I blinked. Reid didn't talk about the divorce. Didn't talk about the dating thing, either.
“But here's what I do know,” he continued. “I spent eight years married to someone I loved, and it still fell apart. Not because the love wasn't real. It was. We just wanted different things, and neither of us said so until it was too late to fix.” He picked up his coffee, stared into it like it held answers. “Claire knew she was gay before I knew I was. Or maybe she just admitted it first. Either way, we spent years not talking about the thing we should have been talking about, and by the time we did, there wasn't anything left to save.”
“I'm sorry,” I said. It felt inadequate.
“Don't be. We're better as friends than we ever were as spouses. She's in Denver now, dating a woman who makes her laugh. I'm here, giving unsolicited advice to emotionally constipated florists.” His mouth quirked; not quite a smile, but close. “My point is, not talking doesn't protect you from getting hurt. It just means you get hurt without ever knowing if things could have been different.”
The words landed like a fist to the chest. I felt my jaw tighten, my shoulders go rigid. Something about hearing it said out loud—so simple, so obvious—made it impossible to look away from.
Not talking doesn't protect you from getting hurt.
All these years of keeping people at arm's length. All these years of telling myself the quiet was what I wanted. And what had it gotten me? An empty apartment. A shop that felt like a museum some days. A life that fit like clothes I'd outgrown but refused to replace.
Until Jamie walked through my door with his ridiculous dogs and his ridiculous optimism—andsmiledat me.
I didn't know what to say to that. Reid seemed to realize he'd said more than he'd intended; he cleared his throat, picked up the pen again, started tapping.
“Talk to him,” he said, back to his usual dry tone. “It's Valentine's Day tomorrow. You sell flowers for a living. If you can't figure out how to have a conversation on the one day of the year designed for this shit, I can't help you.”
He gathered up the folder of receipts, tucked them into his bag.
“Your estimated payments are due in April. Try not to lose anything between now and then.” He stood, dropped a twenty on the table. “And for fuck's sake, get some sleep tonight. You're depressing to look at.”
He left. I sat in the booth for another minute, the panini in pieces on my plate, thinking about what he'd said.
Not talking doesn't protect you from getting hurt.
I ordered a sandwich for Jamie, then headed back to the shop. On the way there, I turned the words over in my head, trying to figure out what I wanted to say to him. How to say it. Whether I had the nerve to try.
The bell rang as I pushed through the door. Jamie looked up from the counter, and his face did that thing it did when he sawme—the slight softening, the warmth in his eyes. He was wearing my flannel again, the gray and blue plaid, sleeves rolled up past his wrists. I didn't remember when he'd started borrowing my clothes. I didn't want him to stop.
“Reid let you escape?” he asked.
“He had other taxpayers to terrorize,” I said, handing him the bag. “For you.”
Jamie smiled, soft and sweet. That particular ache that had become familiar over the past weeks. The one I'd stopped pretending wasn't love.
One day. I had one day to figure this out.
We closed the shop at seven, an hour early. My call. I said we needed sleep before the chaos of Valentine's Day, and Jamie didn't argue.
The walk back to his house was quiet. Snow still falling, light and steady, coating the sidewalks in white. His hand found mine somewhere around the second block, our fingers lacing together.
“I've been thinking—and I'm sorry I didn't say this twenty minutes ago. But I think you should stay at your place tonight,” he said when we reached his door. “Get some real sleep. I know the dogs wake you up sometimes.”
I looked down at him. The streetlight caught the snow in his hair, the tired lines around his eyes.
“You trying to get rid of me?”
He shook his head. “I'm trying to make sure you don't collapse in the middle of the rush.” He squeezed my hand. “Big day tomorrow. You need rest.”
He wasn't wrong. Between the stress and bouncing between the two homes and my small bed and his dogs, I'd been running on four hours a night for most of the week, and my body was starting to remind me that I wasn't twenty-two anymore.
But that wasn't why he was sending me home. I could see it in his face—something he wasn't saying, some thought he was holding back.
“Okay,” I said. “If that's what you want.”
It wasn't what I wanted. But I didn't know how to say that yet, didn't have the words figured out. So I bent down, all the way down, the height difference still catching me off guard sometimes, and kissed him.
