This is how the rest of the day goes.
In bursts, lists, conversations that braid into one another so tightly I barely have time to feel the passing hours.
Lani drops off cake samples for the Founders Day menu, all of which taste way too good. Ivy comes in with Pickle and a box of handmade table signs and somehow leaves with Finn assigned to move folding chairs, which feels like a victory for women everywhere. Oliva sends over a revised drinks menu from her coffee truck. Delaney offers to help with the kids’ corner setup. Sloane texts to confirm sound check. Arlo says very little, as usual, but somehow the glasses stay polished, the deliveries keep getting where they need to go, and no one dies.
Honestly, iconic behavior from him.
By late afternoon, I’m standing on a chair near the front windows trying to tape up the Wild Reverie poster in a way that looks intentional and not like I lost a fight with adhesive when Ryder’s hand lands flat against the small of my back.
“Careful,” he says.
“I’m being careful.”
“You’re standing on a chair in boots you’ve already nearly broken your neck in twice.”
“That feels exaggerated.”
“It isn’t.”
I smooth the top edge of the poster and glance down at him. He’s close enough that I can smell leather and cedar and that clean, smoky warmth that always does unhelpful things to my pulse.
“You know,” I tease, “some people just say thank you when they have a genius on the team.”
His gaze lifts to mine. “Thank you.”
When I step down, his hand stays at my back half a second longer than necessary.
By the time evening rolls in, the rush has eased into something softer. The after-work crowd is settling in. The lights outside are turning gold against the deepening blue of the sky. Founders Day flyers are stacked in neat piles. The chalkboard specials are updated. The sign-up board by the door looks full in a way that makes my chest squeeze.
It’s working.
That’s the thing that keeps catching me off guard.
It’s actually working.
People are showing up.
They’re choosing this place.
Choosing them.
Choosing us, maybe, though I’m still a little scared to look at that idea head-on for too long.
I’m in the back room rechecking tomorrow’s supply list when Arlo appears in the doorway and says, “We’re low on the black thumbtacks.”
Then he disappears again like a cryptic event coordinator ghost.
I stare after him.
Because obviously this means I have to go get black thumbtacks immediately, or the entire festival will collapse and civilization will end.
That is how my brain works now.
Very healthy. Very measured.
I find the supply box in the office and confirm, yes, we are almost out. There are blue ones, red ones, and something aggressively neon that looks like a craft store panic attack, but only three black.
Unacceptable.
