I stop.
Chamomile.
It’s sitting there in a little glass jar with dried blossoms, tied with twine.
I stare at it for a full five seconds.
This is the universe mocking me. It has to be.
Because Abilene and I literally shared chamomile tea in that cabin while the world burned outside, and it was the most intimate conversation I’ve had in years, and if I buy her chamomile now, I might as well writeI’ve been thinking about youon my forehead in permanent marker.
Which… is not inaccurate.
But still.
I clear my throat, grab the jar anyway, and add it to my growing “I’m definitely normal” pile.
Then I see it.
A small pot on the shelf near the register with a tiny painted label:WILDFLOWER SEED MIX — POLLINATOR FRIENDLY.
I freeze.
Bees.
Flowers.
Her whole world.
It’s not about the bees as a personality trait. It’s about the way she builds life around them. About how she makes something sweet out of disorder.
I pick up the packet carefully.
Three things now: hand salve, chamomile, wildflower seeds.
This is either charming or deeply unhinged.
Mrs. Larsen watches me drift toward the counter.
“Well,” she says, tapping a pen against the register. “Either you’ve taken up gardening and tea drinking, or you’re courting.”
I stop dead.
“No,” I say too quickly.
Her eyebrows lift. “No?”
“I mean…” I clear my throat. “That’s not… I’m not…”
She leans on the counter, delighted. “Wyatt Tucker is flustered. I’d like to mark this day on the calendar.”
“I’m not flustered,” I lie.
She glances pointedly at the chamomile jar. “Flower water says otherwise.”
I exhale slowly through my nose. “Can you just… ring these up?”
“Oh, I’ll ring them up,” she says, too cheerful. “But first, I’m going to guess.”
