5. Chloe #2
"Your mom's the same way, isn't she?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "Everything's about appearances."
Harry snorts. "You could say that. Last Christmas she hired a decorator to redo the entire house just for the party. Spent three months planning a four-hour event because God forbid anyone think her taste was slipping."
"And then complained for weeks that the flowers weren't exactly the right shade of ivory," Adam adds. "Not white. Not cream. Ivory. Apparently there's a difference worth having a breakdown over."
"There is a difference," I say automatically, then catch myself. "Not that it matters for flowers that die in three days."
Chris turns to look at me fully. "You would know the difference."
It's not a question. There's something almost admiring in his voice, like he's impressed I caught the distinction instead of annoyed that I know about things like ivory versus cream.
"Twenty-two years of being told my opinions don't matter unless they match the aesthetic." I shrug, going for casual. "You pick up things."
Somewhere behind us, I can hear the chef moving around in the galley, probably starting lunch preparations. The bacon on my plate has gone cold, but I'm not really thinking about food anymore.
"They're perfect for each other," Adam says after a moment. "Match made in heaven."
The dry delivery makes me snort. "Right? Two people who care more about what strangers think than what their kids need. It's like they were designed in a lab."
"Complete with matching personality disorders," Harry adds.
"And an obsession with thread counts," Chris says. "Do you know she made me return sheets because they were only six hundred thread count instead of eight hundred?"
"She did not."
"Hand to God. Apparently my comfort was less important than her reputation at the country club."
I stare at him. "That's... wow. I thought my dad was bad when he made me return a birthday dress because it was the wrong designer."
"How is there a wrong designer?" Adam asks.
"The right designer was booked for three months.
The wrong designer was available immediately and cost twice as much.
" I shake my head, remembering the humiliation of standing in that boutique while the sales associate looked at me like I was personally responsible for disappointing my father.
"Apparently overpaying isn't enough if you're overpaying the wrong person. "
"Jesus," Harry mutters.
"The worst part is I actually liked the first dress better. It was this deep blue that made my eyes look green. But it didn't have the right label sewn into the seam, so back it went."
Silence settles over the table again, but this time it's not uncomfortable. It's the quiet that comes when people realize they've been fighting the same battle on different fronts.
Outside, the mountains are getting bigger, closer. The train is starting to slow as we approach civilization again – or what passes for civilization in western Colorado. Through the windows, I can see the beginnings of Glenwood Springs spread out in the valley below.
"You know what's funny?" Adam says eventually. "All those years of family dinners, and we never talked about any of this."
"We never talked, period." I meet his eyes across the table. "You barely looked at me."
"That was intentional." His voice is matter-of-fact, no apology in it. "Looking led to wanting. Wanting led to problems we couldn't solve."
"And now?"
"Now the problems are different." Chris's hand finds mine under the table, fingers threading through mine like it's the most natural thing in the world. "Easier to solve, maybe."
The touch sends warmth racing up my arm. Yesterday, I would have pulled away out of sheer shock. Now I let him hold my hand while we finish breakfast, let myself enjoy the casual intimacy of fingers intertwined under white linen.
The chef appears to clear plates, moving efficiently around the table without interrupting the conversation. Professional invisibility – something I recognize from a lifetime of staff who were paid to pretend family dysfunction was normal.
"How long until we arrive?" I ask.
Harry checks his watch. "Two hours, maybe less. The car will be waiting at the station."
Two hours. The thought sits heavy in my chest, though I'm not sure why. This train has been a bubble, separate from real life and family obligations and the careful distance I usually keep between myself and these men.
In two hours, we'll be back to being stepsiblings at a family event, with parents watching and expectations to meet and roles to play.
Adam must read something in my expression because his eyes narrow slightly. "What are you thinking?"
"Nothing important." I drain the last of my coffee and set the cup down. "Just wondering what comes next."
"What do you want to come next?" Chris's thumb traces across my knuckles, a small gesture that makes it hard to think straight.
The honest answer is that I want this. More mornings around tables where I'm not the afterthought. More conversations where my sharp edges are appreciated instead of smoothed away. More moments where I feel like I belong instead of like I'm auditioning for acceptance.
But I can't say that. Not yet. Not when I'm still adjusting to the fact that these men want me at all.
"I want to see this famous dome everyone keeps talking about," I say instead. "If we're going to be stuck on a train, might as well take advantage of the views."
Harry straightens in his chair, suddenly more alert. "The mountains are incredible from up there. Especially now that we're getting into the real peaks."
"Better than down here?"
"Three-sixty view," Adam explains. "Glass ceiling, glass walls. Like being suspended in the sky."
The description makes something flutter in my chest. Harry has been wanting to have an alone time with me at the dome, so now he stands and extends a hand to me. "You want to check out the dome?"