Chapter 18 #2
“Your poor feet.” The words stretch out dramatically, slowly as if being pulled along by accordion folds opening for the first time. I’m not getting any sympathy from her right now.
The corner of her mouth twitches, but her tears don’t stop.
I sober, leaning closer. “Maisie, I need you to hear me. I thought I loved her once. Her betrayal was the worst thing I’ve ever felt…until right now.”
It’s as if I’ve been dropped into wet cement—my lungs resisting every drag of air, limbs heavy, the pressure of watching her unravel pushing in from all sides.
“That was nothing compared to this.” I plead. “Seeing you like this.”
“How can I believe that?” She blurts. “You kissed her.”
I recoil with a grimace, shaking my head fast enough to make my hair fall across my eyes.
“She tried to kiss me. I jerked away so all she got was the corner of my mouth. A pathetic little peck. Basically, an air kiss. Like in Europe.” I stumble through the words, too fast, too desperate, trying to fix everything with one breath.
Because maybe if I talk fast enough, I can outrun the damage I’ve done.
Maisie’s body shudders as her sobs soften. She snorts, scrunching her puffy face with a laugh that’s half choked, half defiant. “I’m a pathetically gross crier,” she mutters.
A tiny piece of my heart breaks off and drops behind my ribs. Maisie, wrecked and raw, still trying to be funny. And it shatters me even more than the continued crying.
Yet somehow, the humor works. Not because she’s not a mess—she is—but because even in this condition, she’s mine. Or at least, I pray she still wants to be.
For the first time since I caught up to her, she almost smiles.
I startle when a buzz jolts my hand. The vibration pulses through my fingers before I even register the name on the screen. Sabrina.
Maisie’s breath hitches. Her gaze snaps to mine.
My stomach turns when I see the name. Of course it’s her. Of course she couldn’t just leave it alone.
Without breaking eye contact, I press the red button, declining the call. Another second, and I power the whole thing off.
“She’s not part of my life anymore,” I tell her, voice strong, sure. “You are.”
Her tears keep falling, but she doesn’t look away.
My belly grumbles—loud enough to break whatever fragile silence was holding us together. I blush, unprepared for the noise, then squirm. “Apparently, my digestive system has a terrible sense of timing.”
Maisie’s eyes scan down to the bag beside me, and some of the tension eases from her face.
“That’s from Pen. Leftover cinnamon rolls. I thought I would surprise you this morning.”
“And you got an even bigger surprise.” I comment gently
“I’d like to stuff that surprise into this brown bag and pummel it.” She huffs and crosses her arms, but she continues. “You’ll never guess what Pen said to me, though.”
I lean in close. “Tell me.”
This time she doesn’t shrink from my nearness. “You know that look she reserves for people she already knows the truth about?”
“Do I ever!” I can’t help the smirk that pulls at my mouth. “That look’s been aimed at me more times than I can count, and it always means trouble.”
“Well, she had that look plastered on her face like an immovable mask as she whispered to me.”
I inch closer to her ear and speak softly, heart pounding. “And what did she whisper?”
“She said, ‘You two don’t have to keep pretending anymore, you know,’” Maisie answered, her tone low and soft as well.
I clear my throat and shake my head, chuckling. “It’s not exactly a secret anymore, is it?”
Taking a risk start to share an idea, “Hey. Um, Maze?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m starting to feel silly and a bit exposed out here in my pj’s. Want to come up to the house with me and have some coffee while I change?”
“Beau,” she hangs her head. “I really wish I could say ‘yes,’ but my heart needs some time to recover and well...you know...”
“Uh huh...process...you women and your processing.” I brush my thumb over her face tenderly.
“I’ll come back in a bit though. I promise.”
Every fiber in me aches to believe her. My chest squeezes with the need to trust her words, to hold on to them like they’re oxygen. Because if she doesn’t come back... I don’t know how I’ll put myself back together.
The time has shifted into afternoon, barely after lunch, and not quite time for an ordinary person to take a midday nap. But I’m not ordinary right now, and this moment is too full of everything Maisie and I have shared to even think about something as every-day as a pick-me-up-snooze.
My poor phone must be exhausted, though. I’ve been pushing its buttons every few seconds since Maisie left this morning to check for a text.
