Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Daphne
The afternoon sun slanted through my kitchen window, painting golden stripes across the worn wooden table where I sat surrounded by chaos.
Fabric swatches in varying shades of green and cream.
A half-empty cup of tea gone cold hours ago.
The old star chart, carefully unfolded and weighted down at the corners with smooth river stones I'd collected years ago.
And me, staring at my closet's contents spread across every available surface, trying to figure out what a person wore to watch meteors with a man who made her heart race just by existing.
In less than four hours, Micah would be here for our Friday date night of startgazing.
I picked up a soft cable-knit sweater, forest green, warm enough for the cool night but not so bulky I'd feel like a shapeless blob.
I held it against myself, trying to see my reflection in the darkened window of the oven.
Ridiculous. I was being absolutely ridiculous.
It was stargazing, not a formal event. He'd told me to dress warmly and wear comfortable shoes.
That was it. Simple instructions that my anxious brain had somehow transformed into an impossible puzzle.
The sweater went into the "maybe" pile, which was significantly larger than the "yes" pile and roughly equal to the "absolutely not" pile.
I'd been like this all day. Unable to focus, unable to settle, my thoughts circling back to tonight with the persistence of moths around a flame.
I'd weeded the garden twice—the same section, because I'd forgotten I'd already done it.
I'd reorganized my dried herb storage by alphabetical order, then by color, then back to alphabetical because the color system made no logical sense.
I'd baked bread I didn't need and made soup I probably wouldn't eat.
Nervous energy with nowhere to go.
My phone buzzed on the table, and I lunged for it with embarrassing speed. But it wasn't Micah—it was Viola.
How are we feeling about tonight? Scale of one to ten, where one is "totally calm" and ten is "might actually vibrate out of my skin"?
I laughed despite myself, some of the tension releasing from my shoulders. Viola had been texting me periodically all day, checking in with the kind of casual persistence that I was learning to recognize as genuine friendship rather than intrusion.
Solid 8, I typed back. Possibly 8.5. I've reorganized my herb storage twice and I'm currently drowning in clothing options.
Her response came immediately: Okay first of all, brEATHE. Second, what are your top three options? Send pics.
I hesitated. This was the kind of thing friends did, wasn't it?
Asked for opinions on outfits, shared the mundane details of their lives.
It still felt foreign, like speaking a language I'd learned from books but never practiced aloud.
Viola had shown up with pie. Had sat at this very table and told me she wanted to be my friend, really my friend, not just an acquaintance I saw in town. I'd said I would try.
I snapped photos of my three strongest contenders, the green sweater with dark jeans, a cream-colored thermal with my favorite worn flannel over it, and a soft gray pullover that was probably too casual but felt like being wrapped in a cloud.
Option Two, Viola responded within seconds. The flannel says "I made an effort but I'm not trying too hard" and it'll look adorable with your hair. Plus layers = smart for outdoor nighttime activities.
I typed a response quickly: How do you know what my hair looks like?
A second later a response came back, causing me to snort at the quick response: I’m assuming you're wearing it down because you always wear it up and tonight is special. Am I wrong?
She wasn't wrong. I'd been planning to leave it down, had even spent twenty minutes this morning trying to coax it into some semblance of intentional waves rather than its usual chaotic tumble.
You're not wrong, I typed back admitting it to her.
Her response was quick Then trust me. Option two. And Daphne?
I gave a smile giving a response: Yeah?
A second later my phone buzzed again: He already likes you. You don't have to be perfect. You just have to show up.
The words hit somewhere soft, somewhere I hadn't realized was still tender.
You just have to show up. Such a simple concept, and yet it felt revolutionary.
For five years, I'd avoided showing up, to friendships, to community events, to anything that might require me to be seen.
Showing up meant vulnerability. Meant risk.
Meant the possibility of rejection. I was showing up tonight.
Had been showing up, slowly, piece by piece, ever since that morning on the porch when Micah had sat beside me and offered honesty instead of platitudes.
Thank you, I typed back, meaning it more than two words could possibly convey.
