27. Aiden
Aiden
Paige has been at my parents’ cookout for forty-three minutes, and my father has managed to feed her twice without inviting half of Larimer County to join us.
“That you know of,” she says when I point this out.
Behind the grill, Dad’s shoulders stiffen. “I invited six people.”
“This is supposed to be a branch cookout,” Mom reminds him.
“They’re practically family.”
“Who are they?” Paige asks.
Dad flips a burger. “People I know.”
She turns to me. “That answer should concern everyone.”
“It stopped concerning us years ago.”
Her laugh comes easily, and I slide my hand along her bare thigh beneath the picnic table, watching for any sign of distance. She gives me none, leaning into my shoulder instead of pulling away. She checked her own calendar and came here because she decided she wanted to.
Every choice is proof we’re moving in the same direction, even if Paige refuses to name where the road ends.
Josie and Poppy race through the yard with plastic cups of lemonade while Axel argues with Dad about whether the burgers are done. Sadie keeps Silas’s determined hands away from her plate, and Adrienne confiscates the serving platter before Dad can feed another visitor.
Paige watches the noise with a smile. “Your mother lied.”
“About what?”
“Just your branch.”
“This is just our branch.”
“That explains why she sounded pleased when she said it.”
I turn my head and kiss her temple. “You’re handling it well.”
“I prepared by spending an hour alone first.”
“I noticed.”
“You stared at the closed bedroom door like you were waiting for a verdict.”
“I respected the door.”
“You glared respectfully.”
“I didn’t knock.”
Her smile softens. “No, you didn’t.”
Mom settles across from us with a fresh glass of iced tea and her phone in one hand. “Since everyone is trapped by food, I need Thanksgiving answers.”
A groan rises from Axel.
“It is August,” Paige says.
“Exactly,” Mom replies. “If I wait until October, Adrienne will have three conflicting invitations, Sadie will agree to work at the café, and Hudson will volunteer this house to strangers.”
“They won’t be strangers by Thanksgiving,” Dad calls from the grill.
Mom ignores him. “One o’clock here. I’m keeping it to our branch, and that statement is legally binding. Aiden?”
“We’ll be here.”
Paige’s thigh tenses beneath my hand.
I look down at her. The easy expression from a minute ago has tightened around her mouth.
Her voice is very low when she speaks. “I didn’t know I was attending Thanksgiving.”
The reminder lands hard, and I remember the promise I made on her porch.
Ask before answering. I should have done it now.
Still, Thanksgiving at my parents’ house feels different from an October bonfire or another cookout.
We love each other. She has a key to my home.
Three months from now, we will still be together.
“I thought this one was obvious.”
“Because it’s obvious to you?”
“It’s Thanksgiving.”
“Yes. I’ve heard of it.”
Axel’s mouth twitches across the table. I ignore him and rub my thumb along Paige’s knee.
“It’s one afternoon,” I say. “I think you’ll survive.”
“I am less worried about surviving the meal than how I arrived on the guest list.”
“You were invited.”
“Your mother asked you. You answered for me.”
“She asked both of us.”
“She looked at you.”
“She knows I keep the calendar.”
Paige’s eyebrows lift. “Whose calendar?”
The words are quiet enough that no one beyond our end of the table should hear them, but Mom sets her glass down with deliberate care.
I know the correct answer. Ours would make Paige bristle. Mine would sound like I’m managing her. Hers would ignore the fact that our lives overlap more every week.
“I’ll ask next time,” I tell her.
“You said that last time.”
Her voice stays even. That control twists the irritation deeper beneath my ribs. She is here beside me, holding my hand under the table, yet she holds back from one dinner three months from now.
Josie appears between us, flushed from running and carrying a cup with more lemonade on the outside than inside.
“Are we talking about Thanksgiving?” she asks.
Mom smiles at her. “We are.”
Josie looks straight at Paige. “You’re coming too, right?”
Her excitement carries the question across the table, and the surrounding conversation stills.
Paige’s fingers tighten around mine.
“I haven’t decided yet,” she tells Josie.
Josie’s smile falters. “But you’ll be living with us by Thanksgiving.”
