I find the note waiting on the floor just inside Botaniqûe’s front door, slipped through the little brass mail slot while I was out for coffee and a quick grocery run. My name is on the front, in Beau’s handwriting. Slanted letters. A small smudge where his thumb must’ve rested too long. A simple note.
Meet me at the footbridge.
My fingers press it to my chest as if I’m holding a signed edition ofFlowers for Algernon. Then I glance at the fresh bouquet on the windowsill. Today I chose a simple arrangement of zinnias and various greenery, stunningly vibrant. I grab my phone.
Me: You around?
Jenna: Always. What’s wrong?
Me: I don’t know. Probably nothing. But I think I need courage and moral support.
Ten minutes later, Jenna’s outside with a to-go cup of coffee and a smirk.
“So what’s up, bestie?” she asks, leaning on her car door.
I hesitate for half a second, then hold up the folded note. “Beau left this for me. Told me to meet him at the footbridge. No explanation.”
Her brows lift. “Mysterious and romantic. Of course it’s messing with your head.”
I nod. “So I figured I’d better not go alone, not emotionally, anyway.”
She drives me to the trailhead, no other questions asked, gets out of the car and opens my door for me.
She hugs me in the way only best friends can, careful not to spill coffee on me and winks. “Go. Listen. Say what you need to say. Feel everything. I’ll be here in minutes if you need me.”
The forest hushes around me as I walk. My Birkenstocks crunch over pine needles. Sunlight filters down like gold dust between the branches. I should be calm. I should be sure. But my thoughts are churning faster than water rushing down a freshly cleared drain. When I reach the footbridge, Beau’s already there.
He’s standing near the center, the fingers on his left hand splayed on the railing, the leather cord around his neck twined between his right-hand fingers. His guitar pick glints faintly when he turns toward me.
“Hey,” I say.
His gaze lifts. “Hey.”
I walk toward him, my heart thudding. He’s already waiting in the middle of the bridge, solid and steady, his eyes lighting up as he tracks my every step. I enjoy knowing that I’m the one bringing that brightness to his eyes. I stop a few feet away, then step closer until we’re face-to-face. Neither of us speaks for a moment.
Then, he draws a breath. “There’s something I need to tell you—the whole story. All of it. Finally.”
I rest my hands on the bridge rail, the wood smooth and worn beneath my palms. I nod. He wraps his right hand around mine and holds it tenderly.
“Sabrina and Iweremore than bandmates, once. I thought I’d found my soulmate because of how we connected over music. She could take any song we played and make it special vocally. I loved writing songs, playing them for her, and hearing how her voice brought the lyrics to life.”
“Hmm. She sounds talented,” I say, pinching my lips together to avoid the sassy things I really want to say about her.
“She was determined. Clever. And yes, very talented. She wanted Northern Chord to be well-known, famous. She wanted to be the lead vocalist for a world-renowned band.”
“Big dreams.”
He nods. “Yeah. I remember how her eyes would light up at the idea of hearing our band’s songs on the radio, her voice the one carrying them into the world.”
I tilt my head slightly, inviting him to go on.
“She had a hunger, almost a lust, to be popular, to sing the songs everyone heard and loved. And she did everything she could to try to get our band’s songs there.”
A pause settles. I watch his jaw work for a moment before he finishes.
“But I guess it still wasn’t enough for her.”
He doesn’t look at me. He looks past me, into the trees. Not because he’s shutting me out; I know that, but because looking at me would make it harder to keep going. If he sees the care for him in my eyes, he might break before he gets the words out.
