Eight days.That’s how long it’s been since Thanksgiving. Just over a week, and it feels like something has fundamentally changed between us. Braxton and I don’t spend every waking moment together with his shifts, and right now, I’m working extra hours to cover my boss being away on her pre-Christmas honeymoon. One of the things I’ve always been able to trust in when we’re apart is Braxton checking in throughout the day. It isn’t even much—agood morningmessage when he first wakes up, or a call, just to tell me he’s thinking of me.
And yet, something that became routine for us is now uncertain.
My phone rings again, and it’s tempting to ignore it. I know why he’s calling now, and I don’t want to hear it, dejection curdling in my stomach like sour milk.
Counting out four seconds, I pull in a deep breath, reminding myself that I’m a big girl, and I can handle a little disappointment.
Or a lot of disappointment.
“Hey, Brax,” I greet when I accept the call and put the phone to my ear, keeping my tone neutral. “You almost here?”
We have fifteen minutes before we’re supposed to be across town to meet Majorie at the house—something we were supposed to do three days ago, but Braxton bailed on me then, too. I know what he’s calling to say. Iknow. But the longer he goes without saying a word, the lower my stomach sinks.
“Baby,” he breathes down the line, full of regret. “I’m so sorry. I have to postpone.”
“Again?” My throat is tight, and I wish I were more surprised.
“Yeah. Ben’s still not back at work.” Braxton sounds distant, distracted, as if, in his mind, he’s finished the conversation and moved on to the next thing. “They need me to cover his shift.”
I roll my lips between my teeth. “And you’re the only one who can do it?” I ask carefully. He doesn’t answer, tension radiating down the line. “Braxton, we already postponed once.”
He huffs impatiently. “And Marjorie said she wouldn’t do viewings with anyone else until after we saw it. She knows what I do for a living, and that these things happen. It’s not a big deal. We’ll just go some other time.”
I lean back against the couch, staring up at the textured ceiling. “Braxton, what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” The frown is clear in his voice, and I can picture the way his dark brows will be pulled low. “It’s just one day.”
“No,” I counter softly, keeping my voice even. “It’s been a week. You’ve been off since Thanksgiving.”
Braxton goes silent, only his quiet breathing telling me he’s still on the other end of the line. I wait, even though I’m not sure what I’m waiting for. A month ago, I couldhave predicted how a conversation would have gone between us, but suddenly, I’ve got no idea. The only thing Idoknow is that my chest is so tight, it’s almost impossible to draw a full breath.
“Look, Gracie.” Braxton’s tone is so patronizing that I stiffen. “We’re short-staffed. There was no one else, okay? It’s not that big of a deal, and it’s kind of pissing me off that you’re making it one. I called Marjorie and told her we’re going to reschedule for another time.”
I close my eyes, forcing air into my lungs, fighting for a calm that feels as fragile as a butterfly’s wings. If I get angry, he’ll shut down. Braxton and I rarely argue, but I know how he operates. It doesn’t matter if he’s in the wrong or not; if he feels like he’s being attacked, he’ll go on the offensive and bite back.
“Okay,” I say calmly. “So what day did you tell her we would go see it?” He doesn’t answer, and I nod. “You didn’t, did you?”
Braxton grunts. “Why does that even matter?”
“It just does.” Frustrated tears prick at my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. “Answer the question, please.”
“I don’t know,” he snaps. “I told her we would call her back, I guess. Obviously, I needed to check with you to find a time that works for everyone.”
How magnanimous.And yet, I have the niggling feeling that even if I had a time that worked, he would have found a reason that it wouldn’t.
“Okay—”
“I have to go,” Braxton cuts in. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Okay? I’ll call you. Love you.” The words are rushed, absent-minded, like he’s saying it by rote rather than with any real meaning. Still, I open my mouth to say it back, but there’s a click and a beep as he hangs up before I can.
Bridget cautiously movesaround the shop, watching me out of the corner of her eye, like I’m a bomb about to detonate at any moment. She’s standing at the back counter, fixing an arrangement of tulips, hyacinths, and eucalyptus, but every few seconds, her head tilts in my direction.
“Stop it,” I tell her firmly.
Her brows climb her forehead. “I’m not doing anything,” she protests. “Just making pretty flowers prettier.” She snatches up a piece of white ribbon, waving it around her head like a flag.
I hum dubiously, but turn back to the computer. We have a massive Christmas wedding in two weeks—250 people—and the bride wants an arrangement of calla lilies and amaryllis on every table, as well as six bouquets and six matching boutonnieres for the bridal party.
It’s going to take me and Bridget days to put it all together, but it’s the kind of challenge I thrive on, with the added bonus of it helping to get myself out of my head.
