Chapter 5 Jack
FIVE
JACK
I’m not sure that two minutes was enough time to thoroughly build a case inside my head. To make a sudden life-altering decision and then follow it up with an actual marriage proposal. Especially not to a woman who can only tolerate my presence in controlled doses.
But we’ve known each other for six years now. That’s a good chunk of time.
That alone should’ve been enough for her not to tell me to shut the hell up, rinse my hair in total silence, and then bolt out of the house at midnight like a bat out of hell. You’d think I’d suggested arson or armed robbery.
Is the idea of marrying me really all that horrifying?
I’m a dependable guy. I have a stable, well-paying job. I’m a goddamned business owner. I would be the perfect, boring-on-paper candidate to file jointly on any and all grant applications. Isla should be thrilled.
And the ridiculous part is, my chest feels like I’ve just been gut punched anyway. Like this was something I’d been quietly planning for months instead of a half-baked idea blurted out in my bathroom.
I haven’t been saving for a ring, rehearsing a speech, or picturing myself on one knee in front of all the people who matter in our lives.
So, for the love of God, why does it feel like I’ve just been brutally rejected?
If I hadn’t already hacked my hair to pieces and doused it in bleach, this would be the exact moment I’d do something that drastic. Goddamn, I hate this feeling.
I’d really like to fuck someone. Shut my brain off for a while and reset the system. But Blue Willow’s a dead zone lately, and I’m not driving out of town in search of more bad decisions. Tonight, I’ve reached my threshold.
Besides, avoiding thoughts of Isla hasn’t exactly gone well for me so far. Bringing someone else into bed while she’s still lodged in the middle of my head feels unfair to everybody involved.
So, I brush my teeth too hard, turn off the light, and climb into bed by myself. Alone.
A man sentenced to his own thoughts. Could there be any worse fate?
The next day, I drive to Camron, a small town close to where I grew up. There’s a single-story ranch out here owned by a couple who want their deck replaced before summer. It’s nothing fancy. No inspectors breathing down our necks.
This is my favorite kind of job.
Nico’s already there when I pull up, leaning against the truck and drinking gas station coffee from a foam cup. “Jesus Christ,” he says, squinting at my head. “You look like shit.”
“Hey, buddy,” I mutter. “Always a pleasure.”
“Did you lose a bet?”
“No.”
“Midlife crisis?”
“I’m thirty-one.”
“Quarter-life crisis, then.”
I grab my tool belt and start unloading boards. “You wanna keep talking, or you wanna do what you’re being paid to do?”
He grins. “Touchy.”
We fall into our work easily. Nico talks about his cousin’s upcoming wedding and how he’s convinced his brother-in-law is going to ruin it. I half listen and half think about grain patterns.
By lunch, the frame’s in.
“You good?” Nico asks, passing me a sandwich.
“Yeah,” I say. “Couldn’t be more emotionally stable if I tried.”
This is the version of myself people tend to like. The one who shows up with coffee and a smart mouth. The guy who’ll call you on your bullshit and then help you fix it anyway. I look easygoing from the outside.
But Rhodes Renovations doesn’t run on good vibes.
It runs on schedules and bids and knowing exactly when to joke and when to shut up. On showing up early and staying late and delivering what I promised, even when I’d rather be anywhere else.
I built my business on being the guy clients can trust. For the most part, I like being that guy. Sometimes, I wish being needed felt less lonely.
Nico and I finish the job with enough daylight left to sweep up and still beat traffic.
The week fills up quickly after that. A window replacement two towns over. A kitchen refit for a retired couple who argue affectionately about cabinet handles. A quick consult in the city for another commercial renovation.
Talia pops in midweek to help with wiring on a larger project. She takes one look at my hair and says, “Wow.”
“Don’t,” I warn.
She raises both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
She laughs and gets to work.
Each night, I text Isla. I haven’t dared bring up the proposal for fear of further retaliation, but I want her to know that I’m here. That I’m worried about her.
We good?
No response.
You alive?
Seen. No reply.
Luxe treating you okay?
Delivered. No reply.
By Thursday, I stop checking my phone every five minutes. By Friday, I pretend I’m not checking it at all. I throw myself into work. Stay late at the Hartford job. Sand a piece of oak that absolutely does not need sanding.
It’s crossed my mind, but I doubt I scared her off for good. She’s busy with the orchard, and her second job, and everything she insists on carrying alone. It’s not my place to fix that. It’s not my job to chase her down when she needs space.
On Saturday, I wake up early, drink bad coffee, and sit on the edge of my bed, staring at my hands.
It’s been nearly six years now that we’ve known each other. All that time spent arguing with Isla at town meetings and laughing with her afterward. I’ve watched her shoulder too much without complaint, wanted to step in and never quite knew how to do it without crossing a line.
This time, apparently, I found the line anyway and stomped right over it.
I grab my keys.
If she’s mad, she’s mad. If she tells me to get lost, I will. But I can’t do nothing. I’m not built for that. I’m the kind of guy who shows up, even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially when it’s uncomfortable.
I have to try.
So, I point the truck toward Foxglove Florals because if I’m going to show up at her orchard uninvited again, I’m not doing it empty-handed.
Inside, the shop smells green and damp, like rain caught in cupped hands. Buckets of stems crowd the floor. Dried bundles hang upside down from the ceiling beams, tied with twine and handwritten tags that curl at the edges.
There’s color everywhere.
