I nearly choke on my water. “What?”
His smile is sincere, not teasing. “You always put everyone else first. You’re fighting for the clinic, for Dr. Martinez, for all those animals who can’t fight for themselves. You never prioritize your own needs.”
I set my fork down carefully. “That’s not true. I … it’s easier to focus on other people’s problems. Animals are straightforward. They don’t promise they care and then vanish when things get complicated.”
He flinches slightly. I catch it before he can mask it. Part of me wishes I could take the words back. But he just nods like he expected this eventually.
“Sometimes,” he says quietly, “people leave because they think it’s the only way to protect the people they love.”
I turn to watch the boats outside, rocking gently on the darkening water. “And sometimes people leave because they care more about their ambitions than anyone else.”
We don’t speak for a while after that. Not reconciling, not really understanding each other. Just two wounded people sitting together, pretending we’re fine.
The waiter brings dessert—crème brûlée, which I love, though I never mentioned that to Zayn. He cracks the caramelized sugar with his spoon and slides it across to me.
Then he tells me about his first major case. How he nearly got sanctioned for accidentally starting a small fire in the courtroom because he was so anxious he kept flicking his lighter in his pocket until it melted his pen and ignited his legal pad. It’s such an absurd story that I can’t help it—soon I’m laughing so hard I have to cover my mouth with my napkin.
“See?” he says, grinning properly now. “Told you I’m not that intimidating.”
I shake my head, still laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”
He raises his water glass. “To being ridiculous. And to saving the clinic.”
I clink my glass against his. “To saving the clinic.”
When we step outside, it’s fully dark, but string lights glow all along the boardwalk. The air is cool but not cold. The breeze off the water smells like salt and seaweed and something that feels like possibility.
He walks me to my car. We stand there in awkward silence, neither of us sure what to say next.
Finally, he ventures, “We make a good team.”
I don’t confirm it. But I don’t deny it either. I say, “See you tomorrow at the clinic.”
He nods, hands shoved in his pockets, looking at me like there’s so much more he wants to say. But he stays quiet.
As I pull away, I check my rearview mirror and see him standing there under the lights, hair wind-tousled, watching me go. For the first time in five years, I don’t feel like I’m running away from something. I feel like I might be running toward something and I have no idea what to do about that.
CHAPTER 9
Rose Festival
“Sophie! Over here!” Mrs. Peterson’s voice carries across the community center, and I can’t help but smile. The Spring Rose Festival planning meeting—my favorite night of the month. I weave through the crowd toward my saved seat, grateful for something that hasn’t changed. Everything else in my life feels like it’s spinning out of control, but this? This I can manage.
The familiar scent of dusty chairs and floor cleaner wraps around me like a comfort blanket. Faded posters from previous festivals line the walls, and cheerful paper flowers decorate the sign-in table. I’ve been part of this committee for three years now, and even with everything happening at the clinic and Zayn suddenly back in town, I’ve been looking forward to tonight.
“How’s that sweet dog of yours?” Mrs. Peterson asks as I settle in beside her by the window. She’s pushing eighty but never forgets a single pet.
“She’s great,” I tell her, pulling out my notebook. Sunlight warms my three-ring binder—the same one I’ve used since I started volunteering. I labeled it myself: “Spring Rose Festival,” with color-coded tabs for vendor contracts, entertainment schedules, timeline checklists, and permit requirements.Everything organized. Everything in its place. “Still chasing seagulls on the beach even though she’s never caught one.”
“Persistent,” she chuckles, patting my hand with her papery-thin fingers. “Just like you with this festival. Always keeping everything running smoothly.”
I beam at the compliment. This is why I love festival planning—it’s the one place where being obsessively organized is actually a good thing. Unlike dating, where guys get spooked when they discover I alphabetize the spices and sort my clothes by color.
The room gradually fills with the usual crowd—florists debating which rose varieties to feature, teenagers hunting for community service hours, local business owners hoping the festival will boost their sales. The space buzzes with that familiar energy I’ve come to love every spring in Bellrose.
Carol, our committee chair, taps her microphone. “Testing, one-two. Can everyone hear me?” A horrible squeal comes out through the speakers, and we all collectively cringe. “Sorry about that! Welcome to our first planning meeting for the 27th Annual Spring Rose Festival!”
I flip my binder to a fresh page and uncap my favorite purple pen with my teeth, writing the date at the top.
