Believing that she will return, doesn’t prepare me for the way it actually feels, though. To understand with piercing clarity that she’s walking toward me not because she has to, but because she wants to. My respiratory system stutters as I watch her, and my pulse slams into the next gear. The room heats, but in a different way than last night’s slow-burning intimacy. This is anticipation steeped in the comfort of recognition. I haven’t let myself feel this intensely since I stepped off the stage and swore I was done being seen. But this isn’t the spotlight or applause.
It’s Maisie, and every step she takes beats louder in my chest.
She skips from stone to stone along the smooth rock path I laid from the driveway to my front steps. Her springy curls reflect the light in a way that makes my throat go dry. It catches me off guard how the color of sunbeams changes as they prance through her curls as if they’re blushing. The only way I can think to describe it is the perfect Rainier cherry, a little gold here, some pink grapefruit there, all streaked with a dash of cinnamon.
Both sides of her hair are pinned back just above her ears with a floral clip, which I think is in the shape of a daisy. The rest of her curls bounce happily with each pace closer to my house.
Peaches trots beside her, a purple raincoat askew around her torso, a tiny bat-shaped bow flapping comically at her collar. The Newly-Deads must have accessorized her today. Peaches looks ridiculous and absolutely perfect.
Maisie, though? Maisie is something else entirely. All hint of her melt-down this morning is gone.
Where Peaches brings laughter, Maisie brings motion—enthusiasm in a bottle, brightening the area around her. The sight of her draws my entire attention. Whatever emotional noise or preoccupation that has been in my mind is suddenly gone. In a strange way, seeing Maisie both takes the edge off and lights a current under my skin.
She’s wearing a red wrap dress I haven’t seen before, something with sunflowers and hummingbirds printed along the hem, and it flows just slightly in the breeze as she skips steps. Her apron is a checkered pattern of bright pink and orange, almost neon. I blink as the colors cast themselves into my eyes for a second.
Her outfit is vibrant, layered, effortless—the kind of look that shouldn’t work outside of a florist’s colorful shop, but somehow it fits her better than flannel ever fit me. I let out a quiet laugh, not at her, but because seeing her so unapologetically herself sends warmth to the end of every limb. The kind of warmth that doesn’t surge, but roots deeply, spreading through me until I can’t imagine this porch without her on it.
All I can do is stand there and take it in.
She carries a bouquet in one hand. The other hand, even though it’s empty, seems to be carrying something as well. I recognize it because I’m carrying it also. I see it in the way her hand slips in and out of her pocket, how her fingers fidget briefly with the satin floral ribbon, before letting it fall again.
It’s the tension created when bravery meets hope. The look in her eyes tells me she’s wondering if last night still holds the same meaning now that daylight’s settled in and everything feels exposed after the incident this morning.
I need to tell her it does. It means more than anything else right now.
The instant she reaches the porch, I’m already opening the door. My hand presses lightly to the wood frame for balance. The sight of her without the glass between us sends a jolt through me, shaking loose the part of me that stopped looking for good in people, trying to guard myself from how they might hurt me.
“Maisie. You came.”
My voice comes out low and rough, revealing more emotion than I intended.
Her radiant smile tilts gently, knowingly, understanding the expression of awe in my eyes and respecting the small fraction of hesitation that remains.
“Hi.”
I let out a long breath, and my shoulders drop, hand still braced against the doorframe as though I’d melt into jelly if I let go.
She holds out the bouquet. “Delivery for a Mr. Callahan.”
I step forward, the porch protesting slightly beneath my boots. When I reach for the bouquet, our fingers brush—skin against skin, bringing back the memory of how soft she felt in my arms.
Nestled among hydrangeas, coral roses, and rosemary sprigs, a small folded note peeks out. I draw it free with careful fingers, eyes locked on the message:
I don’t know where this leads. I just know I want to go there with you.
This is Maisie, pure and true. She’s brought delight in the form of flowers; a note that shares her heart; her smile stealing the light, wide and full of mischief; and the eagerness that I will embrace her again fully, as I did last night.
I run my thumb over the petal of a coral rose. Its edges have begun to curl slightly, softness giving way to fragility.
“You ever figure out who left that rose at your shop?”
She lifts an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Oh, I always had my suspicions.”
My ears burn. I shift my weight, boots crunching faintly on the porch boards.
“I briefly thought of leaving a note,” I say, eyes fixed on the flower.
She steps closer, and the scent of citrus, roses, and rosemary wraps around me. “You were shy?”
