“No, we are not.”
“What did he say?”she pressed, her tone dropping into a conspiratorial whisper.“You told me he got all intense when you guys were camping, which made you believe him.”
I stared at my own mouth in the mirror, the mouth he hadn’t kissed.I could still feel his breath against my lips.“He said he won’t kiss me until we both know, really know, that we’re a forever kind of love.That we won’t… You know… until we both know it’s making love.Not…” I flapped a hand.
Clara happy-clapped so hard the iron thunked on the vanity.“He looooooves you,” she sang in a terrible Sandra Bullock impression.“He wants to kiss you.He wants to marry you.He wants to have your babies...”
“Okay!”I threw a pillow at her.“Not helping.”
She caught it, eyes softening.“He’s good, Cass.Let yourself have good.”
The doorbell rang.
Brody arrived with flowers like a man who’d been raised right: a small, wild bunch of blush peonies and eucalyptus for me, a cheerful mixed bouquet for Mom, and a sunny handful of daisies for Clara.He shook Dad’s hand, hugged Mom because she made him, and offered Chase a respectful nod that saidI know we are best friends, and you could make this difficult, please don’t.Then, with my hand in his, he did exactly what he’d promised: he told my family,with my agreement, what he intended.
“I’m taking Cassidy to dinner,” he said to the room, steady as bedrock.“I’m going to date her.Properly.I’m going to take care of her heart.No rushing.No hiding.You’ll see me around a lot...Well, a lot more than you already do.”He didn’t look away from Dad until Dad’s mouth ticked into something that wasn’t a smile, but wasn’t not one either.
“You have her home when she wants to be home,” Dad said, a formality we all let stand like ritual.
“Yes, Mr.Morgan.”
Brody opened doors like it wasn’t a performance.He pulled out my chair, but he also listened, really listened, tilting toward me when I talked, tipping his head the way he does when he’s storing your words somewhere safe.We spoke about little things (how Jackson’s vampire phase had become a paleontology phase) and big things (how going through the process of writing my story felt like taking off a weighted vest you’d forgotten to stop wearing).He told me the shop orders were piling up, farmhouse tables, a walnut credenza for a lake house, a cradle someone wanted, “if time allowed.”I told him the edits were already trickling in from Marin’s team, kind, precise, annoying in the way only good edits are.
He didn’t kiss me at the door.He walked me back inside, squeezed my hand like a secret only we knew, and left me buzzing all over.
We camped that Saturday beside the ridge where the creek makes its shiest bend.The fire caught slowly; the night held still.He told me about his ex when the stars were bright enough to pretend we were inside a dome.
“Amber,” he said, the name like a pebble placed, not thrown.“We looked right on paper.Or at least I thought we did.College sweethearts, two good jobs, a condo with tall windows and a plant we tried not to kill.She wanted the next rung, promotion, proposal, picture-perfect, and I kept telling myself that wanting it would arrive if I just kept climbing.It never did.”He picked at the label on his beer.“Found out about her and her boss through a mutual friend.I didn't believe him, but I had to know.So I asked her flat out.She huffed and rolled her eyes, as if I was the problem.She actually tried to convince me that it wasn't that big of a deal.I packed my clothes and left.I spent a month travelling because the silence felt honest, and that felt good after living in what felt like a lie. Then out of nowhere, my dad sent me a photo of a rocking chair I made when I was sixteen; he’d found it in the loft.I came home becausethisfelt like breathing.”
“Were you in love with her?”I asked, gentler than I felt.
“I was in love with the idea of not disappointing anyone.With the idea of what I thought my life should look like.”He looked at me across the fire.“That’s not love.”
I let the weight of his words sink in, felt the breeze kiss my cheeks.“No.It’s not.”
Later, when the fire turned to a red seam of heat, I asked him out with the bravest voice I had.“Vineyard yoga on Thursday… and dinner?If you can handle me seeing you in stretchy pants.”
I didn't know why I was nervous.Well, I did.Andrew never let me initiate anything; he controlled the relationship...But Brody wasn't Andrew, and if I really wanted this, I would have to do something about it.And I was starting to realize that I did want this...him, much more than I could say out loud at this point.So, I needed to start treating Brody like Brody and not like my past.
He laughed, head tipping back, the sound warm enough to be its own season.“You just want to ogle me in downward dog.”
“That would be correct.”
“And after,” he said, that half-grin I’d started to want to see every day, “we’ll get pasta.Carbs after a workout.A courtship classic.”
He tucked me beneath his arm, our breaths syncing with the creek’s hush, and somehow that felt more intimate than anything else we weren’t doing yet.
What followed wasn’t a montage so much as a deepening: hands linked in the farmers’ market crowd; passing a basket back and forth at the grocery store, arguing aisle etiquette like we were eighty; taking Jackson for ice cream and letting him pick the ridiculous toppings because childhood is short and sugar is a rite of passage; mornings on opposite ends of the old barn, me with my red pen, him sanding a length of oak, the scent of sawdust and coffee knitting the hours together.I joined a book club with Mom, Judy, and Clara and spent one evening laughing so hard about a plot twist that Adam claimed he could hear us from the pub.
The blocked-number calls kept coming, then stopped long enough for me to relax, then started again.I logged what I could for the lawyer and let the rest go, because I refused to allow a ghost to keep me from living.
And then it was Canada Day.
Town permits let businesses spill into the street with makeshift patios; Adam built an extra bar outside, strung with lights and bunting in red and white.The evening felt like an exhale, grills working overtime, kids with temporary tattoos peeling at the corners, the happy chaos of a summer holiday humming across the crowd.
I worked the outdoor bar beside Adam, a white tank top with little red maple leaves all over it, feeling inexplicably like myself.People smiled without that edge of curiosity.A few regulars called me “our favourite barkeep” and insisted I taste-test a new mocktail and then the not-at-all-mocktail version “for science.”It was easy.It was light.It was mine.
Still, now and then, a chill slid across my shoulders like someone had opened a door.That watched feeling again.I scanned the crowd, finding only faces I recognized, along with a few I didn’t.I told myself it was the size of the crowd.I told myself, you’re safe.I told myself, he’s gone.