Winnie Marlow stands behind the counter with a clipboard tucked under one arm and a crate of honey jars at her feet. Her blond hair is pulled back in a loose braid that’s already starting to come apart, and there’s pollen on the knees of her jeans.
I’m not as close to Winnie as Isla is, but I’ve known her long enough to have an opinion. She’s a little unusual, even by Blue Willow standards. Maybe that comes from being homeschooled, then hitting adulthood, getting restless, and going a little feral for one memorable summer.
She became a single mom at age twenty-one, which, to be fair, can do a lot to change a person’s life. But she wears it well. And her daughter happens to be one of the best kids I know.
“Oh no,” she says when she spots me.
I toss my hands up. “That’s not a very nice way to greet a customer, Win.”
“You are not allowed to be here looking like that.”
I squint. “Like what?”
“Like trouble.”
I lift a brow. “I’m just looking for flowers.”
She lets out a sharp laugh. “Mmhmm. Sure.”
“Winnie, honey, what did I ever do to you?”
Her mouth presses into a line as she nudges the crate of jars with her boot. “Isla’s been cussing you out seven ways to Sunday. Didn’t say what you did, but I wouldn’t go anywhere near Mirabelle this weekend if I were you.”
“Not even if I come bearing gifts?”
She blinks at me. “You think flowers are going to fix this?”
“She’s the one who hurt my feelings,” I say, disgruntled. “She should be getting me flowers.”
She snorts. “Oh, Jacky. You’re going to get yourself maimed.”
I grin. “I’ve survived worse than an angry Isla.”
In fact, I’ve weathered plenty of Isla’s moods. Her temper has range. It can roll in hot and fast or settle into that clipped quiet that means I’ve actually done damage. I’d take yelling over silence any day, and this week has been all silence.
I glance around the shop, letting my eyes move over the stems and blooms and buckets. Foxglove, hellebore, anemone, early peonies still tight as fists. Lavender hangs near the back wall.
“What’s in season?” I ask. “Anything she likes?”
Winnie squints at me. “You actually want to know?”
“I’m trying to do this right.”
She sighs and sets the clipboard down. “April’s tricky. The plants are waking up, but they’re still tender. Everything’s working harder than it looks.”
“Relatable.”
She points toward a bucket near the window. “Those are early wildflowers. Not too pretty yet, but quite strong.”
Their stems are wiry, their petals soft and wind-worried, more stubborn than sweet.
“They don’t look like much.”
“Well, they’re not decoration,” she replies defensively. “They’re workers.”
I glance at her. “You worried I might offend them?”
She grabs a honey jar and turns it slowly in her hands. “People think this stuff is where the magic comes from at Honeywild. Like the bees there make it all by themselves. If that were true, I’d have to chain them to the orchard like prisoners. And that’s no way to live for a pollinator.”
I lean against the counter. “Enlighten me.”
“The bees translate,” she says. “They carry what the flowers already hold. Lavender calms nerves because the plant knows how to rest. Clover restores energy because it grows where the land’s been depleted and insists on coming back anyway.”
“And your achehoney?”
Wells goes through the stuff like it’s water. It helps him with that old injury he never talks about—the one he got when he was in school, back before the inn. I’ve seen him move through a storm and then nearly collapse afterward. Achehoney is what keeps him standing.
I’ve used it, too, at the end of a long job, when my back locks up, or I get that pinch in my shoulder from hammering overhead. It’s the only thing that takes the edge off without knocking me out.
“Achehoney,” she says, “comes from flowers that grow in places that remember injury. Old fence lines. Trampled paths. Land that’s been overworked and never properly healed. It works because the flowers remember strain.”
I look back at the wildflowers by the window.
They’re not charming or neat. Their colors don’t match. But something about the way they tilt toward the light despite looking half-sleepy, half-wrecked—it reminds me of Isla. Of how she keeps getting up and doing the work anyway.
I swallow. “I’ll take the wildflowers.”
“What if Isla thinks they’re hideous?”
“She doesn’t.”
“Your confidence in the face of long odds and limited information is unbelievable.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
She rolls her amber eyes and gets to work, practiced hands choosing stems, trimming ends, layering texture. She wraps the bouquet in brown paper and twine, then sets it on the counter.
“Bring some honey, too,” she adds, reaching for a jar with a handwritten label.
Wildflower. Early spring.
“That feels like overkill.”
“She’s running an orchard alone at this point,” Winnie says. “She’s exhausted in ways you can’t fix with jokes or good intentions. If you’re going to show up, do it properly.”
“Okay, damn. Give me the honey.”
“You know this won’t make her forgive you, right? Whatever you did, it was real bad.”
“I want her to know I see her,” I say. “That I’m thinking about her. That I didn’t mean to hit whatever bruise I might’ve hit.”
She slides the bouquet toward me. “You’re not completely hopeless.”
“High praise.”
“I wish you all the luck that exists in a town this small and this petty.”
“Thanks, Winnie. Will you tell your baby girl her favorite uncle says hi?”
She makes a face. “Sorry, I think Reid is her favorite uncle.”
I bark out a laugh. “Debatable.”
What I don’t say is that Reid’s been in love with Winnie since they were kids. There was something about the way she looked the first time she helped bandage up his hand, and he’s been done for ever since. These days, he worships her daughter, too.
He isn’t trying to be anybody’s uncle. He’d marry Winnie tomorrow and pack Goldie’s lunch in star shapes for the rest of his life if she’d let him.
“Still think I’ve got the edge,” I say, grabbing the bouquet. “See ya, Win.”