I swipe beneath my lashes, but the tears are already gathering. The sting of them doesn’t ease, only deepens. “He kissed my hand then adjusted the cuff of my blouse, making sure only a small amount peeked out from under the sleeve of my sweater.”
My vision blurs, hot tears sliding down my cheeks as Jenna wraps her arms around me.
She pulls back slightly to meet my eyes.
“Maisie, Beau is not Gray. He sees you in a way that feels different from what you’ve told me about Gray. He noticed the way you light up around flowers, how your ideas grow when you talk about the shop. He didn’t flinch at your big feelings or try to contain your spark. From what I saw, Maisie, he leans in. This isn’t Gray again. Don’t rewrite your future with the pen of your past.”
Her words land hard and true. I nod, but a war still wages inside me.
But then I shake my head, my voice quieter. “I know Beau’s not Gray. I know that. But it still scares me, Jenna. Because Beau looked at me as if he genuinely saw all of me: flaws, dreams, loud thoughts, everything. And he didn’t recoil. He played that song on the porch I told you about,and our weekend was…well…magical. And I let myself believe it. That it was real. That we could be more than I even imagined with Gray.”
She squeezes me again.
“But I’m so confused now. I now know how the prince felt when Cinderella vanished,” I finish.
Jenna’s quiet for a second, then she bumps my shoulder. “Remember when you thought Travis Parson liked you in fifth grade because he shared his pudding cup?”
I groan. “Please don’t.”
“You wrote him a sonnet, Maisie. A literal sonnet. Scared him speechless.”
A choked laugh escapes. “This isn’t a pudding cup situation, Jenna.”
“No,” she says softly, brushing a strand of hair from my damp cheek.
“You’re all grown-up now, and there’s a whole lot more at risk. But here’s the thing, you’ve always been that way. Big feelings. All in. Heart-first. And if you don’t let Beau see what it really means when you care, how completely you give your heart, you’ll always wonder. You shouldn’t have to be anyone else with him. If it’s real, he’ll love you exactly as you are.”
Her words settle somewhere still slightly bruised. The place where I’ve kept my heart locked up tight, afraid of being told I’m too much. Again.
Later, instead of climbing the stairs up to my apartment above Botaniqûe, I wander toward Main Street, needing air before facing my lonely questions again. A breeze carries the scent of sizzling bacon and something sweet. Maplesyrup or cinnamon rolls, I think, from the Griddle & Grain down the block, and it hits me with a powerful warmth. These are comfort smells, Sunday morning smells, scents that remind me how belonging feels, even when my heart is messy.
I pass the quilt shop. It’s closed now, but the display window glows with soft lamplight. A hand-lettered sign reads, “Love is not logical. It’s quilted.” A heart-shaped patchwork pillow leans in one corner, surrounded by tiny fabric squares pinned up with miniature clothespins. Each square has a different quote about love, stitched in crooked thread. A mason jar of lavender sprigs sits beside it, half-tucked into an antique sewing basket. It looks built to comfort and challenge you at the same time, exactly as love does.
I should go back, but instead, I keep walking.
Maybe I’ll run into Beau. Maybe we can talk.
I notice a teenage boy emerge from the music hall. He’s about fifteen, I think, tall and lanky, with an oversized hoodie and a guitar case slung over one shoulder. He doesn’t see me, just jogs down the steps and disappears around the corner.
The door swings shut behind him, and I pause, remembering the day on the porch.
And then I hear it.
Beau’s guitar. Him strumming a melody with tenderness behind it. Strangely intimate.
I don’t mean to stay and listen, but I can’t move. At first, it’s just the soft sound of fingers brushing strings—light, exploratory, as if he’s tuning or searching. No lyrics yet. Just sound. Then he starts strumming in a rhythm that feels tentative at first, then instinctive as it takes shape. I don’t know Beau’s musical process, but if I had to guess,I’d say he’s improvising. Finding the notes. Feeling the words.
His voice is low, rough around the edges when he finally begins to sing. And the lyrics are mesmerizing. They capture me.
They captivate me—draw me in and define me at the same time. I’m in and under and behind the meaning of every word. But they’re not just about me. They are me. The way he’s been watching, understanding, remembering. It’s a mirror I’m not ready for, one that reflects back at me every aspect I’ve let him see as we’ve spent time together; but more than that, it shines light on those areas I’m still guarding.
You live like wildfire, though some tell you no.
Your love’s without guile. It’s never a show.
You laugh like a fountain. You smile like the morn.
That’s why I love you. That’s why you were born.
