Chapter 9 Rose Festival #2
“No,” she says with exaggerated patience. “I’m saying you both grew up here. This is his hometown too. Maybe it’s not some grand conspiracy—maybe you’re both just back where you belong.”
I roll my eyes, but my traitorous heart does a little flutter. “That’s very profound, Sara. But it doesn’t help me figure out how to work with him at the pet adoption booth without having a complete meltdown.”
“Was dinner really that terrible?” she asks, studying my face too carefully.
I look down at my latte, at the delicate heart shape in the foam that’s already starting to dissolve.
The truth is complicated. Dinner wasn’t terrible.
It was… good. He remembered my favorite dish without asking.
He listened intently when I talked about the clinic’s struggles.
He told that ridiculous story about his first case court disaster that made me laugh until my sides hurt.
We walked to my car under the harbor lights, the water reflecting gold.
“It wasn’t terrible,” I finally admit. “He was… nice. Professional.”
Sara’s eyebrow arches. “But?”
“But it’s Zayn,” I say, and Sara immediately understands.
She was there for everything—the breakup, the sobbing, the emergency ice cream interventions, the nights I couldn’t get out of bed.
“Every time I think maybe he’s changed, I remember how he just left.
He chose Seattle over me. He broke every promise he made. ”
I gaze out the window at the town square.
Workers on ladders string lights across the gazebo for the festival’s live music stage.
A large banner flutters in the breeze: “27th Annual Spring Rose Festival” I’ve lived in this town my entire life—I know every street corner, every shop owner, every annual tradition.
“It’s a small town,” I say, watching a worker wrestle with a tangled strand of lights. “But that doesn’t mean I have to let him back into my life.”
Sara reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. Her touch is warm and grounding when everything feels chaotic. “No, but you probably can’t avoid him entirely either.”
I slump back in my chair, knowing she’s right.
“I used to love how small Bellrose is. How you know everyone. How you can’t go to the grocery store without running into three people you know.
” I take a sip of my latte, the vanilla sweetness coating my tongue.
“Now it feels like I’m trapped here with him. ”
“Or maybe,” Sara says quietly, “you’re finally being forced to deal with things you’ve been running from for five years.”
I shoot her a look. “Whose side are you on?”
Sara meets my gaze steadily. “I’m on your side, Sophie. Always. But people make mistakes. And sometimes we’re harder on ourselves—and them—than we need to be.”
I don’t have a good response to that, so I look out the window instead.
The town clock chimes three times, its familiar sound echoing across the square.
People stroll past, waving to each other, stopping for quick conversations on the sidewalk.
This is my hometown—the place where I’ve always felt safe and rooted.
Until Zayn came back and disrupted everything.
“We still need his help with the clinic,” I admit quietly. “And now the festival too.”
Sara nods. “The people who can hurt you the most are often the same ones who can help you the most.”
“That’s profoundly annoying,” I mutter, which makes her smile.
“Doesn’t make it less true,” she says. “You don’t have to be his friend. You don’t have to forgive him. But maybe you can work with him without completely falling apart.”
My phone buzzes against the table, and I nearly knock over my coffee lunging for it. I glance down and dread pools in my belly.
Zayn: Got last year's vendor paperwork. Found some potential issues with the microchipping station setup. Can we meet tomorrow to figure it out? I'll buy the coffee.
I stare at his text, my pulse racing. It sounds so normal and professional. Like we’re just two people collaborating on a festival booth. Not two people with five years of heartbreak and unresolved feelings between us.
Sara raises an eyebrow knowingly. “Him?”
I nod, tilting the phone so she can read it. “Even my phone isn’t a safe zone anymore.”
“What are you going to say?” she asks.
I stare at the screen, cursor blinking in the reply field.
I could claim I’m busy. I could ask Carol to handle it instead.
I could just ignore him completely. But then I think about Dr. Martinez’s relieved expression when Zayn offered pro bono legal services.
I think about all those shelter animals who deserve loving homes through our adoption booth.
“I’ll meet him,” I say with a resigned sigh. “Strictly coffee and paperwork. Nothing more.”
Sara gives me that look—the one that says she can see straight through my defenses. “Sophie, this town might have room for both of you. But I’m not sure your heart does.”
I roll my eyes, but my hands aren’t quite steady as I type:
The Grind, 10am tomorrow. I'll bring last year's documentation.
Outside the window, wind catches a festival flyer and sends it tumbling across the square. It spins and dances before plastering itself against one of the gazebo posts, stuck.
“I hate when you’re right,” I tell Sara, setting my phone face-down on the table. “This town really is too small to avoid people forever.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” she says softly. “Some connections shouldn’t be completely severed.”
I don’t respond. I watch the townspeople moving through the square, living their uncomplicated lives, while mine gets messier by the day.
For an entire week, I’ve kept my distance.
I’ve sent professional emails about festival planning.
I’ve made brief phone calls that stick strictly to business.
We’ve met for coffee three times, and I always choose the high-top tables so I can escape quickly if needed.
I keep my answers short. I don’t smile much.
I cross my arms defensively. I’m building a wall between us, and he doesn’t try to climb over it.
He stays on his side, never asking for more than I’m willing to give. Well, mostly.
But I can’t help noticing things. He’s always early. He remembers I take vanilla in my coffee. His eyes track me when he thinks I’m not looking.
Sometimes he attempts casual conversation.
“How’s Mia doing?” or “Everything okay at the clinic?” Or small reminders that he used to know me intimately.
I shut these down immediately, redirecting to permit applications and vendor contracts.
His jaw tightens when I do this, but he doesn’t push.
He just nods and returns to festival business.
