"Maybe I don't want that anymore."
"Bullshit." But she says it gently. "You want it so bad you're terrified of it. So you're gonna go have coffee with Nice Uncomplicated Grant and see if you can convince yourself that butterflies are overrated."
I open my mouth. Close it. She's right and I hate it.
"Go to coffee," she says. "See how it feels. But don't lie to yourself about why you're going."
Well. Fuck. She's got me there.
I shove another bite of pancake in my mouth instead of answering. The coffee's gone cold—I take a sip anyway, bitter and over-steeped, and it tastes like admitting she's right.
The waitress appears. Tops off both our mugs. I watch the steam curl up from mine, think about Grant's easy smile, his straightforward texts, the way he doesn't make my heart try to punch through my ribs.
"What if hard isn't worth it?" I ask quietly.
"What if it is?" Maeve counters. "What if you walk away from the best thing that ever happened to you because you're scared and he's scared and neither of you will just—" She makes an exasperated sound. "Talk to each other like adults?"
"I tried talking to him."
"Once. You tried once, while he was in a full-blown panic spiral." She points at me. "I'm not saying give him forever. But maybe give him more than a week to unfuck his own head."
I want to argue. Want to defend my decision to move on, to protect myself, to choose something safer. But the words won't come.
"I already told Grant yes," I say instead.
"So go. See what it feels like. Maybe it'll be great." She doesn't sound convinced. "Or maybe you'll sit there the whole time wishing you were somewhere else."
"That's not fair."
"What's not fair is you pretending you don't know what you want." But her voice is gentle. "You can lie to Holt. You can lie to Grant. Hell, you can lie to me. But don't lie to yourself, Scout. You're better than that."
I finish my pancakes. The last bite sits heavy in my stomach—too much food after days of nothing. The coffee's still bitter. I drink it anyway.
Maeve slides out of the booth, holds out her hand. "Come on. We're going shopping."
"I don't need—"
"Yes you do. You need something that's just yours. Something that makes you feel like yourself again." She pulls me up. "Trust me on this one too."
The boutique's wedged between a hardware store and a Mexican restaurant, windows catching the afternoon light. Lavender smell hits when we walk in—sachets maybe, or candles. Soft music plays from somewhere. Racks of sundresses line the walls, fabric in every color.
Maeve prowls through them like she's hunting something. Pulling hangers, holding things up to the light, making these theatrical rejection sounds.
"No. No. God no, what is this, a tablecloth?" She shoves a floral thing back onto the rack and I laugh. Actually laugh. It bubbles up from somewhere I thought had dried up completely, catching in my throat.
Maeve grins at me. "There she is. I was starting to worry you'd forgotten how."
"Forgotten how to what?"
"Laugh. Smile. Be anything other than a sad ghost haunting her own desk." She turns back to the dresses. "Aha. This one."
She holds up a dress the color of sage—soft green that makes me think of early spring, of things growing. Simple. Almost plain. But something about it makes my chest ache. The fabric looks soft. Worn-in. Like it would feel like butter.
"Try it," she says.
"Maeve, I don't need—"
"Try. It." She shoves it into my hands. "You need something that makes you feel good. Now go."
