13. Vivian #2
There’s more there under his surface; I can feel it, but he doesn’t offer it. So, I don’t push.
I glance at him, just for a second. “You’re running deep today, aren’t ya?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
I wink. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
That earns me a grin.
We fall into a quieter rhythm after that. Tools click into place and boxes slide shut. There’s a low rumble of the arena somewhere beyond the room reverberating inside.
I reach for a stack of cloths at the same time he does, our hands brushing.
It’s nothing. Only, it’s also not nothing. I pull back first, clearing my throat as I grab a different one. “I’ve got it.”
“Right,” he says, but he doesn’t move away right away. Just stands there for a second, like he’s deciding something.
I focus on wiping down the table, even though it’s already clean and Ty shifts his weight back a step, like he’s about to leave. However, he doesn’t.
Instead, he turns back, one hand dragging over the back of his neck like he’s rewriting the script in real time.
“You know,” he says, a little too casually, “I don’t know if you know this, Vivian, but it’s a beautiful day outside.”
I tilt my head to the side, taking him in. “I’m aware.”
“No, but like—” He gestures vaguely toward…everything. “It’s beautiful.”
I lean a hip against the table, folding my arms. “I was outside this morning. In my garden. With actual sunlight and fresh air and everything.”
He rolls his eyes. “That’s not what I mean.”
“Then what do you mean?”
He points at me like I’ve just walked into his trap. “I’m doing a build-up.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say, deadpan. “Please continue your dramatic speech.”
He exhales a laugh, shaking his head like I’m the problem here, which is fair. I can be a bit of a pain in the rear end sometimes.
“Okay,” he says, resetting. “We’ve been stuck in this arena all morning. It’s a nice day. And I was thinking…”
He trails off just long enough to make it deliberate.
I arch a brow. This man loves to keep you on the edge of your seat when he’s talking sometimes. “You were thinking…?”
“I’m getting there,” he mutters. Then, pushing through, “I was thinking maybe you’d want to come with me. Right now. For after-practice ice cream.”
I stare at him.
“For after-practice ice cream?” I repeat. “Is that a thing?”
He immediately second-guesses himself. I can see it happen in real time.
“Yeah,” he says, a little defensive now. “Ice cream. Is that weird?”
“No,” I say, and I can’t help it—my mouth curves. “It sounds really nice, actually.”
Something in his shoulders loosens. “Okay,” he says, nodding once like he just won something. “Good. Then let me take you for some ice cream.”
I laugh, grabbing my bag off the chair. “That’s very wholesome.”
“It is,” he agrees. “Feels like a wholesome kind of day.”
“Mm,” I say, slinging the strap over my shoulder. “You’re right. It doesn’t feel like the middle of the day is the right time to go drink champagne and dance on tables.”
“Exactly.” He points at me like I finally said something smart. “That’s more of a nighttime poor-decision situation.”
“Good to know you’ve thought it through.”
“I’ve thought about a lot of things,” he says, opening the door for me.
I pause as I pass him, glancing up. “Should I be concerned about that?”
“Probably,” he says easily. “But not about the ice cream.”
I step out into the sunlight, warmth hitting my face, and I don’t miss the way he falls into step beside me like it was always the plan.
Like this—us, walking out together—makes perfect sense.
And the thing is…It kind of does.
The streets of Old Town are doing that thing they do on a perfect day—sunlight bouncing off brick, people lingering in the sunshine a little longer than they need to, and laughter moving through the air like no one’s in a rush to hold on to it.
We walk side by side, slowly without meaning to be, each of us holding an ice cream. Rocky road for me. Mint chocolate chip and cookie dough for him, which feels careless to me, but somehow very on-brand Ty.
I glance over at his cone. “That feels like a personality test I don’t fully understand.”
He looks down at it. “What, my ice cream?”
“Yes. Your ice creams. Plural.”
He shrugs. “Why commit to one thing when you can have two?”
“That sounds like a red flag.”
He bumps his shoulder lightly into mine. “It’s a strength.”
There’s a beat where we both smile into our ice cream, and I don’t miss the way the air between us feels light, less contained.
I take another bite, then glance over at him. “So…is there a reason you wanted to ask me out for ice cream today, Ty?”
He stops walking. Like, full-on brakes. Actually stops. Ty turns to me with his eyes a little too wide, like I just asked him to solve something complicated.
“Do I need a reason?” he asks.
I blink. “No. I just thought, maybe—” I gesture vaguely. “Something’s up with the girls? Or the bonding sessions? Or—”
“No,” he says, quick and certain. “It’s not that.” Then, a little more measured, “Do I have to have a reason to ask you out?”
