16
ELLIOTT
T he Havenwood Farmers’ Market was alive with the sounds of approaching summer, children’s laughter mingled with the hum of conversation, the clink of jars and produce crates, and the occasional bark of a dog. The scent of freshly baked bread wafted through the air, mingling with the earthiness of ripe tomatoes and the tang of herbs. I navigated the bustling aisles, my hands carefully cradling pots of basil and thyme for the backyard garden I barely had time to tend.
The mid-May sunlight was warm on my face, though not oppressively so, its golden rays filtering through the budding canopy of trees that lined the cobblestone streets. The air carried a hint of humidity, a gentle reminder of the approaching summer, mingled with the faint floral notes of blooming dogwoods and azaleas. The chatter of the crowd was oddly soothing, a blend of laughter, casual conversation, and the occasional bark of a leashed dog from the nearby park, even if my thoughts were anything but. The argument with Jules still lingered like a dull ache, even weeks later. It was easier to focus on the practical things: finding the best produce, avoiding bruised fruit, and sidestepping the occasional rogue child darting through the market.
I paused before a stall displaying neat rows of amber honey in clear glass jars, each one glinting softly in the afternoon light. As my fingers traced the cool surface of the container, a sudden flash of vibrant color caught my eye, Jules. He was about ten feet away, gracefully weaving through the throng with a signature blend of confidence and chaotic energy. His oversized shirt and brightly colored scarf created a striking contrast against the market’s earth-toned backdrop. His arms were laden with an assortment of freshly picked vegetables, and bundles of aromatic herbs tumbled out of his well-worn tote bag, marking him as a master of this lively environment, as if he were born from its very soil.
Accompanying him, laughing merrily at something only Jules could evoke, was Liam. With his solid, comforting presence clad in a well-fitted Henley and dark jeans, Liam stood out in his own quiet way. His warm brown eyes sparkled with mischief as he ambled through the crowd, a small carton of gleaming fresh berries held casually in one hand, a berry popping into his mouth as if to punctuate the moment. Jules hadn’t noticed me yet, but Liam’s observant gaze quickly shifted in my direction, a knowing smile spreading across his face just as Jules finally looked up. Our eyes met in an unexpected collision of awareness, an encounter that made the surrounding noise and rapid motion blur into the background, leaving us suspended in a soft, almost magical moment. Jules’ eyes widened in brief surprise before softening into a small, hesitant smile.
Liam, ever the playful instigator, let out a low chuckle. “Well, well. Look who it is,” he said, his voice light and teasing. He glanced between us, clapping a friendly hand on Jules’ shoulder before turning with an easy grin to face me. “Hey there, Elliott.”
“Hey, Liam,” I replied, my tone casually warm though edged with reserve.
Liam’s smirk deepened as he alternated his glance between us. “I’ll let you have your moment, you’ve got plenty to talk about,” he teased, prompting a half-annoyed, half-appreciative look from Jules before Liam winked and slipped away into the maze of market stalls, already engaging someone in animated conversation with a nearby vendor.
Jules then turned back toward me, shifting the weight of his overfilled tote bag on his shoulder with a gentle, self-aware chuckle. “Hey,” he said softly as he closed the narrowing gap between us.
“Hey,” I responded, my tone neutral but not unkind.
We stood for a moment in the thick air of the market, the unspoken awkwardness intermingling with a flicker of possibility. My eyes drifted down to the precarious pile of produce in his arms, a visual echo of his unguarded clumsiness.
“You need help with that?” I asked, tilting my head in the direction of his precariously laden tote.
Jules huffed a soft laugh and shifted his bag, his voice light as he replied, “Says the guy trying to juggle plants and honey. I think you’re the one who needs help.”
Despite the lingering sting of past discord, the corners of my mouth lifted in involuntary amusement. “Fair point,” I admitted.
His laughter, warm and easy, reverberated around us, coaxing us into synchrony as we began maneuvering through the market together. With every step, the initial tension began to unravel, and our conversation embarked on tentative, healing notes.
“I, uh, wasn’t expecting to see you here,” I confessed, clutching the basil and thyme with a tender possessiveness.
“Yeah, I’m gathering supplies for a Playhouse potluck,” Jules replied with a casual shrug, a sprig of rosemary playfully peeking out of his bag like a small secret. “I’m in charge of some kind of… rustic, herby thing.” His hand waved vaguely, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “What about you? Planning a garden?”
“Something like that,” I said after a thoughtful pause, then added, “It’s nice here. Peaceful.”
Jules’ gaze softened visibly. “Yeah. I come here when I need a reset,” he murmured as if confessing a small personal ritual.
We walked in silence for a few measured moments, the ambient hum of the market enveloping us in a cocoon of sound. Jules adjusted his bag again, stealing a tentative glance my way. “So, um… things have been a little… off since the meeting,” he admitted, his voice carrying the weight of unsaid regrets.
