I moved between rows, touching leaves, checking buds out of habit. Momma walked beside me, pointing out which lisianthus would be ready in a few days, which zinnias needed deadheading. Daddy talked about irrigation schedules and weather forecasts, already thinking ahead.
“This is big,” Cassie said quietly, standing near the dahlias. “For you.”
“For us,” I corrected.
She smiled, just a little. “Yeah. For us.”
I looked out over the farm—the flowers closing up for the night, the house glowing behind us, my family scattered across the land like they belonged exactly where they were.
I felt it then, clear and calm.
This was my world.
And for the first time, it felt like it was opening outward instead of holding me in.
I rubbed Sunny’s head as he pressed against my leg and breathed in the scent of earth and blooms and home.
I stayed out there longer than everyone else.
Momma eventually went back inside to pack lunches for tomorrow. Daddy followed, calling over his shoulder that he’d check the irrigation lines in the morning. Cassie disappeared to FaceTime a friend, Mason and Bo started tossing a baseball back and forth near the shed, and Lily curled up on the porch swing with a book far too old for her.
I wandered between the rows alone, the sky deepening overhead, the first stars timid but determined.
There was something about twilight on the farm that always made me reflective. Not sad—never sad—but thoughtful in the way that came from having room to breathe. The kind of thinking you couldn’t do downtown, where everything buzzed and demanded and rushed you along.
I crouched beside a row of zinnias, brushing my fingers over their petals. They were sturdy things. Not delicate at all, even though people always assumed they were. They thrived in heat, held their color, lasted longer than anyone expected once cut.
I smiled to myself.
Montana.
The word still felt unreal. Wide skies. Cooler air. Mountains instead of marsh. I tried to imagine unloading crates of flowers onto a small plane, each stem tucked into hydration tubes, wrapped just right so nothing bruised or bent. Tried to imagine arranging them in a place where Spanish moss didn’t exist and no one had ever heard cicadas scream themselves hoarse at dusk.
I pictured a wedding set against something vast and open—wood and stone and sky. Maybe a long table under string lights. Maybe vows said with the wind brushing past instead of humid stillness. And there, in the middle of it all, flowers from Wadmalaw Island. From us.
It felt … important.
Not in a grand, world-changing way. Just in the quiet way that mattered to me. Like proof that what we did here—what we built with our hands and patience and care—could travel. Could belong somewhere else without losing itself.
I wondered what kind of bride would walk down that aisle.
I wondered, too, what it would feel like to be one.
The thought crept in softly, the way it always did. Not sharp or painful. Just curious.
I tried to imagine myself in a dress like the ones that came through the shop in inspiration photos. Lace sleeves. Clean lines. Something simple and beautiful. I tried to imagine walking toward someone who looked at me like I wasn’t an afterthought or a convenience, but a decision he’d made with certainty.
The image was hazy. Not because I didn’t want it—but because I’d never been able to picture who stood on the other end.
I loved my life. Truly. I loved my family, the farm, the rhythm of the shop. I loved knowing where I belonged and what was expected of me. There was comfort in that. Joy, even.
But sometimes—like now—I felt the edges of something else. Not dissatisfaction. Just … possibility. Like a door I hadn’t opened yet.
I stood, brushing dirt from my hands, and looked back toward the house. Light spilled from the windows, warm and steady. Sunny trotted over and sat at my feet, leaning into my leg with a contented sigh.
“You think so, too, don’t you?” I murmured, scratching behind his ears. “That it’s kind of a big deal.”
He thumped his tail, clearly in agreement.
