CHAPTER TEN — When Reality Knocks
1356 Words
Reality rarely arrives all at once.
It doesn’t crash through the front door.
It taps politely.
Then lets itself in anyway.
For weeks, Landon and I had existed in something careful.
Something intentional.
We weren't hiding.
But we weren't announcing anything either.
There were no labels.
No declarations.
No dramatic conversations about the future.
Just a series of choices.
Coffee dates.
Movie nights.
School pickups when schedules collided.
Texts that became phone calls.
Phone calls that stretched late into the night.
Small moments accumulating into something neither of us could dismiss anymore.
And maybe that was why reality waited until we were comfortable.
Because comfort makes disruption louder.
The school play arrived on a Thursday evening.
I spent far too long deciding what to wear.
Not because it mattered.
Not because anyone would notice.
But because Landon would.
That thought alone was enough to make me stand in front of my closet for twenty minutes.
Eventually I chose something simple.
Something that looked effortless despite requiring entirely too much effort.
When I arrived at the elementary school auditorium, the parking lot was already crowded.
Parents streamed toward the building carrying flowers and cameras.
The air smelled like cold pavement and winter.
I spotted them immediately.
Ivy was practically vibrating with excitement.
The second she saw me, she broke into a run.
"Mira!"
I barely had time to brace myself before she collided with me.
I laughed.
"There you are."
"You came."
The simple certainty in her voice squeezed something inside my chest.
"Of course I came."
She beamed.
Then grabbed my hand and dragged me toward Landon.
He looked good.
Unfairly good.
Dark coat.
Hands shoved into his pockets.
Hair slightly messy from the wind.
His eyes found mine.
And something softened instantly.
"Hey."
"Hey."
The smile he gave me wasn't dramatic.
It was worse.
It was familiar.
The play itself was adorable chaos.
Children forgot lines.
Costumes malfunctioned.
One little boy sneezed directly into his microphone.
The audience loved every second.
Ivy played a snowflake.
A very serious snowflake.
She delivered her two lines with such fierce determination that I nearly laughed out loud.
Beside me, Landon recorded the entire thing.
When Ivy finished, he looked prouder than if she'd won an Olympic medal.
And something about that undid me.
Because he never performed fatherhood.
He simply lived it.
Steadily.
Every day.
Afterward, families gathered in the lobby.
Parents snapped photos.
Children ran wild on sugar and adrenaline.
Ivy posed for approximately forty-seven pictures.
Then disappeared to show her costume to friends.
Leaving Landon and me standing together near the wall.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then a woman approached.
Tall.
Blonde.
Confident.
The kind of confidence that comes from familiarity.
"Well," she said with a smile. "Look at you."
Landon's expression shifted immediately.
Not negatively.
Just cautiously.
"Rachel."
Ah.
Rachel.
The name landed somewhere uncomfortable.
She glanced at me.
Then back at him.
Then smiled again.
The kind of smile that wasn't entirely friendly.
"I haven't seen you bring someone to one of these before."
The silence that followed felt longer than it probably was.
"This is Mira," Landon said.
Rachel's gaze returned to me.
Assessing.
Measuring.
Understanding more than I wanted her to.
"Nice to meet you."
"You too."
But her attention remained mostly on Landon.
"Well," she said. "The town's already talking."
My stomach tightened.
Landon's jaw tightened too.
"Rachel."
"What?" she asked innocently. "They are."
She wasn't wrong.
Small towns survived on weather forecasts and gossip.
Sometimes in that order.
The drive home was quieter.
Not tense.
Just thoughtful.
Ivy talked nonstop from the backseat.
Thankfully.
Because it gave both of us time to process.
When they dropped me off at my apartment, Ivy hugged me twice.
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight, snowflake."
She giggled.
Then disappeared into the truck.
Leaving Landon standing beside the passenger door.
Cold air swirled between us.
"Sorry about Rachel."
I shrugged.
"Do I need to be?"
His eyes searched mine.
"No."
The answer came immediately.
Certain.
Without hesitation.
And somehow that mattered.