I stopped and turned to face him, my tone gentle yet forthright. “You weren’t the only one avoiding a conversation,” I said quietly.
His brow furrowed, and his usual vibrant energy dimmed perceptibly. “Look, I’m sorry. For pushing too hard. I get impatient sometimes, like if I don’t keep everything moving, it will all eventually fall apart,” he confessed, his voice trembling slightly with vulnerability.
I studied his face, noting how the sincerity in his eyes softened the remnants of our conflict. “I know,” I replied carefully. “And I’m sorry too. I get so absorbed in making sure everything works perfectly that I sometimes forget to leave room for life’s little surprises.”
A faint smile played on his lips as he murmured, “I don’t want to be impossible to work with. I just… care too much sometimes.”
“That’s not such a bad thing,” I said softly, my voice a comforting murmur that even surprised me.
For a charged moment, we simply looked at each other, the heavy remnants of weeks of tension gradually lifting like morning mist. Jules let out a small laugh, shaking his head in a rueful acknowledgment. “How do you always make me feel less of a disaster?” he asked, almost in awe.
“Maybe you’re not as much of a disaster as you think,” I replied, the simplicity of the truth warming the air between us.
We soon reached my modest sedan, parked carefully near the edge of the lot. With a theatrical groan, Jules dropped his bag onto the car’s hood. “Next time, I’m bringing a wagon,” he declared with a playful exaggeration.
“Or buying fewer vegetables,” I teased back, unlocking the trunk with a gentle smile.
He gasped in mock offense. “Moderation? From you? I always thought you preferred order, not tyranny.”
As I loaded my cherished plants into the car, his playful words lingered like a soft reminder of better times, lighter than our past quarrels, yet no less meaningful.
When I turned to face him once more, I found him leaning casually against the car, his expression a tender enigma.
“You know,” he began with a thoughtful undertone that bridged the gap between apology and hope, “for someone so cautious, you’re braver than you think.”
I paused, hands still resting on the trunk. “Brave?” I echoed softly, as if testing the word.
“Yeah,” he affirmed, his smile gentle and encouraging. “You show up. Even when it’s difficult, even when everything feels like it’s falling apart. That’s a kind of courage, isn’t it?”
I hesitated, moved by the unexpected truth of his words, and then replied, “You’re fearless in ways I’m not. You dream big, that’s… really inspiring.”
A slight blush warmed his cheeks, and for a moment, he seemed momentarily lost for words. The silence stretched between us, not uncomfortable but charged with the promise of something unspoken yet hopeful.
After a quiet beat, Jules’ gaze softened further. “How’s Caleb doing, by the way?” he inquired gently.
My expression brightened at the mere mention of my son. “He’s good. We caught up over the weekend, and he’s completely absorbed in this robotics project at school, it’s the only thing he talks about,” I explained, warmth seeping into my tone.
“That’s wonderful,” Jules said, his smile genuine and unforced. “He sounds like an amazing kid.”
An awkward pause followed, filled with the weight of unsaid words as Jules shifted his stance. Glancing at me with tentative sincerity, he offered in a low voice, “Well… thanks for letting me crash the party.”
I nodded, and just as he hesitated before turning away, he spoke once more. “Hey, um… how’s the planning for the event going?” His casual tone was laced with an unmistakable depth, a careful inquiry into things left unsettled.
I exhaled slowly, running a hand through my hair in weary resignation. “Honestly? I tried to keep working on it, but I’m stuck. It’s not coming together the way I hoped.”
Jules pursed his lips in thought, adjusting the strap of his bag as if weighing each word. “You know, I could… help,” he offered, his tone treading the fine line between tentative and hopeful. “I mean, if you don’t think it’s weird, or too soon after… everything.”
A faint smile crept over my face, as fragile hope mingled with understanding. “I was actually going to ask if you’d do that,” I admitted softly. “It might be a bit tacky, considering we’re just finding our way back to each other, but would you want to meet up and work on it together?”
His grin widened, and something familiar sparked in his eyes. “Sure. How about tomorrow? At the café? We can grab some coffee and hash it all out.”
“That works,” I said, feeling a subtle lightness in my chest that eased the lingering heaviness. “Thanks, Jules.”
“Don’t thank me just yet,” he teased, his grin softening into something warmer and more genuine. “Just bring your timelines and prepare to have them completely reimagined.”
I managed a small chuckle before adding, “I’ll brace myself.”
Jules turned back once, his eyes meeting mine again with a quiet, hopeful spark. In that brief exchange, I felt the promise of new beginnings, both for the event and, quietly, for our fragile reconciliation. As he melted back into the vibrant market crowd, I slid into my car’s driver’s seat, my thoughts swirling with the possibility of starting over, not just with the project ahead, but with Jules, too.