Maisie stays still, watching, absorbing my confession.
“You already know more of me than anyone ever has.” I reach up, knuckles caressing her cheek. Slow. Soft. “I want to spend whatever time I’ve got left learning everything about you. And letting you see all of me in return. Not the past. Not the secrets. The real me. The man in front of you now.”
Maisie doesn’t answer with words.
Instead, she steps forward and rests her palm lightly against my chest, right over my heart. Her eyes search mine, steady and open, as if waiting for me to stiffen or pull away after such a vulnerable admission.
I don’t.
Peaches barks once, then trots in a circle around us, tail swishing.
I place my hand over hers and press it more firmlyinto my chest.
Maisie smiles, and all remaining fear about us vanishes, especially the fear that showing her what matters most would cost me everything. I’ve seen what happens when someone takes what I’ve made, what I’ve offered, and twists it for themselves. But Maisie’s different. She takes what I give her of myself and stays.
I exhale. A release. A promise.
I’m staying, and so is she. Right here, in this moment. Not dragging our past wounds into it to define our relationship or bracing for what might go wrong. We’re just two people, choosing each other exactly as we are, and letting that be enough.
The night stands still around us, full of breathless potential. I wrap my arms around Maisie and rest my cheek on the top of her head, swaying slightly in a dance that only we know. There’s no music, no audience—just closeness. And that’s all we need.
As I hold her, something stirs in the back of my mind, in the same place where a song is born. Whatever it is, it’s not clear, not nameable, but definitely connected to the part of me that makes sense of life by creating and shaping things into something tangible.
I don’t rush it or try to understand. I trust that if it’s significant, it’ll find its shape when I’m ready.
Chapter 19
Back on the Footbridge
Maisie
I’m sitting at one of the small outdoor tables outside the Griddle & Grain.
Every summer, Marty and Pen create a cute outdoor eating area with a whimsical set of metal garden furniture and a plastic white picket fence. There are three small white tables, two white chairs at each one, except for the mismatched yellow one they bought at the thrift store next to Botaniqûe. Marty had accidentally put a straight-out-of-the-oven hot bread pan on the seat of a chair while he adjusted the hot pads to get a better grip.
He’d been delivering the loaf of bread to Dr. Brooks the week after his wife passed away. The heat from the pan melted straight through the white paint. Pen and Marty wouldn’t have minded keeping the chair, except that it rusted over the summer, which was extraordinarily rainy, even for Oregon.
Of course the yellow one is my favorite, and I’ve chosen that seat for my morning coffee.
The sun has barely warmed the pavement, but I’ve already got a mug of rich and chocolate-sweetened coffee in my hands. Reenie insists coffee tastes better out here in the crisp air of the morning with the rest of the town waking up, and I agree.
From here, I can see Stitched Together’s front window display. It now shows off fat quarters in beautiful summer colors hanging from a line like sheets drying in the wind. The romantic display from the Matchmaking Festival is stored away for next year.
The festival’s commotion and gossip-filled camaraderie has faded, banners taken down. Main Street smells like cinnamon again instead of kettle corn, and people are back to discussing weather patterns and irrigation rather than compatibility quizzes.
I watch the Newly-Deads stroll beyond the edge of town sporting backpacks and carrying thermoses, their bootsteps soft on the sidewalk. Nora and Grant walk close beside each other, shoulders tilted inward in that familiar way couples move when they’ve been in love for several years—nearly a decade, if I remember correctly. Their shoulders and hips bump occasionally, but they don’t seem to mind.
A teenager nearby, tugging at a stubborn basset hound’s leash, points in the direction of the trees and says, “That trail they’re headed toward is basically a winding circle around town and eventually hits the Little Kilchis footbridge higher up in the Oregon Coast Mountain Range. If you’re into poetry or long silences, it’s kind of perfect.”
I’m not sure why he mentions this to me, but I love having conversations with anyone.
I shrug. “Nora and Grant don’t strike me as thebackpacking types, but maybe the nature hike contest this year piqued their interest.”
I focus my gaze on them.He’s right. It’s not about the trail for them. It’s about the time. And the silence.The kind that doesn’t need to be filled when the person beside you feels comfortable in a way that doesn’t ask for anything, effortless and familiar. The same way my favorite hoodie settles on my shoulders after a long day.
“They do look kinda haunted though, instead of just quiet,” the teenager murmurs.
Reenie, who’s watching with me from the door of the diner she’s just exited, shakes her head. “They look like they fall more in love each day.” She sighs wistfully. “Our festival not only picks perfect pairs, but it reinforces the ones that are already together.”
