitchen towel wrapped around it.
“It’s just dinner,” I whisper to myself. “Just a few hours of pretending.”
When Micah opens the door, his eyes warm as they take in the sight of me and Dean. “You made it,” he says, looking relieved as he ushers us inside.
As he takes the dish from my hands, our fingers brush, and to my surprise, Micah leans in and places a soft, quick kiss on my lips.
It’s over before I can react, but the unexpected contact sends a shock through my system.
My eyes widen, meeting his equally surprised gaze.
Clearly that wasn’t planned, but rather an instinctive gesture that caught us both off guard.
The spontaneity of it makes my heart race. It wasn’t discussed in our “rules of engagement,” but it feels strangely natural—if utterly disorienting.
The dinner itself is tense but manageable.
Mrs. Sutton asks pointed questions about my past in Ohio and Dean’s father, which I navigate as gracefully as possible.
Now I help her clear the dinner plates, my hands steadier than I expected given the tension-filled meal we’ve just survived.
Dean has fallen asleep in Micah’s arms, his little face peaceful despite the undercurrents of awkwardness swirling around the adults.
“I made apple pie for dessert,” Mrs. Sutton announces as we enter the kitchen. She glances at me briefly before setting the plates in the sink. “Micah’s favorite since he was a boy.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I say, trying to maintain my composure after her earlier interrogation about Dean’s father and my decision to leave Ohio. “Can I help with anything else?”
She hands me a stack of dessert plates. “You can take these while I get the coffee.”
In the quiet kitchen, away from Micah’s protective presence, I feel vulnerable but determined. This woman clearly has reservations about me, but for Micah’s sake—and oddly, for my own—I want to find some common ground.
“Your son is very kind,” I say softly, arranging the plates on a tray. “The way he is with Dean... it means a lot to me.”
Mrs. Sutton pauses in measuring coffee grounds, her shoulders tensing slightly. “Micah has always had a soft heart. Sometimes too soft.”
The implied warning isn’t lost on me. “I would never take advantage of his kindness, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Her eyes meet mine directly for the first time since I arrived. “Wouldn’t you? A single mother, new in town, conveniently living next door to a successful, established young man?”
The accusation stings, but I refuse to show it. “Mrs. Sutton, I moved to Birch Springs for a fresh start, not to find someone to rescue me. Dean and I were doing just fine before we met Micah.”
“And yet here you are, playing house after knowing him for what—a few months?”
I set down the tray, turning to face her fully. “I understand you’re protective of your son. Any good mother would be. But you don’t know me or my story, and I’d appreciate it if you’d reserve judgment until you do.”
Something flickers across her face—surprise, perhaps, at my directness. Before she can respond, Micah appears in the doorway, Dean still sleeping against his chest.
“Everything okay in here?” he asks, his eyes moving between us with thinly veiled concern.
“Just getting dessert ready,” Mrs. Sutton replies, turning her attention back to the coffee maker.
I follow Micah back to the living room, where he carefully settles Dean on the couch, surrounding him with pillows to prevent him from rolling. The tenderness of the gesture makes my heart ache in a way I’m not prepared for.
“I’m sorry about my mother,” he whispers, glancing toward the kitchen. “She’s not usually this...”
“Protective?” I suggest, keeping my voice light. “It’s okay, Micah. I get it. She loves you.”
He shakes his head, frustration evident in the set of his jaw. “It’s not okay. You’ve been nothing but gracious, and she’s treating you like you’re trying to con me or something.”
“She doesn’t know me,” I remind him. “And from her perspective, this is all happening very fast.”
The irony of defending Mrs. Sutton’s behavior isn’t lost on me, especially given the way her words had cut so close to my own insecurities. But creating conflict between Micah and his mother is the last thing I want.
When she joins us with coffee and pie, the conversation shifts to safer territory. Mrs. Sutton shares stories about Micah’s childhood photography projects, and I talk about Florence’s veterinary practice. For brief moments, it almost feels like a normal family gathering.
