8. Aria
Aria
I tap my pen against the appointment book, struggling to focus. Tonight is Patricia Sutton’s farewell dinner—her last evening in Birch Springs before returning to Nebraska tomorrow. It should be a relief, the end of our charade in sight, but instead I feel oddly melancholy.
As I hang up the phone after scheduling an appointment, Florence emerges from the back room carrying patient files. She studies me with that penetrating gaze that always makes me feel transparent.
I wince. “I did? I’ll call her back.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll text her,” Florence says, leaning against the counter. “Want to tell me what’s going on? You’re a million miles away today.”
I sigh, setting down my pen. “Tonight’s the last dinner with Micah’s mom before she leaves tomorrow.”
“And that’s... bad?” Florence probes, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
“It’s complicated,” I admit. “The whole situation has gotten... messy.”
Florence pulls up a chair beside my desk. “Messy how? Last I checked, you two were just playing house to get his mother off his back.”
“That was the plan,” I say. “But then we went on this picnic at the park on Sunday, and—” I pause, heat rising to my cheeks at the memory.
“And?”
“We kissed,” I confess, keeping my voice low. “A real kiss. No audience, no pretending.”
“Ah,” Florence nods sagely. “So the fake relationship is becoming a real one?”
“I don’t know what it’s becoming,” I say, fidgeting with a paperclip. “We haven’t really talked about it, and his mother is still here, and tonight’s going to be so awkward.”
Florence regards me with a sympathetic smile. “You’re falling for him.”
It’s not a question, and I don’t bother denying it. “I wasn’t supposed to. That wasn’t part of the plan.”
“Honey, when are matters of the heart ever part of the plan?” Florence asks gently. “Especially when there’s a good man involved—which Micah certainly is.”
“That’s part of what scares me,” I admit. “He’s good with Dean, good to me. It’s like everything I thought I couldn’t have. But his mother clearly hates me, and once she’s gone, what if it was all just... playing pretend?”
Florence’s expression turns serious. “Patricia Sutton is a complicated woman. She raised that boy alone after his father walked out, poured everything she had into him. It’s hard for mothers like that to let go.”
I look at her in surprise. “You know about Micah’s father?”
“Small town,” she reminds me. “I was here when it happened. Patricia was pregnant, and the father—some summer tourist passing through—wanted nothing to do with it. Sound familiar?”
The parallel to my own situation with Dean’s father isn’t lost on me. “But that’s why I don’t understand why she’s so hostile toward me. Wouldn’t she have more sympathy?”
“Or maybe it hits too close to home,” Florence suggests. “Maybe seeing you brings back painful memories, or maybe she’s afraid history will repeat itself, and Micah will get hurt.”
I consider this, seeing Patricia’s behavior in a new light. Not that it excuses her rudeness, but it provides context.
“As for what happens when she leaves,” Florence continues, “that depends on what you both want. Have you really considered letting a man into your life, and trusting him with Dean?”
Before I can answer, the bell above the door chimes as Mr. Gaines arrives with his elderly golden retriever. Florence pats my hand before standing.
“We’re going to be slow for the rest of the day. Why don’t you head out early? Get yourself and that little boy ready for tonight without rushing.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, already feeling grateful.
“Positive,” she says. “And Aria? Whatever happens tonight—be honest. With Micah and with yourself.”
Two hours later, I’m standing in front of my closet, wrapped in a towel. Dean is already bathed and dressed, happily occupied in his playpen with stacking rings.
I settle on a soft lavender wrap dress—modest but flattering. It’s a pointless deliberation, really. Patricia Sutton made up her mind about me the moment we met, and no outfit is going to change that.
As I pin my hair into a loose updo, my thoughts return to Sunday’s picnic.
The memory makes my heart flutter in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying.
“This is dangerous thinking,” I tell my reflection as I apply mascara. “Guard your heart, Aria. Remember what happened last time.”
But Dean’s father had never looked at me the way Micah does. Had never defended me against anyone, let alone his own family.
I gather Dean into my arms, breathing in his clean baby scent, drawing comfort from his solid weight.
“Just one more dinner with Mrs. Sutton,” I whisper to him. “We can do this.”
Dean babbles in response, patting my cheek with a chubby hand as if offering encouragement. Whatever happens with Micah, Dean and I will be okay. We’ve made it this far on our own.
