We make our way down another row, past handmade soaps and fresh flowers, when something catches my eye. A small crowd gathered around a booth. Not just gathered, but excitedly murmuring and pointing.
I slow down, wanting to see what all the fuss is about. “Wait.”
Phoenix follows my gaze. “What?”
The sign above the booth reads something soft and curated—Soluna Atelier. Organic beauty products from local vendors line the booth in neutral tones and pretty packaging.
And in the center of it all, Holly. She’s mid-demonstration, talking someone through a quick style, hands moving with a confidence I don’t think I’ve ever seen from her before, and clearly thriving in this element.
She looks … proud, like she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.
“Okay, I’ll admit it. This is kind of impressive,” Phoenix begrudgingly states as she admires the booth layout.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “It is.”
Holly glances up—and freezes. Her eyes land on me, and for a second, she falters, losing a bit of steam. Then she straightens her shoulders and waves us over.
“Becca,” she says, a little nervous. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I respond neutrally.
An awkward pause takes place before I can think of something to say.
“This looks really good,” I add, gesturing to the booth. “Like … really good.”
Her shoulders drop just a fraction. “Thank you. I’ve been trying to figure it out.”
I step closer, letting my eyes roam over the setup. The styling tools, handheld mirrors, and little display stands. And beside the booth, there’s a space designed almost like a showroom. A small coffee table sits with clean lines and a smooth finish, the grain of the wood catching the light just right. Next to it, one of those over-arm couch trays—curved perfectly, balanced, functional in that way that isn’t flashy, but needed. And leaning against the back is a narrow mantlepiece. It is simple, solid, and beautiful.
My stomach drops. I know these pieces. Not just the style, the exact pieces.
“I mentioned this,” I say before I can stop myself, stepping closer. My fingers hover over the edge of the table. “Like … a year ago. We were at that hardware store, and I said—” I pause, swallowing back an emotion I am not ready to examine.
“Yeah, they’re wonderful pieces,” Holly says quietly.
My eyes cut to her. “What is this?”
She shifts on her feet, suddenly less sure. “They’re … um … they’re Sam’s.”
Of course they are. I swallow, keeping my expression neutral. “For the salon?”
She shakes her head. “No, of course not.” She bites her lip, hesitating. “They’re the ones that didn’t make the cut.”
I blink. “What cut?”
“He’s been making a bunch of stuff,” she admits, words coming a little faster and unsteady. “Perfecting, I guess? Testing designs. If something’s not exactly how he imagined,he won’t use it. So … these are the extras, or rejects, as he calls them. None of them were good enough.”
These were rejects?My chest tightens as I run my fingers lightly along the edge of the table. It’s smoothed so perfectly that it feels soft.
“You’re selling them?” I ask.
“Yes.” She shrugs. “This is the third batch. So far, all have sold out. Figured it was better than letting them sit in the shop. People have asked if he would create a custom piece, but he refuses to build for anyone but you.”
I nod slowly, stepping back. I don’t say what’s sitting heavy in my chest. That none of this feels like arejectpile. That this feels like someone remembering, paying attention to the little moments … and genuinely trying.
Phoenix clears her throat softly, reading the moment better than anyone. “Okay,” she says lightly, “I’m going to go find something overpriced and unnecessary. You good?”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I’m good.”
