Page 114 of Sugar & Shadows

“You don’t have to.”

I pinned her with a glare.

She gave me a tiny smile. “But okay. Honestly, I’m worried. The risk is low, but there is still a risk.”

I put my arm around her shoulders. At first, she went rigid, and I was sure she’d pull away. Instead, she leaned toward me, settling into my side.

“Let’s get it done. I’ll drive.”

She said nothing, but she sagged, allowing me to support her while we quietly contemplated our new reality.

“Can we do this?” she asked after a while. The fight had gone out of her, no sharp edges or sarcasm left.

“It depends,” I replied. “Are you planning on maiming me every time we have a parenting discussion?”

She angled away, throwing my arm off her shoulder with a sharp glare.

I grinned. “There she is.”

“Are you planning to piss me off every time we speak?” she snapped back.

“Are you going to behave?” I retorted.

Though she kept her expression hard, her eyes danced. “Probably not.”

In that moment, a current of energy worked its way through me. One I hadn’t felt in years. Nothing would ever be the same after this. It was exhilarating and terrifying.

And I couldn’t wait.

All the panic and drama of the day was gone. And for once, neither of us was trying to best the other.

“Gabe,” she said softly.

I shifted her way.

“What’s up with your house?”

I examined the living room, only now remembering its state, with laundry everywhere, shoes piled up in the corner, and files all over the coffee table next to old take-out cups of coffee.

My stomach sank.

This place had become a dump. Not all at once, but gradually over years filled with apathy and exhaustion.

It wasn’t intentional. I didn’t like living this way. It had just happened.

“I thought I was having a baby with a perfect, people-pleasing mayor. Now I know you live in a hoarder house.”

“Hey,” I retorted.

She squeezed my hand. And against all odds, her presence grounded me. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. Depression is real. And I want to help.”

“You think I’m depressed?” My heart stuttered. No one had ever suggested anything remotely close to that. I was Gabe Harding. The smiling, helpful mayor. The good guy, the star student. Oldest child and people-pleaser extraordinaire.

People like me didn’t get depressed. We didn’t burn out.

“I’m the last person who should be commenting on someone else’s mental health,” she said. “But I’ve experienced burnout. I’ve experienced depression. And I know it looks different for everyone.”

“But—” I snapped my mouth shut. Maybe she had a point. Life had been hard—impossible, really—for the last year.