The conversation around the table stops. Even Dad turns away from the grill.
I straighten. “What makes you think Paige is moving in?”
“You gave her a key,” Josie says it as if the answer should be obvious. “And a drawer. And closet hangers. And the bathroom shelf. And the place under the sink.”
“She still has her cabin.”
“I know. That’s where her other stuff is.”
Paige slips her hand from mine and folds both of hers in her lap. “Did your dad tell you I was moving in, sweetheart?”
“No.” Josie looks between us. “He made room for you. People make room when someone is going to live there.”
“I made room so she wouldn’t have to pack every Friday,” I say.
“Right. Because she’ll already be there.”
Fuck.
I have never told Josie that Paige is moving in. I also haven’t treated the space I cleared as temporary. Why would I? I don’t make room for people I expect to leave.
Paige’s face gives nothing away now. The warmth has vanished from her eyes, replaced by a careful neutrality that gives nothing away.
“Am I wrong?” Josie asks.
Mom pushes back from the table. “Come help me choose which pie to put out. Your grandfather bought three because he believes dessert should outnumber the people eating it.”
“There are more people than pies,” Josie says.
“Then we should count before he finds a reason to buy six more.”
Josie hesitates, finally aware that the easy mood has changed.
Paige reaches for her sticky hand. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Go save us from excessive pie.”
“Can I pick chocolate?”
“You should always pick chocolate.”
That earns the smile Josie had a minute ago. She follows Mom toward the house, already explaining why chocolate cream qualifies as the most responsible choice.
Mom looks back once. Her gaze moves from Paige’s rigid shoulders to me, and I understand the warning without words. She saw this shift before I did.
Dad clears his throat and turns back to the grill. Adrienne asks Axel about an event at the brewery, and he answers without one joke at my expense. They’re all trying so hard to give us privacy that the whole fucking table feels involved.
I lower my voice. “I’m sorry. She gets excited.”
Paige looks at me. “About me moving into your house?”
“About you being part of things.”
“She didn’t invent the key or the closet.”
“I know.”
“And the conclusion everyone at this table reached before I did.”
“They know we’re serious.”
“They think I’m moving in.”
“Because you’re here all the time.”
Her expression tightens. “Three nights a week isn’t ‘all the time.’”
“You have a key.”
“I know, Aiden. That’s become very clear.”
She shifts away from my hand when I reach for her knee. The rejection is small enough that no one else should notice, but my palm feels empty against the bench.
At first, I read it as embarrassment. Too many Slades know too much about our private life, and Paige hates having every eye in the room on her. That is manageable. I can get her alone and let her tell me exactly what crossed the line.
The distance she puts between us is a physical thing, and it shoves the irritation from my chest, leaving a cold space for panic. She loves me. She loves being here. The room I gave her was meant to prove she belongs.
“No one is expecting you to arrive with boxes tonight,” I say.
“That is an alarmingly specific reassurance.”
“They’re happy for us.”
“About a decision I haven’t made.”
“Can we talk about this without an audience?”
“I would prefer it.”
Mom returns carrying chocolate cream pie, Josie beside her with a stack of paper plates. Dad immediately objects to dessert before burgers. “The cookout has survived enough of your management, Hudson,” Mom says.
She does not ask Paige whether she is okay or try to explain what anyone meant. She serves her a small slice, demands that Dad justifies purchasing three pies, and gives the table somewhere else to look.
The conversation starts again. Paige responds when someone speaks to her, smiles at Josie, and thanks Mom for the pie. To anyone else, she looks fine, but sitting inches from my side, I feel her go completely distant.
I wait until Josie runs back across the yard with Poppy, then lean closer. “Do you want to walk down to the barn?”
Paige shakes her head. “I don’t want everyone watching us leave the table together.”
“They aren’t judging you.”
“I don’t think they are.”
“Then what is this?”
Her eyes hold mine. “Not here.”
She sets her untouched pie on the table, carefully wipes her fingers on a napkin, and bends close enough that only I can hear her.
“Can we leave?”
The truck stays silent until the lights of my parents’ house disappear behind us. Smoke from the grill and late-August heat hang in the cab.
