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AIDEN

G loria corners me in the kitchen the next morning, leaning her skinny hip against the counter, her faded jeans already bearing streaks of dirt. She’s been up since dawn, and lucky me, I have too.

I slept in Emory’s teenage bed last night and listened to her tell me her secrets—the boy she kissed behind the house at fifteen (her assessment: too much tongue), the bands she liked and snuck out to see in New Haven and Boston, the car she crashed at eighteen.

I told her about the tree I climbed on the property at age eight and then was too scared to climb down, the liquor Tristan and I stole from Dad’s study before we realized it was a six-figure bottle, the secret island we found that’s hidden in the bay and we’ve never been able to find on a map.

We slept tangled together, her hair in my mouth, her head on my chest, her hand curled against me, like she was searching for something to grab on to in the night.

This morning, she mumbled that she wanted to sleep in my bed every night, and I told her to keep sleeping before I crept downstairs.

I think the thumping around from Gloria and Annette was on purpose.

They gave us one night, but all signs point to this morning being a repeat of last night’s labor.

I don’t let Gloria see my smile as I pour myself a cup of coffee.

“You’re a tall one,” Gloria says. She appraises me. “Long arms too.” She squints. “You like yard work?”

“Love it,” I say honestly.

She gives me another appraising look. “All right. Let’s go.”

I follow her into the massive garden, where there’s a ladder leaning against a shed and a bucket of paint. She strides off, trowel in hand. I’m halfway done painting the eaves and already sweating in the morning sun when she reappears with a glass of lemonade.

“Where’d you learn to paint?”

I brace myself on the top of the ladder. “Honestly? YouTube.”

She barks a laugh, and I grin. “Not bad for a rich boy.”

“Yeah. Not bad.” I wipe my forehead, wishing I could take off my shirt but not wanting to flash Emory’s stepmom. “I’ve spent a lot of time fixing up the property since my dad died.”

I wait for the inevitable swirl of blackness, but it never comes. Instead, I feel a dull ache that slowly ebbs.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Gloria says plainly. She leans against the door of the shed and holds up the lemonade.

I blink at the glass, then take it. When I was little, nannies always made us lemonade, or catering staff whose names we never knew.

I’ve never had a mother figure do it, though I suspect Gloria might dump the lemonade on my head if I called her that.

My throat is oddly tight as I sip it, then cough.

“You like it tart.”

She grins. “More refreshing that way.”

The lemon is making my eyes water. “I could see that,” I wheeze.

“You love her?”

“Of course,” I choke out before I freeze.

Gloria is staring at me, a secret, pleased smile curling her mouth. “Knew it.”

I set the glass down on the top of the ladder and press my hands to my trousers. “How could I not?” I say quietly.

She nods, her eyes shining. “The question is, what are you going to do about it?”

“We’re getting divorced.” The ache is back, sharper this time, piercing straight through me.

“You’re just going to let her go?” She shakes her head and pushes off the door. “If you’re willing to let her go, then you don’t deserve her.” She turns for the house.

“W-wait,” I say, then, more strongly, “What would you do? If you were m-me?” I count to three in my head before I speak again. “Her family doesn’t want me. My grandfather doesn’t want her. If I stay with her, we each lose something.”

She turns back to me. “Then I guess you need to decide which of those things you can live without.” She points a finger at me. “But if I had a woman who looks at me the way she looks at you, I’d marry her and never let her go. Oh wait.” She grins, sharp and bright in the morning sun.

My pulse is pounding. My hands shake as I grip the ladder.

“Thank you,” I tell her, and I mean it.

She’s already on her way back to the house. “Don’t disappoint me, rich boy,” she tosses over her shoulder.