Something in his tone makes me pause. I study him for a second, trying to track where he is versus where I thought we were.
“No,” I say slowly. “You don’t.”
We only make it a few more strides before I halt us again. “Wait. So you are asking me out?”
He pauses, clearly recalibrating mid-conversation. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “Well…how about,” he says, pointing his spoon at me like this is now a structured proposal, “this is the prelude to a date.”
Something deep inside my chest does a somersault. “The prelude.”
“Yeah. Like a teaser.” He nods, warming to it. “We’re both…sampling. Making sure we’d want to go on an actual date where we intentionally spend time together.”
I stare at him. “I honestly don’t know where you’re going with this.”
He lets out a short laugh. “I don’t either.”
That, more than anything, makes me laugh.
“Okay,” I say, shaking my head. “Good. Glad we’re aligned.”
We start walking again, slower now.
He’s quiet for a second, like he’s sorting through something, then he says, “Can I ask you a question?”
I glance over. “Isn’t that what happens on dates?”
He ignores that. “When I was at your shop picking up the ring for Emma, you handed me the wrong box first,” he says. “You mentioned something about a bride who never got to wear that ring.”
I look down at my ice cream. “Yeah.”
“That story stuck with me, but also felt like there was more to it than what you said.” He watches me, careful but direct. “Is there?”
I let out a small breath before nodding. “Yeah,” I say softly. “There is.” I take another bite of my ice cream, mostly to buy myself a second. “It was mine.”
I don’t look at him yet. Just keep my focus on the sidewalk, on the rhythm of our steps.
“My engagement. My ring. My…almost wedding.” A quiet, humorless laugh escapes me. “Kind of ironic, actually.”
That’s when I glance up at him, lifting my cone slightly. “I mean, my favorite ice cream is rocky road.”
He looks at it. Then back at me with a sad smile playing on his lips. “Things are falling into place now,” he says.
I smile, too, but it’s more wistful now. A little more real.
“Yeah,” I agree. “It will.”
There’s a beat where neither of us moves. Then I spot a bench up ahead, tucked under a tree that’s doing its best impression of providing shade.
“Come on,” I say, tipping my head toward it. “If I’m going to tell the story, I feel like I should be sitting down for it.”
His brows lift slightly, but he follows without question.
We sit, a careful kind of not-too-close at first. The kind that lasts about three seconds before it naturally moves into something easier. I take another bite of my ice cream, buying myself a second.
“Okay,” I say. “So…Chris.”
Ty nods once, like he’s bracing for incoming information.
“There were so many red flags,” I start, glancing over at him. “Like, I just called you a red-flag guy over your ice cream choice—”
“Rude,” he mutters.
“—but that’s nothing,” I continue. “Nothing in the grand scheme of things.”
He gestures for me to go on, like he’s invested now.
“The first one should have been when he introduced me to his entire family three weeks after we met,” I say. “And told them I was the love of his life.”
Ty blinks. “Three weeks.”
“Three weeks.”
He shakes his head. “And you were just like, yeah, this checks out?”
“Insta-love is a thing,” I say, nudging him with my elbow as I tilt my head. “In my defense, I was younger. And he was very convincing. Also, we were together for over a year when he proposed, so…”
“Mm-hm,” he says, like he’s filing that away.
“Anyway, my grandmother,” I continue, “told me to slow down. To think about it. To be smart.” I glance down at my hands, at the slow melt of ice cream along the edge of the cone. “I didn’t.”
He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t rush me. So I keep going.
“I jumped in. Fully. Headfirst. It felt like it was what you’re supposed to do, you know? When something looks right, feels right—”
“You trust it,” he says.
I glance over, a little surprised.
“Yeah,” I say. “Exactly. When we decided we were going to get married, it was when I was really getting into design. I’d always grown up around the shop, obviously, but I was taking classes then. Learning how to actually create pieces, not just sell them.”
He nods, watching me closely.
“So I designed my own ring,” I say, a small smile pulling at my mouth. “Sketched it out, worked through it with my grandmother. We did it all together.”
“That must have been really special for you,” he says, like that makes perfect sense.
“It was kind of my dream thing,” I admit. “Something I made. And with her. Plus it was something that felt…like me.”
He angles himself, turning more toward me now. “So what happened?”
I let out a small breath.
“There’s not really one big moment,” I say. “At least not from my side.”
He waits.
“I thought I was doing everything right,” I continue. “Hitting all the steps. Moving forward. Building something. But for him…”