Disappointingly, I’ve heard nothing.
Nor have I seen anything, and I’ve been anchored at the front window since changing out of my pajamas, shifting from one foot to the other, palms slick and stomach unsettled, watching the road as if staring hard enough might summon her.
Finally, I hear the soft rhythm of footsteps on gravel. She’s still far enough down the drive that I know she hasn’t seen me. But I see her.
Believing that she will return, doesn’t prepare me for the way it actually feels, though.
To understand with piercing clarity that she’s walking toward me not because she has to, but because she wants to.
My respiratory system stutters as I watch her, and my pulse slams into the next gear.
The room heats, but in a different way than last night’s slow-burning intimacy.
This is anticipation steeped in the comfort of recognition.
I haven’t let myself feel this intensely since I stepped off the stage and swore I was done being seen.
But this isn’t the spotlight or applause.
It’s Maisie, and every step she takes beats louder in my chest.
She skips from stone to stone along the smooth rock path I laid from the driveway to my front steps.
Her springy curls reflect the light in a way that makes my throat go dry.
It catches me off guard how the color of sunbeams changes as they prance through her curls as if they’re blushing.
The only way I can think to describe it is the perfect Rainier cherry, a little gold here, some pink grapefruit there, all streaked with a dash of cinnamon.
Both sides of her hair are pinned back just above her ears with a floral clip, which I think is in the shape of a daisy. The rest of her curls bounce happily with each pace closer to my house.
Peaches trots beside her, a purple raincoat askew around her torso, a tiny bat-shaped bow flapping comically at her collar. The Newly-Deads must have accessorized her today. Peaches looks ridiculous and absolutely perfect.
Maisie, though? Maisie is something else entirely. All hint of her melt-down this morning is gone.
Where Peaches brings laughter, Maisie brings motion—enthusiasm in a bottle, brightening the area around her.
The sight of her draws my entire attention.
Whatever emotional noise or preoccupation that has been in my mind is suddenly gone.
In a strange way, seeing Maisie both takes the edge off and lights a current under my skin.
She’s wearing a red wrap dress I haven’t seen before, something with sunflowers and hummingbirds printed along the hem, and it flows just slightly in the breeze as she skips steps.
Her apron is a checkered pattern of bright pink and orange, almost neon.
I blink as the colors cast themselves into my eyes for a second.
Her outfit is vibrant, layered, effortless—the kind of look that shouldn’t work outside of a florist’s colorful shop, but somehow it fits her better than flannel ever fit me.
I let out a quiet laugh, not at her, but because seeing her so unapologetically herself sends warmth to the end of every limb.
The kind of warmth that doesn’t surge, but roots deeply, spreading through me until I can’t imagine this porch without her on it.
All I can do is stand there and take it in.
She carries a bouquet in one hand. The other hand, even though it’s empty, seems to be carrying something as well.
I recognize it because I’m carrying it also.
I see it in the way her hand slips in and out of her pocket, how her fingers fidget briefly with the satin floral ribbon, before letting it fall again.
It’s the tension created when bravery meets hope. The look in her eyes tells me she’s wondering if last night still holds the same meaning now that daylight’s settled in and everything feels exposed after the incident this morning.
I need to tell her it does. It means more than anything else right now.
The instant she reaches the porch, I’m already opening the door.
My hand presses lightly to the wood frame for balance.
The sight of her without the glass between us sends a jolt through me, shaking loose the part of me that stopped looking for good in people, trying to guard myself from how they might hurt me.
“Maisie. You came.”
My voice comes out low and rough, revealing more emotion than I intended.
Her radiant smile tilts gently, knowingly, understanding the expression of awe in my eyes and respecting the small fraction of hesitation that remains.
“Hi.”
I let out a long breath, and my shoulders drop, hand still braced against the doorframe as though I’d melt into jelly if I let go.
She holds out the bouquet. “Delivery for a Mr. Callahan.”
I step forward, the porch protesting slightly beneath my boots. When I reach for the bouquet, our fingers brush—skin against skin, bringing back the memory of how soft she felt in my arms.
Nestled among hydrangeas, coral roses, and rosemary sprigs, a small folded note peeks out. I draw it free with careful fingers, eyes locked on the message:
I don’t know where this leads. I just know I want to go there with you.