18. Blueprints & Boundaries
BLUEPRINTS & BOUNDARIES
Addison
I ’m back in the office after the pie tasting. At least we have that squared away for the fundraiser. These events are close together, and I fear I’m neglecting the fundraiser.
Meredith shows up at my office unexpectedly, dressed in head-to-toe ecru linen like she just stepped out of a magazine. Her phone dangles in one hand, manicured fingers tapping a silent rhythm on the clipboard she always carries.
“Addison,” she says as she steps inside, looking around the room like she’s evaluating shelf symmetry. “I had a cancellation in my schedule and thought I’d pop by.”
“Of course.” I stand, smoothing my jeans instinctively. “Is everything okay?”
She waves a dismissive hand. “Yes. Well, it’s as under control as it gets.”
I gesture toward the seating area. “Do you want to sit?”
She does, and I follow. There’s a pause — not awkward, just unexpected. Meredith isn’t usually the type to linger in silence.
“You’ve been busy,” she says finally, nodding at the mood boards and arch sketches pinned to the side wall. “Everything looks… good.”
“Thank you,” I reply cautiously. “We’re on track. The final floral mock-up is scheduled for Tuesday.”
Another pause. Then she sets her phone down on the table, as if surrendering it is a show of trust.
“Listen,” she begins, adjusting her blazer, “I know I’ve been intense. I know Daddy can be... pressure in human form. But I do want you to know — I appreciate how much you’ve handled.”
That almost sounds like an apology. I blink.
“Thank you,” I say, caught slightly off guard. “I know it’s a lot to juggle. I just want the day to be everything you dreamed.”
She studies me with her very particular brand of focus, the kind that used to make me feel like I was being audited. “It will be. Especially because of you. I wonder what feeds you and brings you joy Addy, to be able to bring such joy to everyone around you?”
I’m stumped, I’m not sure how to answer, but thankfully Meredith is good at monologues.
And then she leans back, voice softening. “If you’re free next week after the walk-through, you and Dylan should join us for dinner. Just casual. A thank-you. I know Gina’s a bit much, but Daddy might be less prickly if he sees you’re not working with an axe-murderer.”
I manage a laugh. Barely.
“That’s thoughtful,” I say carefully. “I’ll check his schedule.”
She nods, then breezes out.
I sit there for a full minute after the door clicks shut.
Joy. I’m not sure what brings me joy these days. It seems I’ve been too busy to think about it.
I shake it off, grab my keys, and head home.
* * *
T he leftover pie box sits on my passenger seat, buckled in like a precious antique. I swear it’s staring at me. Probably judging me for flaking on dinner and opting for “maple pecan therapy” instead.
I carry it inside, set it on the counter, and glance at the clock. 7:48 p.m. There’s still time to check off a few items from today’s punch list, assuming my brain cooperates for more than six seconds.
I pour myself a glass of water, grab my laptop, and settle into my usual corner of the couch. The open spreadsheet glows too brightly against the lamplight. I squint at the tabs, flipping between the seating chart and timeline like shuffling a deck of anxiety.
Table placements: finalized.
Florist pickup: confirmed.
Catering timeline: slightly shifted because Gina wants a second toast before the first course. Of course she does.
The pie box sits quietly nearby, its sugary scent curling into the air like a dare.
I tell myself I’ll just check one more thing — the vendor call list for tomorrow — and then I’ll close the laptop. But my thoughts drift to this morning.
I remember our elbows bumping over that last pie — cue the rom-com soundtrack — and his laugh, all warm and low, chasing away every bit of Cassandra’s snark. It was the perfect one-two punch protection. I can’t help but grin like a total goofball.
I lean back into the couch, letting my head drop against the cushion. My brain is tired. My feet are tired. My heart… well, I don’t know what my heart is doing.
My phone buzzes. Not Dylan. Maggie.
That’s it. Just the emoji. Then...
How was pie guy?
I sigh and type back.
Crisp crust. Warm center. Terrible at boundaries.
So you’re saying “delicious”
I’m saying he’s distracting. He makes it too easy to let my guard down. It’s confusing.
There’s a beat.
I’m going to pick up Claire and a bottle of Rosé. We’re going to talk this out.
I blink at the screen.
Mags, I’m fine. I swear.
Nope. You’re spiraling in spreadsheet form. ETA 15. Chill the glasses.
You are chaos incarnate.
And yet, you love me. Back soon.
I let the phone drop to the couch with a soft thud. And then I get up to chill the glasses, because there’s no arguing with a woman in motion.
Thirty minutes later, the door swings open and Maggie barrels in, hair windblown, cheeks pink, a clinking bag in one hand and Claire in tow behind her like a cheerful caboose. Claire’s still in overalls, her hair in a messy braid and her smile wide.
“Emergency intervention,” Maggie declares, waving the wine like a baton. “Initiate uncorking protocols.”
Claire laughs. “I said I’d only come if there was pie.”
“I have pie,” I say, holding up the box like a peace offering. “Leftover from the tasting.”
Maggie gasps. “You mean your emotionally loaded pie tasting with your very own Coach Crush?”
“I’m regretting this already,” I mutter, but I’m smiling as I grab plates and set the bottle on the counter.
Within minutes, we’re curled on the couch, pie slices disappearing at record speed, the bottle breathing on the coffee table.
“Okay,” Claire says after her second bite. “Give us the highlights.”
I fill them in — hot dog incident and soda machine rescue reexplained for context, orchard mishaps, the wedding barter agreement, and of course, the pie tasting that felt suspiciously like a date.
Maggie tops off my glass. “And how do you feel?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that your subtle therapist voice?”
“Claire — our self-proclaimed therapist — is rubbing off on me.”
Claire smirks. “Answer the question.”
“I feel... confused. I like him. He’s kind. Steady. Charming, obviously. And he doesn’t treat me like I’m complicated or high maintenance. He just… shows up. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.”
“But?” Claire prompts.
“But I don’t want to ruin my reputation, or blur boundaries with a client, or —”
“Fall,” Maggie finishes gently.
I go quiet.
Claire leans in. “Addison, you’re not scared of him. You’re scared of what wanting him might cost you.”
I nod, throat tight.
Maggie sets her glass down and gives my knee a gentle squeeze. “Honey, you’ve been holding the town together since high school. Everyone knows you’re reliable. They trust you. If they see you with someone kind who treats you with respect, they’ll adjust.”
“But what if they don’t?” I whisper. “What if people like Cassandra or Simon keep twisting the story?”
“Then you let your work speak louder,” Claire says. “And let people like us remind you that your life is allowed to include joy.”
That word — joy — hits something raw. Could I have been neglecting my own joy.
Because that’s what Dylan feels like. Joy I didn’t plan for.
“Okay,” I breathe. “Okay.”
Maggie grins. “We’re not saying elope. Just… don’t ghost the good thing because it doesn’t fit in a bullet journal.”
Claire raises her fork. “To unexpected joys.”
We clink pie forks in lieu of a toast, and I think, for the first time in a long time, I might actually believe them.