Lila squeals into her muffin. Ivy claps like she’s at an awards show. “Yes! I knew the hair looked post-storm.”
“It’s just wavy,” I protest.
“It’ssinned,” Ivy says cheerfully, then sobers, pulling her sunglasses up onto her head. “Are you okay?”
The question lands exactly where it needs to, and suddenly, my throat is a tightrope. I fuss with the sugar bowl to buy a second. “I’m… more okay than I thought I’d be.”
Lila’s eyes soften. “Because it’s him.”
“Because it’s him,” I admit, and the truth feels like setting down a box I’ve carried too long.
Ivy reaches, squeezing my fingers once. “Then let yourself be happy. You can be careful and still say yes.”
“Iamcareful,” I say automatically.
“You’re also stubborn,” Lila adds. “Which is why we baked muffins and staged a gentle siege.”
“I hate you both,” I say, voice unsteady.
“You love us,” they chorus, which is rude and true.
They stay for an hour under the pretense of helping, which means Ivy signs two old CD inserts for tourists who pretend they don’t recognize her, and Lila reorganizes the children’s corner by reading one book out loud and crying at the page with the sea otters.
When they finally leave—with three romance recs, two jars of jam Mom mysteriously delivered “for morale,” and the promise to text when Holt inevitably sets something ablaze during festival cleanup (which is funny since he’s training to be a firefighter)—my shoulders drop. I am full of muffins and friendship and a trembling that isn’t fear anymore. It’s anticipation wearing my sweater.
I try not to look at my phone. It sits on the counter like a glittering trap. I make it twenty-seven minutes. Personal best. Then it buzzes.
Crew:How’s the menace level?
Crew:Do I need to come over and install a fire suppression system for Ivy?
I don’t smile. I’m a professional.
Me:Under control.
Me:Your sister-in-law only threatened two journalists and one candle.
Three dots, then a pause.
Crew:Proud of you.
Crew:Proud ofus.
Crew:Can I bring lunch? Promise to stay out of your way. Will do an impression of a quiet shelf.
It’s ridiculous how fast my heart flips like a page in the wind. I stare at the message, and the rules appear in my head like kindly traffic cones. We’re building something. It needs air and time, not my panic.
Me:Later.
Me:Story hour again at 3. Parents asked for you and the otter.
Crew:The otter negotiated for better snacks. But I’ll be there.
I put the phone down and breathe. The shop hums back to life: a couple browsing travel memoirs, a teen asking for dark academia, an older man with calloused palms looking for a book about small towns that isn’t “too romantic” (Good luck, sir.).
Every time the door opens, my body thinks it’s him. It isn’t. And I go to war with my heart every time.
And then it is.
