Page 78 of Just My Fake Husband

“Could she stay with you in the cottage?”

“No room.” Our pace begins to slow to a less murderous one. “Anyway, no, the problem is I’m scared she won’t ever want to leave Caring Souls.”

“And that’s a problem because . . .?”

“It’s new, is all. And I don’t know about the care she’s receiving.” I think of Jana and amend my words. “They’re great there, but fairly hands-off. It’s not like Skye’s used to.”

Elianna lifts a shoulder. “If she likes it, maybe she’s ready for more freedom.”

I hope she’s right. I do want more freedom for Skye. “Maybe she is. I can’t help wondering if there will come a time when she’ll get overwhelmed and need help and no one there will know what to do. And I swear she’s eating more junk than ever before.” To be fair, I saw a chart of what they’ve been serving, and it’s not all that bad. It’s certainly more balanced than every variety of pretzels the grocery store carries.

It’s strange not having a say on what she eats anymore.

Am I trying to control?

A wasp buzzes in my ear, and I whoosh my head out and away from it. The buzz feels like an answer to my question. Maybe Iamtrying to control something that’s impossible to pin down. Maybe by letting go—only a tad, mind you—I’d be opening Skye up to more possibilities.

Which is exactly what my parents wanted for her. And for me.

“I’m sure it’s hard not to be living with her anymore,” Elianna supplies. “I’m sure you miss her.”

I swallow a lump in my throat. “Yeah. I do.”

“River, you’re an incredible sister. Your parents would be proud.”

I want that so badly. “Lately I’ve been thinking more and more about my mom and dad.”

Elianna knows about what happened to them. We’ve talked about it before, when it was the third anniversary of their deaths in the spring and she and Sebastian brought me a huge bouquet of hydrangeas.

“Getting married and having Skye moving on with life is bound to bring up memories of your parents. I’m sorry they couldn’t be at the reception the other night.” She reaches out to place a hand on my shoulder.

“Me, too.” Real or not, I wish they could have been there. The ache over them missing it curls through me, leaving a heavy grief behind my breastbone.

And the thought of Gabriel has me aching even more. I’m falling for my husband, and that’s something you want to talk to your mom about.

I promptly change the subject to the upcoming play Elianna is producing. Tate International is putting onMy Fair Ladywith the community acting troupe. She asks me to help her with content creation to promote the play and soon, our conversation is back to safer territory: work.

By the time Elianna turns around to go home, I’ve settled on the realization that, after last night with Gabriel, there’s no going back to our pretend relationship.

I simply cannot.

The need to see him and talk with him causes actual pain in my bones. I want to wrap myself in the smell of him.

Except, I haven’t opened up my heart to anything since my parents died. Why would I run the risk? Feeling hurts too much.

Besides, did he even mean the things he said?

I pick up my pace again, taking long, fast strides as I continue down the mountain on the road’s shoulder. I don’t remember the last time I could go on a walk like this. When I lived with Skye, I certainly couldn’t be away this long. And when her caregiver was there, I always had to be at work. I couldn’t be this frivolous with my time.

But breathing in the cool air, I feel alive. Free. It feels un-frivolous. It feels essential. And I can’t get thoughts of a future with Gabriel out of my head.

I pass the wild shrubbery on either side of the road, the scrub oak eventually giving way to a small pond and pastures on either side. I’m not far from Tate International now. The sun has risen enough that it’s fully light, the rays illuminating my vision. My path.

I have to get back to Gabriel. My feet turn right around, and I start the arduous task of heading back up the mountain.

Which is . . . strenuous. It would help if I exercised more. And now that Skye doesn’t need my undivided attention, maybe I will. I swallow down a sadness I don’t understand. Because it’s good that she’s becoming more independent. It’s good that she’s where she’s at, and I can tell she’s happy.

So why am I gutted when I think of her?

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