Page 3 of Reclaim Me

A square, black box.

He doesn’t open it until he’s standing right in front of me, but I already know what’s inside. Knowing doesn’t stop me from being shocked when I see the gold band of a ring nestled inside the lines of the black silk. The small diamonds surrounding the larger center stone fan out into little triangles that look like a sunburst. I cover my mouth and shake my head in disbelief.

He can’t be doing this.

There’s no way he’s actually doing this.

“Time,” he says, finally answering the question I asked before I lost my ability to speak altogether, “for me to give you another option, a better option.”

2

RAE

TWELVE WEEKS BEFORE THE PROPOSAL

Now

The box in my hand is going to fall.

I see it happen in my mind’s eye. The ancient glassware Aaron’s mother, Marcy, has had since her wedding to his father forty years ago will go first, tumbling out of the poorly taped box and shattering all over the hand-scraped hardwoods under my bare feet. I’ll have to feign regret as I sweep the shards of gold-rimmed glass up, frown, and sigh, and apologize every time it’s mentioned, which, knowing Marcy, will be at least once a day for the rest of my life.

It still won’t be enough to convince her I didn’t do it on purpose, and that’s fine because I won’t be one hundred percent sure it wasn’t.

“Whoa, babe, you’re going to drop it.” Aaron rushes toward me, swooping in just as the box slips free from my fingertips. He catches it midair and laughs at my clumsiness as he sets it on the counter in the middle of our brand-new kitchen. “Mom would have flipped if any of this stuff got broken. Her wedding china is in here.”

I watch him start unpacking his mother’s precious keepsakes and try not to roll my eyes. “Where’s Marcy, anyway?”

Aaron glances over his shoulder toward the hallway that leads to the stairs then back at me with his brows pulled together in a tight line of disapproval. As far as looks go, this one is my least favorite of his. It’s too close to the look he gives Riley when she eats her snacks on the couch.

“Rae, you know she doesn’t like when you call her Marcy.”

I move over to the fridge and pull out a bottle of water, cracking the top and taking a couple swigs before I respond to him. “Her name is Marcy, Aaron, what else am I supposed to call her?”

“I don’t know, maybe Mom?”

The glare I turn on him makes him whither. “Why would I do that? She’s not my mother.”

Aaron knows this is a touchy subject for me, so I’m not sure why he’s decided that today, of all days, is the best time to broach the topic again. After months of stressing about this move from Manhattan to New Haven and the addition of his mother to our household, I’m not in the mood to argue about something we’ve already discussed ad nauseam. Losing my mother when I was barely out of high school left a hole in my heart I have no intention of ever filling with Marcy Scott. Not because she’s not a good mom, because she is—if helicopter moms are your thing—but because she’s not my mom.

Her hugs bring me no comfort.

Her smiles offer me no reassurance, and all of her advice is biased towards her son.

“Sweetheart,” Aaron coos, sidling over to me to wrap his arms around my waist and kiss my neck. “I know that, but one day, she will be your mother-in-law, and what are you going to call her then?”

“Marcy,” I deadpan, ignoring the way my stomach knots at the mere allusion to marriage.

He stares at me, and despite being tired and sweaty and a bit annoyed, I can’t help but appreciate how damn easy he is on the eyes. Between the honey-brown eyes, golden skin, and the jet black hair that he always keeps cropped close to his scalp, I’m usually prone to giving him whatever he wants, but I won’t give him this.

Aaron must see the resolve in my eyes because he pushes out a breath of concession and leans in to kiss me on the lips. I reciprocate, allowing myself to relax into his arms, to let the anxiety of being back in New Haven and the stress of living with his mother fade into the background. I’m seconds away from slipping him some tongue when footfalls in the hallway announce that we’re about to have company. We break apart at the same time, turning our attention to the doorway just in time to see my daughter, Riley, come barreling into the room with a phone in her hand.

“Auntie Dee is on the phone!”

Her voice bounces off of the bare quartz countertops and pings around the room, highlighting just how empty it is in here. Aaron plants a quick kiss on my cheek before he lets me go, knowing that a phone call from my best friend means unpacking the kitchen has just become his sole responsibility.

I pluck the phone from Riley’s hands and run a hand over wild curls spilling out of the bun I wrangled them into this morning while an adoring smile pulls the corners of my mouth up. Chocolate brown eyes that are close to being squeezed shut by the chubby cheeks I hope she never grows out of reflect that same adoration back at me and my heart goes all warm.

“Thank you, Nugget. Did you finish unpacking all of your plushies before you decided to start playing games on my phone?” Silent shock is the only answer I get from my daughter. Luckily, it’s the only one I need.

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