Micah opens the door before I can knock, as if he’s been watching for us. The relief in his expression when he sees me is palpable.
“You came,” he says quietly. “I wasn’t sure you would, after yesterday Sunday.”
“I said I would,” I reply. “Besides, it’s your mom’s last night. It seemed important.”
His eyes linger on my face, searching for something. “Thank you. You look beautiful.”
The simple compliment warms me, but I deflect it with a laugh. “I figured I should make an effort for the farewell dinner. Where is your mom?” I ask, glancing toward the kitchen where delicious smells are emanating.
“Putting the finishing touches on dinner.” Micah runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I’ve come to recognize as a sign of nervousness. “Listen, about Sunday?—”
“We should probably talk about that later,” I interrupt gently. “After your mom leaves tomorrow, maybe?”
Disappointment flickers across his face, but he nods. “You’re right. Probably better timing.” He reaches for Dean, who immediately lunges toward him with eager arms. “Hey, buddy! Looking sharp tonight.”
The natural ease with which Micah handles my son never fails to move me. Dean settles against his chest with complete trust, babbling excitedly.
“I think he missed you,” I say.
Before Micah can respond, Patricia appears in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her gaze falls on me, then shifts to Micah holding Dean.
“Dinner’s ready,” she announces. “I’ve made roast chicken with all the trimmings.”
“It smells wonderful,” I say, making an effort to be gracious despite our previous encounters.
She acknowledges my comment with a small nod. “I set up the highchair next to your seat, Aria. Micah picked one up today at the store. I cleaned it thoroughly, of course.”
The unexpected consideration catches me off guard. “That’s very thoughtful. Thank you.”
The dining room table is beautifully set, with cloth napkins and fresh wildflowers. The wooden highchair has been positioned between my seat and Micah’s. As we settle in—Dean secured with toys to occupy him—I’m struck by how much the scene resembles a normal family dinner.
Patricia serves the food, her movements precise and practiced. The roast chicken is perfectly golden, surrounded by rosemary potatoes and glazed carrots.
“This looks incredible,” I say sincerely. “My grandmother used to make roast chicken just like this.”
“It’s the little touches that matter,” Patricia replies, and for once there’s no edge to her voice. “The rosemary from the garden, butter under the skin. Micah’s father never appreciated the effort good cooking takes, but my son does.”
The casual mention of Micah’s father feels significant somehow.
As we begin eating, the tension that’s characterized our previous meals seems slightly diminished.
“Tell me, Aria,” Patricia says after a few minutes, “what are your plans for yourself and Dean? Long-term, I mean.”
I pause, trying to determine if there’s a trap in the question. But her expression seems genuinely curious.
“Well, I’m saving to finish my veterinary technology certification,” I answer honestly. “Florence has been mentoring me. Once Dean’s in preschool, I’m hoping to complete the program part-time.”
Patricia nods. “Sensible. It’s good to have a trade. I was a bookkeeper myself—allowed me to work from home when Micah was small.”
“I didn’t know that,” I say, genuinely interested. “That must have been convenient.”
“Necessary,” she corrects, her gaze distant. “His father wasn’t in the picture, and I had no family nearby. Working from home meant I could earn a living without leaving Micah with strangers.”
The parallel to my own situation is striking. “It couldn’t have been easy,” I acknowledge. “Doing it all alone.”
“No,” she agrees, her eyes meeting mine with unexpected directness. “It wasn’t. But necessary things rarely are easy.”
There’s something like understanding passing between us, a bridge formed over shared experiences despite our differences.
As we finish the main course, Patricia rises to clear the plates. “I made apple pie for dessert, again.”
“Can I help?” I offer.
She hesitates, then nods. “You can bring the coffee cups from the kitchen while I get the pie.”
In the kitchen, I find the cups already arranged on a tray. As I pick it up, Patricia enters with the dirty dinner plates.
“Micah seems happy,” she says abruptly. “Happier than I’ve seen him in some time.”
I’m not sure how to respond to this. “He’s a good man,” I finally say. “Kind and thoughtful. You raised him well.”
She turns to face me fully. “I did everything I could to protect him. From disappointment, from pain, from repeating my mistakes.”
“That’s what all good mothers want for their children,” I reply carefully.