I’m exhausted from the pretense. And today will be the hardest test yet—walking the festival grounds to figure out where to put the pet adoption booth. No table between us. No easy exit strategy. Just me and Zayn, alone at the town square gazebo.
I arrive twenty minutes early on purpose, wanting to survey everything before he shows up.
It’s a gorgeous morning—crisp air, wispy clouds, everything smells fresh and new.
Town Square is awakening, tiny buds appearing on the rose bushes planted throughout.
The wooden gazebo sits centerpiece, already strung with lights for the festival.
They’re dark now, but come evening they’ll transform everything into magic.
The old clock tower chimes nine-thirty, the sound echoing across the mostly empty square. I run my hand along the smooth wooden railing as I climb the gazebo steps. I mentally map where everything will go: the main stage here, food vendors there, and our pet adoption area along this side.
I pull out my tablet and start making notes. We’ll need electrical access for the microchip scanners. Shade structures for the animals. Water bowls, designated bathroom area, barriers to prevent overeager children from overwhelming shy dogs. List-making soothes my anxiety.
“Morning.”
I startle and nearly drop my tablet. Zayn stands at the base of the steps, clipboard in hand. He’s wearing dark jeans and a charcoal henley that fits across his shoulders, topped with a black leather jacket. He looks more like the boy I used to know than the attorney who returned.
My heart does that stupid flutter I hate. “You’re early,” I say, though I arrived even earlier.
“So are you.” He climbs the steps but keep his distance. “I got the permits approved. The city granted us additional square footage.”
I nod, trying not to notice how sunlight catches in his hair. “Perfect. I’ve been mapping the layout.” I gesture toward the grassy area. “Dog enclosures here, and we can set up the microchipping station under that oak tree for natural shade.”
“Smart,” he says, scribbling on his clipboard. “We should walk the entire perimeter, make sure the flow works.”
We descend the steps together, careful not to touch.
The square is still relatively empty— a few people hurrying to work and someone walking a golden retriever that makes me think of Max.
I wonder how Zayn got away from his law office this early, but I don’t ask.
That would be too personal, and we’re keeping everything strictly professional.
“How’s the clinic situation progressing?” he asks as we pace out the adoption area dimensions.
“Better,” I admit. “The landlord’s attorney contacted Dr. Martinez yesterday. They’re suddenly very interested in ‘finding a mutually beneficial solution’ now that they know we have legal representation.” I can’t suppress a small smile. “Funny how that works.”
Zayn grins. “Funny indeed.”
We walk side by side, close enough that I catch his scent—woodsy and clean. His hand accidentally brushes mine when we both point to the same spot for the tent position. I jerk away and nervously tuck my hair behind my ear. He watches me do it, and I know he remembers this old habit.
The roses planted around the square show tiny buds now, small promises of color against green stems. In a few weeks, they’ll bloom fully for the festival.
I focus on them instead of thinking about how natural this feels, working alongside him again, slipping back into our old rhythm of collaboration and easy planning.
“We should mark where the—” I start, but something cold strikes my cheek. A raindrop. Then another. And another.
We both look up simultaneously. Those wispy clouds from earlier have darkened to charcoal gray, rolling in fast. Before we can react, the sky opens. Not a gentle spring shower, but a torrential downpour that drenches you in seconds.
“Come on!” Zayn grabs his clipboard and sprints toward the gazebo. I run too, clutching my tablet against my chest to protect it.
We reach the gazebo just as the rain intensifies, drumming loudly on the wooden roof above us.
The sound is almost deafening but somehow soothing, cocooning us in this small sheltered space.
Water drips from Zayn’s hair, and a droplet slides slowly down his jaw.
I have to physically stop myself from reaching out to brush it away.
“That came out of nowhere,” I say, slightly breathless from our sprint.
He nods, shaking water off the clipboard. “Spring in Bellrose. Should’ve known better.”
Wind drives rain sideways into the gazebo, and I shiver. The temperature has dropped from pleasant to genuinely cold. The scent of roses and rain mingles in the damp air, making everything feel more intense somehow.
I step closer to the edge, trying to gauge if the storm might pass quickly.
More rain pelts my face and soaks through my shirt.
Before I can retreat, Zayn is beside me, shrugging off his leather jacket and holding it over both our heads like an improvised umbrella.
He does it so quickly, so instinctively, that for a moment I’m transported back five years.
Our second date. That unexpected downpour outside The Anchor after the concert. Him doing exactly this—surrendering his jacket to keep me dry while he got soaked. Me laughing up at him, rain clinging to my eyelashes, thinking he was the sweetest person I’d ever met.
I freeze. His jacket smells identical—that combination of leather and his cologne that used to stick to my clothes after we’d been together. Something inside me clenches at how familiar it feels.
“You don’t have to,” I say, but I don’t move away.
“Old habits,” he says quietly.
We stand there beneath the drumming rain, not voicing what we’re both thinking. We’ve done this before. Some things become instinct, buried so deep you can’t dig them out.
“I can’t escape you in this town,” I say finally, watching raindrops cascade from the gazebo roof like liquid silver.
“Is that what you want?” Zayn asks softly. “To escape me?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. The truth is too complicated. Part of me desperately wants to run as far as possible, while another part wants to stay right here under his jacket, surrounded by his scent and the rain and blooming roses.
A festival flyer plasters itself against the gazebo railing, pinned there by wind and rain but not breaking apart. I understand how it feels.
We stand in silence as rain continues falling around us, both acknowledging without words that Bellrose has woven us together in ways we didn’t anticipate.
This town where we both belong, where we keep colliding no matter how hard I try to avoid him.
This place that keeps insisting the past doesn’t vanish just because you stop looking back.