“Is that your thing now? Should I buy a hardhat?”
“I mean, if you want to do some roleplaying?”
“Woman . . .” I give her an odd look. If we needed to spice things up, maybe. As far as I know, she’s satisfied.
If she isn’t, then you can bet your ass I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure she is.
Josie slows in front of Whimsicality without meaning to and checks her own display through the glass, because she can’t not, and I stand there because watching my wife look at the business she built with her own two hands has never once gotten old.
I turn and look at the road, where cars park. Years ago, I parked my bike along the curb, two doors away and walked through the door of Whimsicality at closing time. I had just met the boy who said he saw me on video, kissing his mom. I knew then, he was my son but refused to believe it until I heard Josie tell me.
The bells above the door announce me like I’m just another customer. My helmet is still on, my gloves gripping nothing but the tension in my hands. She calls out from somewhere in the back that they’re closing up. Her voice hits me like a freight train I wasn’t braced for.
I set my helmet on the counter and pull off my gloves one finger at a time. My hands need something to do or they’ll shake apart.
She comes around the corner without looking up. Doesn’t see me standing here, stripped of my disguise, stripped of every wall I’ve built over ten years. I watch her for half a second, the way she moves through her shop like she owns the air in it.
She does.
“How old is he, Jojo?”
Her hands fly to her mouth. The vase she’s carrying explodes against the floor, water, glass, flowers scattering across the tile. She steps around the wreckage, eyes closed, like she needs one more second before this becomes real.
When she opens them, something shifts between us. I can feel it the way you know a storm is rolling in before the sky even changes. She’s looking at me, really looking, but her face is a war zone. I can see her trying to be the version of herself she planned for this moment. The tough one. The one who doesn’t flinch.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice comes out broken. Barely there. Not the Josie I remember, the girl who could cut you in half with a single sentence.
I step toward her. She steps back, hand up like a traffic cop. The message is clear. I shove my hands into my pockets because if I don’t, I’ll reach for her, and she’s not ready for that. Neither am I. My eyes drop to the floor. Looking at her too long does things to my chest that I can’t afford right now.
“Jojo . . .”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why not? It’s your name.”
She shakes her head, teeth working the inside of her cheek. I know that look. She’s holding back something bigger than anger. Something that’s been fermenting for a decade.
I smirk. Not because anything is funny, but because standing here in her flower shop, surrounded by everything soft and alive, I feel like the deadest thing in the room. I leanback against the counter, trying to look casual when every nerve in my body is firing.
She breaks eye contact when I bite my lower lip. Old habit. One I should’ve killed years ago because she always noticed.
“What are you doing here, Liam?”
“Do you have something to tell me?”
She shakes her head, presses her hand to her forehead like she’s warding off a migraine. “No. We have nothing to talk about. You made that very clear that night in my dorm room.”
That night. Those words land like a punch I deserve. I move away from the counter, needing to do something with my restless energy. My fingers find the leaves of a nearby plant, rubbing them just to feel something green and real. Then I’m walking toward her. Slowly. Deliberately. Not because I want to intimidate her. Because I physically cannot stay away.
She has nowhere to go. The wall of flowers behind her makes sure of that. I hold up my hands so she knows I’m not a threat, even though I’m the most dangerous thing that’s ever walked through her door.
“What’s his name, Josie?”
“Why do you care?” Her eyes throw daggers right back at mine. She doesn’t flinch. There she is. There’s my girl.
“You should go.”
“Nah.” I shake my head. Step closer. She steps back. The display wobbles behind her. “I just want to talk. I don’t think you want me to start asking questions, do you?”
