The gate creaks behind me.
I don’t look up.
“If you’re another neighbor asking if I’ve ‘found peace,’ I swear on my begonias, I will throw compost.”
Maybe it’s time to take a break from the wine.
A quiet laugh follows. Not the neighbor.
Noah.
Figures.
“I come in peace.” His voice is warm with amusement. “And bearing flora.”
I turn to look. He’s standing at the garden gate, holding a potted daisy, bright yellow, cheerful, the kind of flower that has no idea the world can be terrible.
“For you,” he adds. “Thought your fennel looked lonely.”
My mouth opens, then closes. I stare at the plant.
“You brought me a daisy.” I stand slowly, brushing the dirtfrom my knees. “Bold choice. Very Anne of Green Gables meets Home Depot clearance rack.”
Noah snorts, pretending to look offended but failing miserably. “Hey, the Home Depot clearance rack is sacred. You once dragged me through three aisles to find a discounted pot of half-dead mums because, and I quote, ‘Every sad flower deserves a second chance.’”
I roll my eyes but can’t help laughing. “I stand by that. They needed love and water and maybe a little luck.”
He nods solemnly, twirling the daisy between his fingers like it’s a peace offering. “Exactly why I brought you this little guy.”
“I love the Home Depot clearance rack.”
“I know.”
He grins, and something in me softens at the ease of it.
“Remember when Owen and I broke that closet handle in our dorm room and he went into a full panic spiral about getting kicked out or charged extra and what his parents would say?”
My heart aches at the memory. “Yeah. He was convinced it was a felony-level offense. I thought he was going to try to file a police report on himself.”
“We both sprinted to the nearest Home Depot like it was a covert mission. Owen was combing the aisles looking for an exact match, sweating bullets, while you—” Noah chuckles, eyes bright, as though he’s holding back tears.
“—while I found a box of mismatched hardware in the clearance bin and said, ‘This one’s close enough. Spray paint it and tell them it’s vintage.’”
He points at me. “Exactly. And he was horrified. Said that would be ‘deceiving the institution.’”
I shake my head, still smiling. “God, he was such a rule-follower. And you were always the middleman, trying to calm him down while also pocketing an extra handle for ‘future emergencies.’”
“I still have it.”
My eyes flick to his. “You do not.”
He shrugs. “Top drawer. Next to my loose batteries and a lone Allen key that probably doesn’t go to anything.”
I laugh again, but it’s softer this time, because there’s a kind of ache underneath it. The kind that comes when a memory brushes right up against everything you’ve lost.
Noah watches me closely, the playfulness in his expression giving way to something gentler. “He was the glue back then. You know?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “He really was.”