“Say it.”
Paige faces the passenger window, both hands locked around her bag strap. “I don’t want to fight while you’re driving.”
“I can pull over.”
“Of course you can.”
My knuckles burn against the wheel. “What does that mean?”
She turns. “You always have a solution, and it’s always another decision you’ve made for me.”
“You asked to leave. We left.”
“I know.” Her fingers loosen. “Thank you.”
“That’s just my family. They come on strong. No one was trying to pressure you.”
“I know. Intent doesn’t change what happened.”
“Josie’s a kid. She saw a key and some hangers and got the wrong idea.”
“Did she?”
“You think I actually told her that? That you were moving in?”
“No. I think she watched what you were doing and understood where you expected it to lead.”
“I made room for you.”
“You made a plan for me.”
“A drawer isn’t a plan.”
“A drawer, closet hangers, a bathroom shelf, the space under the sink, riding lessons, Thanksgiving, and a permanent library sounds like one.”
“The riding lessons were never scheduled.”
“That is the detail you want to defend?”
I force my hands to relax. “No.”
“Everyone at that table understood the future you were building for me before I did,” she says. “Your mother put me on the Thanksgiving calendar. Josie thinks my belongings are moving into your house. You answered for me because you believed I could only say yes.”
“I believed you’d want to spend a holiday with me.”
“You didn’t give me the chance to want it.”
“Fine. I should have asked.”
“You keep saying that after you decide.”
The tires crunch onto the gravel lane, and the sound is too loud. She was in my bed. She told me she loved me. How did we get here? Every place I made for her is suddenly proof I never listened.
“What was I supposed to think?” The words come out too loud. “You have a key. You’re at my house half the week, leaving clothes and books so you don’t have to pack. You love me, Paige. Am I supposed to pretend all of that just disappears tomorrow?”
She flinches.
“You were supposed to talk to me.”
“I try to talk about it. I ask you where this is going, and you only ever answer for today. Then you shut it down.”
“It doesn’t stop. I just don’t have every answer yet.”
“You’ve had an answer for everything except us.”
Her mouth tightens. “I’m not just looking at today.”
“So why am I the only one who will say it? Why won’t you?”
I park beside the house and shut off the engine. Paige removes her seat belt while the metal beneath the hood ticks in the sudden quiet.
She opens her door.
“Paige.”
She gets out anyway.
I follow her to the porch steps. The light catches the hurt in her eyes, and I reach for her waist.
She steps back.
“This isn’t just your risk to take,” she says.
“I came into your life, Paige.” My empty hand drops. “I spend time at your cabin. I show up at the library. I sit with your friends. I leave when you ask for quiet. I keep trying to love you and still make room for what you need.”
“I see that.”
“Then tell me what I’m missing. I made space for you here, and you’re looking at me like I did something to you.”
“You did.” Her voice catches. “I accepted a key. I left a few things. You treated that like I said yes to everything after it.”
“I’m not demanding everything tonight.”
“You already built it.”
“Shelves and a closet aren’t a life sentence.”
“Then why are you this upset that I haven’t agreed to them?”
The fear I’ve tried to plan away claws up my throat. Every time Paige protects an exit, I wonder if she already sees herself using it.
“Why do you need to keep one foot outside this?”
Her arms fall. “My cabin is my home. Stop calling it an exit.”
“And this?” I gesture toward the lit windows and the house holding pieces of her life. The next words tear out before I can steady them. “What am I, Paige?”
Pain crosses her face. “You’re the man I love.”
“You say you might want to marry me someday. You might want to wake up beside me. What are we building, Paige? What is any of this if you won’t give me an answer?”
She swallows. “I’m giving you the only answer I have right now.”
“I don’t know isn’t enough to build on.”
The words leave my mouth, and Paige goes still.
“There,” she says, her voice flat. “That’s the problem.”
“Wanting a future with you is a problem?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “You already decided what it looks like. Every time I don’t catch up fast enough, you act like I’m delaying us.”
“I’m trying to build a life with you because I love you.”
Her gaze stays on mine, steady despite the pain I put there.
“You have made decisions about me and called the result love.”