“Yes,” she agrees. “But perhaps I’ve been... overzealous in my protection.” She takes a deep breath. “Micah told me how you left Ohio. Your mother wanted you to stay with your child’s father, even though he didn’t want the responsibility.”
I nod, unsure where this is going.
“I told Micah’s father to leave,” she continues, her voice quiet but firm. “He said he couldn’t be tied down. I told him to go, that we’d be better off without him.” Her eyes meet mine, direct and unflinching. “I never regretted that decision, not once in twenty-eight years.”
“I didn’t run away from my problems,” I say quietly. “I faced them head-on and made the best choice for my son. Just like you did.”
Something shifts in her expression—not quite a smile, but a softening around the eyes. “Yes,” she says simply. “I’m beginning to see that.”
Patricia surprises me further. “I owe you an apology,” she says, setting down her fork. “For my behavior since I arrived. I was... judgmental. Unfair.”
The admission catches me completely off guard. “Mrs. Sutton?—”
“Patricia,” she corrects me. “When Micah told me about you, I saw a single mother with a baby, and I made assumptions. My life was so hard, and I didn’t want that for Micah—caring for a child that wasn’t his.
But I’ve watched how you are with your son.
How Micah is with both of you. You’re a good mother, Aria.
And whatever is happening between you and my son... it’s not my place to interfere.”
“Thank you,” I say simply, because I don’t know what else to say, and we go back to Micah to enjoy the pie.
But Patricia’s words linger in my mind.
Dean and I have barely put down roots in Birch Springs. What if Micah and I try, and it falls apart? Our houses share fence lines. There would be no clean break, no distance to heal. Every day would be a fresh reminder of what we lost.
And Dean—my sweet, trusting boy who already lights up at the sight of Micah—what about him?
He’s never had a father figure, never known what it’s like to have a man’s steady presence in his life.
To give him that gift only to take it away seems unforgivably cruel.
I’ve spent every day since I knew I was pregnant protecting him from pain.
How could I knowingly risk bringing more into his life?
If things ended badly, we’d likely have to leave. Start over again somewhere new, because Micah’s studio is here, his life firmly established in this town.
I’ve been down this road before. Maybe it’s better just to stay friends, stop any sort of relationship before it really develops beyond what we’ve been pretending.
As Micah walks us to the door later, Dean sleeping in my arms, we pause on the porch.
“That went better than expected,” he says. “What did you and my mom talk about in the kitchen?”
“Motherhood,” I reply. “And choices. I think we understand each other better now.”
He nods, studying my face. “About the kiss, at the park?—”
“I think we need to stop the pretense,” I say, the words rushing out. “Your mother’s leaving tomorrow. There’s no reason to keep up the act anymore.”
His expression falls. “Is that what you want?”
“I think we need space,” I say finally. “To figure out what’s real and what’s just been playing house. Dean and I come as a package deal. It’s a lot to take on, and I need to be sure that anyone in our lives is there for the right reasons.”
“I understand that,” Micah says, his voice steady despite the disappointment in his eyes. “But Aria, what happened between us at the park—that wasn’t pretend. Not for me.”
“It wasn’t for me either,” I admit. “That’s what makes this so complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he argues gently. “Why can’t we just see where this goes, for real this time?”
“Because I’m scared,” I confess. “The last time I trusted someone with my heart, I ended up alone and pregnant in a town where everyone whispered behind my back. I can’t go through that again.”
“I’m not him,” Micah says softly. “I would never?—”
“I know you’re not,” I interrupt. “But I need time. Can you understand that?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, then nods slowly. “I can wait,” he says simply. “For as long as you need.”
The promise nearly breaks my resolve. I want so badly to believe in the possibility of what we could be. But I’ve learned the hard way that rushing headlong into feelings leads to pain.
He presses a gentle kiss to my forehead—a gesture so tender it makes my eyes sting with tears.
“Goodnight, Aria,” he murmurs. “Sweet dreams.”
Once inside my home, I lean against the door, Dean still sleeping against my shoulder, and let the tears fall.
It wasn’t supposed to be this complicated. It was supposed to be a simple arrangement, a neighborly favor, less than a week of pretend. But somewhere along the way, fiction became truth, and now I don’t know how to separate what’s real from what we’ve been pretending.