I glance up, and our eyes link, unable to look away. Charged. Uncertain. Open.
The less said about the results of the cooking competition, the better.
That night, we walk together back through town.
It’s quiet, but not awkward. The kind of quiet that makes you want to say things you normally wouldn’t. So I tell him, “You know, I once won a pie-eating contest at the fair when I was twelve.”
Beau looks at me, amused. “That tracks.”
“I wore my mom’s gardening hat for luck. Ended up with blueberry filling all over my face and a stomachache that lasted three days. Totally worth it.”
He chuckles, and I swear it softens the cool night air. “You ever go back for a rematch?”
“Nope. Retired undefeated.”
We walk a few more steps, and I think back to the Beau I used to know. “Hey, Beau, I remember a few things about you from hanging around with Tess when I was growing up. You always had a grin on your face. You were ready with aquick joke or clever comeback for Tess when she told you to leave us alone.”
I scuff my toe along the cobblestones just to do something. “You weren’t loud exactly, but never this quiet.”
He just grunts.
I almost ask him what changed. What made him close off when he came back to Sweetpines after all those years. I also remember one time, back when I was twelve or thirteen, watching him play guitar on his front porch, strumming with the easy rhythm of someone who knew the song by heart. His laughter drifted into the dusk when he messed up a chord and playfully punched Tess when she teased him.
Now, the quiet wraps around him differently. Tighter. He carries it like armor. I wonder what it would take to make him set it down again. What he’s really thinking when the quiet stretches so long. But the words bunch up behind my teeth.
Instead, I nudge his elbow. “What about you? Any blue ribbon-worthy childhood pandemonium I should know about?”
He tilts his head, pretending to think. “Does accidentally supergluing my hand to a birdhouse count?”
I blink. “Tell me that’s literal. I don’t have the emotional bandwidth for metaphors tonight.”
“Literal, alright. Real wooden birdhouse. Literal glue. Tess dared me to build a birdhouse and sing to her new parakeet at the same time. The concert didn’t happen, but I learned a valuable lesson about multitasking and citrus-scented solvents.”
I laugh again, but it fades a little slower this time. Silence stretches between us. It’s light, suspended in the air as when a swing is at its highest point.
We’re still pretending to be a couple. At least, that’s the story we keep telling ourselves. But somewhere between paprika mishaps and fumbled balloons, it’s starting to feel…a little less like pretending.
This evening, we walk together in an easy, comfortable way.
When our hands brush, neither of us pulls away.
We don’t talk about the contest. Just everyday things.
About the way risotto shouldn’t snap.
How many terrible band names we can come up with in five blocks.
About the time I got locked inside my greenhouse for an hour because I tried to fix the door latch with a twist tie from a bag of potting soil.
And for the first time all week, I stop steering the story. I let myself step into the narrative and feel it.
Chapter 5
Ghosts of Bouquets Past: Evening of Day 3
Maisie
Peaches has been trotting behind us the whole walk back—loyal, leash-less, and occasionally nosing Beau’s boot as though she’s keeping us on her pre-set schedule. She trots in right behind us the instant I unlock the door, tail wagging, unhurried and pleased, as if she’s decided my floral shop will be her home for the evening. She begins her little circle-sniff routine around Botaniqûe.
