Page 115 of Check & Chase
And that’s how I find myself preparing for bed in my childhood room, Chase settled in the guest room across the hall at my insistence despite his suggestive eyebrow waggling.
“Behave yourself,” I’d hissed as I showed him to his room. “My mother is twenty feet away.”
“I’m always a perfect gentleman, Emma,” he’d replied with exaggerated innocence, then ruined it by adding, “Though this morning might suggest otherwise.”
I’d shut his door in his laughing face, cheeks burning.
Now I sit on my old bed surrounded by remnants of my teenage self—skating trophies, framed medals, photos of competitions long past. It’s strange being here with Chase under the same roof, worlds colliding in ways I never anticipated.
A soft knock at my door pulls me from my thoughts. My mother enters at my invitation, moving carefully with her bandaged ankle.
“You should be resting that,” I chide gently, making room for her on the bed.
“It’s fine,” she dismisses, settling beside me. “Wanted to check on you before I turn in. It’s been quite a day.”
“You gave us a scare,” I say. “Jackson too, with his cryptic messages.”
“Your brother has always had a flair for drama.” She pats my hand. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”
“No?”
“No.” She glances toward the door, ensuring it’s closed, then lowers her voice. “I wanted to talk about Chase.”
“What about him?”
“He loves you,” she declares simply, as if stating that the sky is blue. “It’s written all over his face.”
I swallow hard, uncertain how to respond. “I know… but it’s complicated.”
“Love usually is.” Her eyes grow distant, remembering. “Your father and I had our complications too. Different backgrounds, my parents’ disapproval. Didn’t matter in the end.”
“This is different,” I insist, though I’m not entirely sure how. “My job, his career.”
“Excuses,” my mother counters gently. “What I want to know is how you feel about him.”
The direct question catches me off guard. I open my mouth to deflect, then close it. If I can’t be honest with my mother, who can I be honest with?
“I love him,” I admit quietly, the words surprisingly easy to say. “I do love him, Mom. Really. And he loves me too, but it’s so complicated.”
She smiles. “The best things usually are.”
“What if it doesn’t work out?” The fear that’s been lurking beneath the surface finally emerges. “What if I give up everything—my professional reputation, the career I’ve built—and it falls apart?”
“And so what if it does?” she counters. “What if this is your only chance at the kind of relationship I had with your father?”
The comparison steals my breath. My parents’ relationship has always been the gold standard in my mind—loving, supportive, built on mutual respect and genuine friendship.
“He looks at you as if you hung the moon, Emma,” my mother continues, her eyes misty. “Like every word you speak is fascinating, every gesture worthy of memorizing. I’ve only seen that kind of look once before in my life.”
“Dad,” I whisper.
She nods. “Your father looked at me exactly the same way, right up until the day he died.”
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. “I’m scared, Mom.”
“Of course you are.” She wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close like she did when I was small. “Love is terrifying. It’s also the bravest, most worthwhile thing you’ll ever do.”
We sit in silence for a moment, her words settling around me like the blanket of snow outside.
