A quiet settles between us. Not uncomfortable, just full.
And then he clears his throat, nudges the daisy toward me again. “Still think it’s too Anne Shirley?”
I take it from him, fingers brushing his. “Nah. It’s exactly right.”
And for a second, it feels like we’re back there, college kids with broken handles and stolen daisies, before everything cracked open.
I kneel back down, digging out a space next to the lavender bushes. Noah crouches beside me, elbows on his knees, watching like he’s not quite sure if he should say what he’s about to say.
“I like it out here. It’s quiet. You’re different when it’s quiet.”
“Different how?”
“Softer. Like you stop bracing for the next disaster.”
I pause, little hand shovel suspended above the dirt, and really look at him. The sky is shimmering with gold behind him. His beard’s a little longer than usual. I wonder what it would be like to feel it against my cheek. The intrusive thought fills my mind, and I feel heat creeping up my cheeks into an obvious flush.
“Well, don’t get used to it. I’ll be bracing again by morning.”
Noah’s voice is honey-smooth. “I like both versions.”
I swallow, feeling the sun-kissed dirt crumble beneath my palms. Suddenly, I feel seventeen again, skin buzzing, unsure if it’s attraction or fear. Unsure of what to say.
“Where’s Viv and Marin?”
I feel the smile pulling at my cheeks. He remembers their names. But then I’m remembering I’m in Owen’s garden and smiling shouldn’t be allowed here anymore.
“Doing a round of yoga. Viv cornered Marin into it, and I escaped with the excuse of weeding before they started. They promised to come help me when they were done. Mostly, Viv sits with her bare feet in the earth, grounding, and giving unsolicited emotional commentary like she’s narrating a documentary. ‘Here we see the widow in her natural habitat, tending grief and geraniums.’ Marin is really the one who digs in and will get the weeding done.”
He laughs, unguarded, and something warm uncoils in my chest.
I reach for my wine glass, stalling.
“I was actually hoping to ask you something.” He starts fiddling with the small assortment of weeding tools next to me, and I try not to laugh at the sight of this strong, rugged man nervous over a simple question.
“Is this where you ask if I’ve tried yoga for my healing?”
“No.” He smiles, small but sincere. “I was going to ask if you’d want to have dinner with me sometime. Nothing fancy or dramatic, something that doesn’t involve a neighborhood potluck and a suspicious Jell-O salad.”
I blink.
“You’re asking me out?” That flicker of excitement barely has time to take root before guilt comes barreling after it, fast and merciless, choking the joy.
“Unless you’d prefer to call it a grief-adjacent social experiment with light appetizers.”
I laugh, but it catches in my throat. The air shifts, heavier now, as excitement flutters up just in time to collide with the sinking feeling in my gut. Setting the daisy down, I wipe my palms again, telling myself I need to get thedirt off them. It’s not because all my guilt and grief are trying to escape in the form of sweat.
“I haven’t done this in a long time.” I press my lips together.
“I know.”
“I still have his slippers by the door. I yell at his ashes when the washing machine leaks. And some mornings, I cry because the coffee tastes the same.”
He nods, like he knows exactly what I mean.
“You don’t have to say yes. I didn’t want to walk past your fennel every day wondering if I should’ve said something.”
My chest tightens. He’s waiting, a half-smile on his face, hands smudged with my garden’s dirt. There’s something there. Not pressure. Just possibility.