As the evening winds down, Mrs. Sutton excuses herself, claiming exhaustion from travel. Once she’s gone upstairs, Micah suggests we step outside for some air.
The night embraces us as we settle on his back deck. Above us, stars puncture the darkness in patterns I’m still learning after months in Montana. The vastness of the sky here never fails to humble me, making my problems seem smaller in comparison.
“Tell me what you’re really thinking,” Micah says, breaking the comfortable silence that has fallen between us.
I consider deflecting but decide on honesty instead. “I’m thinking your mother sees right through our charade.”
He looks surprised. “What makes you say that?”
“Just a feeling. The way she watches us. Like she’s cataloging inconsistencies in our story.”
“Or maybe she’s just looking for flaws in you,” he suggests with a grimace. “Which she won’t find, by the way.”
I laugh softly. “Oh, I have plenty of flaws, Micah. I’m stubborn, I overthink everything, and I can’t cook rice without burning it.”
“Terrible defects,” he agrees with mock seriousness. “I don’t know how I overlooked them.”
Our laughter fades into another comfortable silence. I find myself studying his profile in the moonlight, the strong line of his jaw, the way his hair falls across his forehead. When did my neighbor become someone I look forward to seeing each day?
“About that kiss earlier,” Micah says suddenly, his voice holding a hint of embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to surprise you like that. It just seemed like the natural thing to do when you arrived, and I wasn’t thinking.”
The memory of his lips against mine sends a flutter through my stomach. “It’s okay. It was convincing—exactly what a real couple would do.”
“Still, I should have discussed it with you first. Set some boundaries about... physical stuff.”
“We should probably have some guidelines,” I agree, though part of me rebels against the idea of making rules for something that had felt so natural.
“Right. Guidelines.” He turns toward me, his eyes impossibly blue in the moonlight. “Hand-holding is okay?”
I nod, suddenly aware that our hands have found each other on the bench between us. “Hand-holding is fine. Natural.”
“What about other things? For authenticity.”
My pulse quickens. “Such as?”
“Arms around waists, maybe. The occasional kiss if the situation calls for it.”
“That all seems reasonable,” I say, trying to sound more composed than I feel. “As long as it’s appropriate in front of Dean.”
“Of course,” he agrees quickly. “Always appropriate.”
We fall silent again, neither of us acknowledging that we’re still holding hands, even though there’s no audience to perform for.
“My mother raised me alone,” Micah says eventually, his thumb tracing patterns on my palm. “My father left before I was born. Never even met me.”
The confession surprises me. In all our conversations, he’s never mentioned his father. “That must have been hard.”
“For my mom, definitely. She worked two jobs, but somehow never missed a school event. She was determined I’d never feel his absence.” His voice holds old pain but no bitterness. “That’s why she’s so protective. She sacrificed everything for me.”
Suddenly, Patricia Sutton’s behavior makes more sense. She’d been a single mother too, but in a different era, likely with fewer options than I have.
“She’s afraid I’ll hurt you,” I realize aloud. “She thinks I’ll break your heart.”
Micah looks startled. “What? No, she’s just?—”
“Think about it, Micah. She did everything alone, gave up so much for you. And now she’s afraid you’ll do the same for someone who might not appreciate it.” I squeeze his hand gently. “I understand her better now.”
He studies me with something like wonder. “How do you do that? See the best in people, even when they’re not exactly welcoming?”
I shrug, uncomfortable with his admiration. “Practice, I guess. And empathy. It’s easy to judge someone when you don’t know their story.”
Dean makes a small sound through the monitor I brought, and I reluctantly stand. “I should get him home to his crib.”
Micah nods, disappointment evident in his expression as he helps me gather Dean and our things. At my front door, he surprises me with a gentle kiss on the cheek that feels more intimate than any staged kiss could.
“Good night, Aria,” he murmurs. “Sweet dreams.”
As I close the door behind me, my cheek still warm from his lips, I’m struck by an uncomfortable realization: somewhere between agreeing to this charade and tonight’s dinner, the line between pretending and reality has begun to blur.
And I’m not sure I want to find it again.