Chapter 11
Unplugged
Maisie
The power’s out.
Completely.
No purr from the mini fridge, no gurgle from the coffee pot, no fan noise from the ancient wall heater. In their place, the creak of pine branches and the chorus of frogs and birds slowly emphasizes the reality. We’ve been unplugged from the world.
Beau tests the stove, then the light switch. Nothing.
Morning creeps in behind the cabin windows, cloud-covered and gray, dim light brushing across the floorboards. A hush clings to everything, making every sound feel amplified.
A small thread of unease winds through me. This isn’t in the plan. Not that there’s a plan, exactly, but something about the silence feels more intimate than I am prepared for.
“You think it’s an easy fix?” I ask, nudging a curtain aside to peek out the window. “Is this one of those ‘fake boyfriend Beau MacGyver can totally rewire the place with a paperclip and chewing gum’ moments?”
“Looks like something gnawed through the wire.” He taps the window, pointing at the culprit. A frayed cable on the side of the porch. “Squirrel. Or raccoon with a grudge.”
I lift a brow. “I vote raccoon. Squirrels don’t seem that vindictive.”
He shoots me a wry smile. “That’s debatable.”
There’s no rush, no agenda. Only us, and the fire Beau coaxes to life in the fireplace.
We toast bread in a skillet over the fire, scavenge for jam packets from the welcome basket, and eat breakfast cross-legged on the rug like we’ve done this a hundred times.
But beneath the ease, subtle questions start to surface.
Not doubts, exactly. Closer to wishes, each one rooted in the hope that this isn’t fake anymore.
A few crumbs tumble onto the rug when I lean back on my hands. The fire’s heat has made one side of my leg almost too warm, the other still cool from the cabin’s morning air.
I don’t mention waking up with my hand on his chest, the fire long out.
Our breath was visible in the cold, the morning chill winding around my arms and tickling the skin at the back of my neck.
I pulled away slowly and carefully, but soon noticed his eyes were open, already watching me.
He didn’t speak. Just held my gaze for a second, his expression still and waiting, as though the next move belonged to me.
I didn’t ask what he was thinking, and he didn’t offer.
Maybe we’re both pretending it didn’t happen.
Or maybe we’re just saving it for when the words feel less risky.
At one point, I say, “Can you imagine if the Newly-Deads were here? They’d be thrilled.”
Beau chuckles, “They’d be sipping tea from skull mugs and rating the electromagnetic purity of the air.”
“They’d be like, ‘finally, peace from modern interference,’” I say, mock-dramatic.
“They’d probably ask if we brought our own blackout candles.”
I grin. “They’d say we have good couple energy.”
I look away, cheeks reddening. Beau doesn’t say anything, only moves slightly to stir the fire.
We find an old board game under the coffee table, the kind with missing pieces and handwritten rules tucked inside. We play anyway. It’s silly, lopsided, and perfect. As the fire burns lower, we talk by candlelight, the afternoon sun barely touching the edges of the windows.
It’s easier now. The muted light helps, but it’s more than that; it’s how Beau listens without interrupting, the way his silence doesn’t demand anything from me. With him, in this light, it feels possible to tell the truth and still be okay. Genuine.
I’ve never talked much about Grayson with anyone other than Jenna and Tess, but right now in this setting—in this relationship we’ve been crafting for a week—I feel ready to share more about myself with Beau.
I toy with one of the game pieces, then move my eyes to meet his. “Have I told you yet how I met Gray?”
Beau shakes his head with a curious expression. I step away to make us hot cocoa the old-fashioned way, but really I’m gathering my thoughts and my courage.
“We met at a networking event my senior year in college,” I say as I warm the milk. “He was giving a talk on personal branding, and I was the only one in the back whispering to myself that it sounded like a dating profile.”
Beau lets out a low laugh. I keep going.
“Our first date was at a rooftop restaurant in San Diego: sunset, candlelight, him talking about his five-year plans like they were already carved in stone.”
I stir the cocoa mix into the milk and pour it into two mugs. I hand one to Beau and sit down again with mine.
“He was all structure. Meal preps, calendars, color-coded goals. Wednesday date nights scheduled six months out. I thought his predictability would protect me. Guarantee a solid marriage.”
Beau doesn’t cut in. Just watches me, eyes thoughtful, intent and tuned in, as though he’s letting every word land before daring to speak.