The phone buzzed again: Anytime. Now go get ready and HAVE FUN. I want details tomorrow.
I set down the phone and looked at Option two, the cream thermal and the soft blue flannel, faded from years of washing but still my favorite. Viola was right. It was comfortable, practical, and just dressy enough to show I'd thought about it without screaming that I'd spent three hours obsessing.
Which I had…but Micah didn't need to know that.
I carried the chosen outfit to my bedroom and laid it out on the bed, then stood there for a moment, breathing.
The late afternoon light filtered through the curtains, soft and golden, and I could hear birds singing in the garden, cardinals, from the sound of it, their sharp whistles cutting through the quiet.
This was really happening. Tonight, I would lie on a blanket under the stars with Micah, watching meteors streak across the sky. The thought made my stomach flip with a combination of terror and anticipation that I was learning to recognize as excitement.
When was the last time I'd been excited about something?
Really, genuinely excited, not just satisfied or content?
I couldn't remember. Somewhere along the way, I'd stopped letting myself want things.
Wanting led to disappointment. Hoping led to hurt.
Better to expect nothing and be pleasantly surprised than to reach for something and have it slip through your fingers.
But here I was, wanting. Hoping. Reaching. It was terrifying. It was also, I was starting to realize, the only way to actually live.
I showered and dressed with more care than I'd taken in years, actually bothering with the nice-smelling lotion Viola had given me and taking time to dry my hair properly instead of just letting it air-dry into chaos.
The face that looked back at me from the mirror was familiar but somehow different—there was color in my cheeks, brightness in my eyes, a softness around my mouth that I hadn't seen in a long time.
I looked like someone who was looking forward to something. The knock came at exactly nine o'clock. Of course it did. Micah was nothing if not precise.
I gave myself one last look in the mirror, took a deep breath, and went to open the door.
He stood on my porch in jeans and a dark button up shirt, a jacket slung over one arm and a genuine smile softening his usually serious features.
His green eyes swept over me, not in an assessing way, but like he was cataloging details, memorizing the moment.
The last of the daylight caught the sharp lines of his jaw, the slight wave in his dark hair, the breadth of his shoulders.
"Hi," I managed, suddenly breathless.
"Hi." His smile widened just a fraction. "You look nice. The flannel suits you."
"Thanks. You're..." I gestured vaguely at all of him. "Also nice. You look nice too."
Smooth, Daphne. Very smooth.
Micah just looked amused, that hint of warmth in his eyes that I was learning meant he found something endearing rather than annoying. "Ready to see some stars?"
"I am." I grabbed my jacket from the hook by the door, the old canvas one that was soft from years of wear—and stepped out onto the porch. "Oh, wait. The star chart."
I ducked back inside and retrieved my foster mother's chart from the kitchen table, handling it carefully.
The paper was old, yellowed at the edges, covered in hand-drawn constellations and faded annotations in her spidery handwriting.
I'd found it in a box of her things I'd never properly gone through, and the moment I'd seen it, I'd thought of Micah.
"Here." I held it out to him as I rejoined him on the porch. "I thought you might find it interesting."
He took it with the kind of reverence usually reserved for ancient artifacts, his fingers gentle on the fragile paper.
"Daphne, this is..." He trailed off, studying the chart with an intensity that made something warm bloom in my chest. "This is hand-drawn.
Look at the detail on Orion, whoever made this really understood the magnitude differences between the stars. "
"My foster mother…. She was an amateur astronomer, apparently. I didn't know until I found this." I told him with a small smile when remembering her.
"This is remarkable." He looked up at me, his expression open in a way I rarely saw. "Thank you for sharing it with me."
"I thought you could tell me which parts are outdated," I told him smiling softly, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile. "Since you mentioned how our understanding of the sky has evolved."
The smile he gave me was soft, almost tender.
"I'd love to. We can look at it together when we're set up.
" We walked to his truck, the same one I'd seen countless times parked at the Henderson property, now as familiar as my own vehicle.
He opened the passenger door for me, a gesture that might have felt performative from someone else but seemed natural from him, just another form of care and attention.