“And we can’t pretend this isn’t happening,” Marshall says.
Wyatt nods once, reluctant. “No.”
I glance toward the living room.
Eliza is now gently patting Caleb’s frog and whispering, “It’s okay. Don’t worry.”
Caleb nods understandingly.
My throat tightens again.
Because my kids adore Abilene. Because I adore Abilene.
Because wanting something doesn’t mean you get to take it.
And because if we do this wrong, we won’t just hurt ourselves.
We’ll hurt her.
And that is the one thing I can’t joke my way out of.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Abilene
Saturday
It’s the kind of Saturday I’ve seen a hundred times at the market. Busy, but not overwhelming.
Families mill about. It’s buzzing with the sound of children laughing, music playing faintly in the background, and the clink of coins in my cash box.
My stall smells of a warm mix of honey, beeswax, and fresh lavender soap, and I feel like I might be okay. I’ve got this.
There’s something calming about the rhythm of setting up, making change, explaining the difference between clover and wildflower honey for the hundredth time.
The way people smile when they take a jar of golden sweetness home—it’s an accomplishment. A quiet one, but an accomplishment all the same.
But…
The second my booth is set up, that familiar tightness crawls back into my chest. I can’t quite settle, no matter how hard I try.
The jars are perfect. The candles look like they were arranged by a curator. My display is nothing short of professional. Everything should be easy.
Except that it isn’t.
I try to push it down. The distraction in my thoughts. The way my heart races every time I think about last night, about Wyatt, and that moment when he stood there and asked me on a date, looking calm and nervous at the same time.
I can’t stop thinking about his voice, the way he spoke like it was the most normal thing in the world. It should have felt normal. It should have been easy. But it wasn’t.
Nothing about it was easy.
I give myself a mental shake, as if that’ll clear out the clutter. I’m at the market. This is my space. My bees, my honey, my story.
I spot a couple walking toward my stall, and like the practiced saleswoman I am, I put on my smile and shift gears.
“Have you tried our signature honey? Golden Meadow is a personal favorite,” I say smoothly, offering them a jar.
They nod politely, and the woman picks up a jar to inspect the label, glancing at her phone as she walks away, lost in whatever world her screen holds.
