I almost went in. My hand was on the door. But I reminded myself. She is not yours. She’ll never be yours. Let her go.
I kept walking.
3
ESME
The alarm went off at five-thirty, jolting me awake. I lay in the dark for a moment, listening to Madison’s breathing from the other side of the room. Technically, the apartment only had two bedrooms, but I’d managed to turn the closet into a little haven for Madison. A small bed with drawers underneath for her toys and books worked better than I’d thought it would. However, she was still small. A few more years and she wouldn’t fit in the bed. I put that aside to worry about later.
I slipped out of bed, pulled on leggings and a fleece, and padded barefoot to the kitchen. Trevor lifted his head from his bed by the radiator and thumped his tail twice.
“Morning, buddy,” I whispered. “Give me five minutes.”
Our morning routine unfolded as usual. I got Madison dressed and ready for school, made breakfast for her and Robbie and got them on their school busses. They went different directions, since Robbie’s STEM school was in the next town over. But once they were gone, Trevor, who always escorted me on the walk to the bus stop, and I headed to work.
Soon, I was deep in flower orders.
A woman came in to order an arrangement for her mother’s seventieth birthday. She spent twenty minutes choosing flowers,telling me stories about her mom’s garden, how they talked every Sunday, how her mother had driven up from Sacramento last month just to help her paint the nursery.
“She sounds wonderful,” I said, wrapping the stems.
“She drives me crazy,” the woman said, laughing. “But I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
After she left, I stood at my counter and let the feeling pass through me the way I’d trained myself to do. Acknowledge it, don’t fight it, let it go. My parents lived in Seattle. We’d only spoken a handful of times since my divorce. The last time we had, my mother had told me I was being selfish for keeping the kids so far away. Before that, she’d told me I was foolish for turning down Jeff’s offer to reconcile. Before that, she’d told me the divorce was a mistake I’d regret for the rest of my life.
She’d been wrong about all of it. But being right didn’t make me feel any better.
I picked up my scissors and went back to work. There was a standing weekly arrangement for Ink & Anchor, our town’s bookstore. The owner, Dorian, liked something simple on the counter by the register, mostly greenery with a few seasonal stems. Delphine had asked for a large, dramatic arrangement for an event at her gallery. Gillian had asked for a small bouquet for her front counter at the dance and Pilates studio. Lila always ordered a bouquet for her interior design studio, mostly because she knew I needed the money. Or that was my guess anyway.
It took me an hour to put the four arrangements together. When they were ready, I went out to the alley where I kept my bike locked up. It was a Dutch-style cargo bike I’d found on Craigslist three years ago. Seafoam green, heavy as a tank, a wooden crate bolted to the front rack and panniers on the back worked surprisingly well for my flower deliveries. The crate held two arrangements if I packed them tight with towels, and the pannier could handle a third. A delivery van would have beenfaster, but a delivery van cost money I didn’t have. Plus, the bike kept my legs strong and my gas budget at zero.
I got the arrangements tucked into the crate and basket. Trevor was already waiting, tail going, excited for our adventure.
“Let’s do this,” I said.
He knew the routine. He’d trot beside me on the quieter streets, and, when I went inside to deliver, he’d sit by the bike like a very cute, earnest security guard.
We set off.
It was foggy this morning. The street was empty except for a delivery truck idling in front of the grocery store and old Mrs. Jones sweeping the sidewalk in front of her yarn shop. We waved at each other.
I pedaled north on Harbor, past the still-dark windows of the ice cream shop and the toy store with its perpetual display of kites. The fog was thick enough that the streetlights wore halos, but I could feel the sun behind it, warming up, getting ready. By ten it would burn off and the sky would turn a pale, washed October blue.
Ink & Anchor was my first stop. The bookstore sat mid-block, wedged between a surf-and-skate shop and a place that sold handmade candles. Dorian Flynn had inherited it from his mother, who’d run it for thirty years before she passed. He’d kept everything—the creaky wood floors, the rolling ladder, the cat who lived on the top shelf of the mystery section. He’d only changed one thing: he’d added a small coffee bar in the back corner, which was either brilliant or desperate, depending on the week.
The lights were already on. Dorian was always up and at it early. I leaned my bike against the lamppost, told Trevor to stay, and carried the arrangement inside.
He was behind the counter, unpacking a box of books. He looked up, smiling. “Morning, Esme.”
“Morning. Weekly delivery.” I set the arrangement on the counter beside the register, turning it so the mums faced out. “What do you think? I went a little more autumnal this week.”
He studied carefully, as if it were of utmost importance that he say just the right thing. “It’s perfect. The dusty miller is a nice touch.”
“I thought so.” I straightened a stem. “You have anything new for me to read?” Dorian understood my affinity for romances.
He reached under the counter and pulled out a paperback. “Just came in yesterday. I put a copy aside for you.” He slid it across to me.
I picked it up. A novel I hadn’t heard of, with a cover illustration of a woman in a garden. “What’s it about?”