“Somewhere along the way, I became a project to Gray instead of a person. He bought me interview blazers I didn’t want. Told me to aim higher, but only in ways that made sense to him. Plan ahead instead of my natural spontaneity. Be more polished, but less emotional.”
Beau shifts beside me, enough that his knee brushes mine. The contact is small, but it’s a reminder that he’s still here.
“One day I caught myself apologizing for getting excited about flower arrangements. That was the moment I realized that…I didn’t recognize myself anymore.”
Beau’s fingers curl into a fist by his side as I inhale and let out a long sigh.
“The change was gradual. He filed me down in fractions.”
My voice drops. “He ended it two weeks before our wedding. By text. Wrote that I was ‘too much, too impulsive, too emotional.’ Said I’d ‘never fit the kind of future he was trying to curate for himself.’”
I pause, the candlelight flickering. “And I believed him. For a long time, I really did. I stopped trusting my own spark. Started thinking maybe I was only meant to arrange flowers for other people’s love stories. Not live one myself.”
I trace a fingertip along the rim of my mug, circling slowly, “My mom noticed, I think. She once asked me if I still arranged flowers just for fun anymore, and I shrugged it off. But I remember the look in her eyes as if she was losing parts of me too.”
I half-chuckle, half-puff air out of my nose. “I should have caught on way before our relationship got that far. His family should have been a huge red flag. I remember the first time he took me home to meet his parents, after we were engaged.”
“Am I boring you?” I ask suddenly.
Beau says gently, “No. And this sounds like something you may really need to talk about.”
Tilting my chin, I continue, “Now that I think about it, Gray must have purposefully waited to introduce me to his family until I was more of what he thought they would be expecting in a future daughter-in-law.”
I bring Beau into the flashback with me, detailing how the evening progressed, and I see it all as if I were back there again.
We were seated around a long glass table, set with gleaming silver and napkins folded to appear as swimming swans. A huge floral centerpiece sat in the middle, a bit too perfect for my tastes.
A private chef served something with truffle oil I couldn’t pronounce, all very posh and gourmet. At one point, I smiled politely and asked Gray to please pass the gravy.
Gray coughed beside me. His sister blinked. His father froze with his wine glass halfway to his mouth. And his mother stiffened into a pillar of salt, exactly as Lot’s wife did. But Gray’s mom dissolved back into herself, where Lot’s wife did not.
It took her nearly a minute to reacquaint herself with reality while I looked around at everyone, wondering what in the world I had done wrong.
Béatrice Brigitte, delivered the correction.
She didn’t scold. She smiled. A tight, pleasant, hostess smile she probably wore at fundraisers and donor brunches, and in a chilly, passive-aggressive tone that chastised me as if I were a smudge on her pristine tablecloth, she remarked, “We have a butler, dear. It’s his job to help with the gravy. ”
I notice Beau raise his eyebrows, then situate them quickly back into place.
Then I slip back into the memory.
“Yes? Does that make sense, Maisie? It is Maisie, right?” Béatrice Brigitte was still watching me, expectant.
I nodded, as if I were back in kindergarten agreeing to the classroom rules.
“Of…um…of course, Mrs. Fairchild, I’ll ask the butler next time,” I replied dully.
Her smile didn’t waver, but it tightened, just enough to make the air colder.
“Maisie. Hmm… how whimsical. Almost Bohemian. Were your parents,” she paused, lips pursed, as if the next word physically pained her to say, “artistic?”
She turned ever so slightly toward Gray, her voice still gentle and perfectly audible.
“You’ve always been drawn to the more... free-spirited types.”
I smiled, but it was reflexive—thin, already fraying. Then I summoned my voice again and tried to make conversation.
“Gray tells me you love spending time in your garden.”
Her eyes snapped to mine at the word Gray, drilling into me, but I didn’t notice. Not then. I was already spilling forward, eager to connect.
I went on without stopping, explaining that I wanted to be a florist and suggesting maybe we could walk through the garden together later.
Then came the correction, clipped and unmistakable.
“Grayson,” she said, sharp and stern.
What? I blinked, scanning my mental Rolodex. Had I said the wrong name?
“His name is Grayson,” the Ice Queen enunciated, perfectly pointed. “We have an image to uphold. We do not refer to him as Gray. That’s so… pedestrian. But I do love your creativity and… enthusiasm.”
The warmth drained from my cheeks. I opened my mouth. Shut it again. Too late to rewind. Too early to escape.
Gray placed his hand over mine, resting it on my thigh, and whispered to me, “Why don’t you let me do the talking from now on, babe?”