“You’re allowed to be.” Lola came back around the counter to top off coffee, even though no one had asked. “You’ve walked through fire this month, figuratively and literally. You hold yourself together better than most people with ten times your resources.”
The kindness almost undid me more than the casual comments had.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Really. Just running on fumes.”
“Take care of that heart,” she said gently. “It’s doing a lot of work.”
I wasn’t sure which heart she meant—actual cardiac muscle or the one that felt as if it had been reconstructed with Powell-shaped sutures—but either way, I gave her a wobbly smile and pushed to my feet.
“Okay.” I smoothed my hands down my coat. “You’ve got the final schedule. If anything changes, I’ll send a text blast, but otherwise… we’re good.”
Lola squeezed my arm. “Go grab some lunch.”
“Or a nap,” Dorothy suggested.
“Or a kiss,” Mrs. Atkins added, not even pretending to be subtle.
“Goodbye,” I said firmly, before my head could combust, and made my escape.
The blast of cold air on the sidewalk jolted me, but it didn’t clear the fuzz in my chest. The town was festive and bright, with people waving, kids skipping. I made myself wave back, smile, nod, and check off two more quick stops—a last-minute print pickup at the copy shop, a check-in with the volunteer coordinator about walkie-talkies.
On the outside, I probably looked like I always did before a big event: focused, a little keyed up, efficient.
On the inside, everything was… off balance.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, I’d been tangled in Powell’s sheets again, his fingers tracing idle shapes on my side, his voice sleepy and low as he’d asked if I was okay. I’d felt seen. Chosen. Like we’d deliberately stepped onto the same path instead of orbiting each other forever.
Now the whisper at the back of my mind had shifted. Maybe this is simply… what he does. Maybe you’re folding meaning into the same pattern he uses for everyone else.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
POWELL:
How’s my favorite festival dictator? Everything good at Pie Hard?
Under normal circumstances, that would’ve made me smile so hard my face hurt.
Today, the word favorite snagged on that fresh, sore place.
He’d do that for anybody.
I stared at the screen for a few seconds too long, watching the text blur.
There was a version of me—braver, less dented—that would have texted back exactly what I was thinking.Old ladies are singing your praises, and my brain is being a jerk about it. Please reassure me I’m not some extended community service project.
Unfortunately, the version of me currently at the wheel was the one who’d spent a decade building a fortress around her feelings and did not enjoy exposing the wiring.
I typed carefully.
JESS:
Everything’s set. Lola & Co. are ready. I’m doing last-minute rounds. You good?
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
POWELL:
We’re good. Walk-through with volunteers at 4. You coming by, or do you want me to handle it and send notes?