But Rachel wasn't the problem.
Reality was.
And reality arrived three days later.
It was Saturday afternoon.
I was helping Ivy bake cookies.
Which mostly involved preventing flour-related disasters.
Landon was making coffee.
The house felt warm.
Comfortable.
Normal.
The kind of normal I'd started craving.
Then there was a knock at the door.
Landon frowned.
"Expecting someone?"
"No."
He wiped his hands on a dish towel and answered it.
The shift in his posture was immediate.
Not dramatic.
But noticeable.
I looked up.
An older man stood on the porch.
Tall.
Broad.
Gray-haired.
The resemblance was obvious.
His father.
The room changed instantly.
Not because anyone raised their voice.
Because everyone became aware.
Even Ivy.
"Dad."
The older man nodded.
"Landon."
No hug.
No smile.
Nothing warm.
Just history.
Standing in the doorway.
Ivy ran forward first.
As children often do when adults complicate things.
"Grandpa!"
His entire face softened.
Immediately.
"There's my girl."
He lifted her easily.
Hugging her close.
And for a second, the tension disappeared.
Then his eyes landed on me.
Questions flickered there.
Recognition.
Understanding.
Judgment.
Perhaps all three.
"Who's this?"
Ivy answered before anyone else could.
"This is Mira."
Of course she did.
Introductions followed.
Polite.
Brief.
Careful.
But the atmosphere never fully recovered.
Eventually Ivy disappeared to her room.
And Landon's father sat at the kitchen table.
Watching.
Observing.
Waiting.
I recognized the type immediately.
The kind of person who believed silence could accomplish what words couldn't.
Unfortunately, he was right.
I excused myself twenty minutes later.
Not because I felt unwelcome.
Because I suddenly understood that this conversation wasn't meant for me.
At least not yet.
Landon walked me to my car.
The winter sky hung low and gray overhead.
"You okay?"
I nodded.
"You?"
His laugh was short.
Humorless.
"Ask me later."
I studied him.
The tension in his shoulders.
The exhaustion in his eyes.
The frustration he was trying very hard not to show.
"What does he want?"
Landon looked away.
Toward the house.
Toward years of unfinished conversations.
"I honestly don't know."
But something told me that wasn't entirely true.
That night, he called.
Late.
Later than usual.
His voice sounded tired.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
"My father thinks I'm moving too fast."
I sat upright in bed.
"What?"
A pause.
Then
"He thinks Ivy's getting attached."
There it was.
The fear.
The same fear we'd been circling for weeks.
Only now it had a voice.
Someone else had spoken it aloud.
"And what do you think?" I asked quietly.
The silence stretched.
Long enough to matter.
Finally
"I think he's afraid."
"Of what?"
Another pause.
"Of watching me lose someone again."
My chest tightened.
Because suddenly it wasn't about disapproval.
Or judgment.
Or control.
It was grief.
Old grief.
The kind that echoes through families long after everyone stops talking about it.
We stayed on the phone for nearly an hour.
Neither of us are trying to solve it.
Just sitting with it.
Because some problems don't need immediate answers.
They need honesty.
And honesty is rarely comfortable.
After we hung up, I stood at my window.
The city stretched beyond the glass.
Quiet.
Dark.
Endless.
I thought about Landon.
About Ivy.
About school plays and toothbrushes and coffee dates and snowstorms.
About how carefully we'd built this.
How deliberately.
And for the first time, I understood something important.
Love doesn't become difficult when two people fall for each other.
Love becomes difficult when the rest of the world notices.
When other people have opinions.
Fears.
Histories.
When the future stops being theoretical.
And starts becoming real.
I rested my forehead against the cool glass.
My phone buzzed.
One final message.
Landon:
I don't regret this.
I stared at the words.
Then typed back.
Neither do I.
Outside, winter settled over the city.
Quiet.
Patient.
Waiting.
And somewhere between fear and hope, between caution and certainty, between what we had and what we might become
Reality had finally arrived.
The question now was whether what we'd built could survive it.
And for the first time since Christmas
Neither of us knew the answer.
- Writer
