Chapter 36
Daisy
Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.
— Martin Luther King Jr.
My name is Patrick O’Connell. I’m a firefighter in a small town in Tennessee.
His voice pierces through my phone—steady, familiar, unmistakable—straight to my heart.
My mug of hot tea slips from my hand and shatters on my kitchen floor.
I stand there, breath caught, as his every word punctures what I believed about him.
Shards scatter across the floor, but they’re nothing compared to the splintered thoughts ricocheting through my head.
I sink into a chair, heart thudding, trying to piece together the story I thought I knew with the one he’s confessing to the world.
When he signs off, I’m left with a gaping silence and more questions than answers. I crouch to gather the jagged pieces, fingers trembling as I wipe the spill. Then I practically sleepwalk into my living room and collapse onto the couch.
Patrick is the host of Burning Through the Pages?
My head spins. No. No way.
He never told me. He let me believe in someone who didn’t exist—pouring my secrets into a voice that lived only in airwaves and sound bytes.
Or he might have been trying to become that version of himself—first online and now maybe for real.
And he knows who I am. I tug the blanket from the back of the couch—the one he left for me this week—and wrap myself in it, needing a shield against the exposure.
He left me at the corn maze. Is that why? Because he saw me?
He recognized me and walked away—even though he knew how deeply being stood up would cut through my heart. He, of all people, knew.
I curl into myself, thoughts spinning wild—his soothing voice in my ears, our banter at the shop, late-night DMs, him waiting on the porch, hesitant, restrained.
Every fragment turns into proof I should’ve known.
The cookies. Fixing my pilot light. The podcast confession that probably cost him more than I’ll ever know.
And our kiss—still sends a shiver through me every time I remember the way his lips felt against mine.
My laptop waits on the coffee table. His unopened email is a dare I’m not yet brave enough to accept. For a second I imagine slamming across the porch and forcing him to explain, but I’m anchored to the couch—pride and fear weighing me down.
I need to get my bearings before I face him—sort my scattered thoughts, tame my unruly emotions.
He has a plan. I need one too.
After a few steadying breaths, I muster the courage to read the email. It’s simple—an invitation to meet him tomorrow. A location. A time. And whitespace I’m filling with a hundred possibilities.
I paste the address into maps. It’s a house on a residential street where some homes have been converted to businesses. Why there? Why not here?
I stay up far too late, reading through all our emails and messages until my eyes burn—each one a puzzle piece clicking into place.
He must’ve known at the corn maze—hiding behind that ridiculous book-dragon head. He saw me and left. Anger flashes but dies just as quickly. He could’ve ripped the costume off and told me the truth right there.
I probably would have rejected him. His dad’s development had stripped me of all clear thinking where Patrick was concerned.
I’d lumped him in with his family—assumed he was just another O’Connell, siding with them instead of having my back.
Seeing his face when my heart was still so raw would’ve sent me straight into a rage—and he knew it.
By midnight, the two men blur together—the one who broke me and the one who healed me by becoming everything I never believed he could be. Same voice. Same heart. Patrick.
My phone rings, slicing through the quiet like a bell at the end of an exam. I exhale—I think I got the hardest answers right.
Who would be calling this late?
I pick up my phone and smile. Winona’s name glows on the screen — because, of course, it’s her.
I barely say hello before a squeal detonates in my ear.
“You heard the podcast tonight?” I ask. “Tell me that’s why you’re calling—and screaming.”
“Yes! I’ve been hooked since you told me about him at the corn maze. I didn’t catch it live, but I just finished and—Ohhhhmahgoodness! He’s Patrick! And you’re M&M!”
“He is, and I am.” Saying it out loud brings a smile to my face. He dedicated an episode to M&M—broke his anonymity for me.
Her squeal could power the grid. I hold the phone away from my ear until the decibel level drops.
“Ohmygoodness. Ohmygoodness. Ohmygoodness.”
“Winona, take a breath,” I say, surprised at the calm settling over me. “You okay over there? Do I need to call for backup?”
“I’m okay. The question is: are you?”
“I am. I wanted to go next door and knock. But I’m nervous to see him now.”
Her voice softens. “Patrick hurt you before. I know. But he’s risking everything now.
Nobody risks everything for attention, Daisy.
He’s doing it for you.” As quickly as she downshifted, she revs back into overdrive.
“That said? I’d be halfway through his front door by now—climbing him like a jungle gym. ”
I chuckle. A strange wave of jealousy washes over me at the thought of Winona doing anything with Patrick.
“He has a plan,” I remind her. “I kind of want to let it play out—even though I’m terrified.”
“Plans were made to be broken,” Winona sing-songs. “Want me to come and light something on fire? Any first responders around? Oh wait—lookie here. It’s Patrick! Podcast host, town hero, mystery man, and the guy who just laid it all on the line for you.”
“What do you mean, laid it all on the line?” I ask. “By telling everyone who he is?”
“Mmm … maybe. Maybe more.” Her excitement practically vibrates through the phone. “Just meet him tomorrow and see.”
“What do you know, Winona?”
“Daisy, not just me. Everyone knows.”
“About me and Patrick?” I frown. “Not that there’s a me and Patrick in that way. Or any way. Just—what do you mean?”
She exhales a giggle she can’t contain. “I’ve already said too much. Just show up, okay? You’ll see.”
“You’re making me crazier than I was before you called—which I didn’t think was possible.”
“I don’t know how you’re going to sleep tonight—with all the anticipation,” she says.
“Me either,” I say, my nerves buzzing like it’s midday instead of midnight.
Patrick is the host. I can barely believe it. And he’s right next door.
I spend the morning trying to distract myself from the clock, but checking it every five or ten minutes. I want to camp out in front of Patrick’s door, but then I realize he left for work at six thirty. He’s at the station now.
Did he really mean to meet him today? At noon? That’s the middle of his shift.
What did Winona mean, we all know? Was she just being Winona, or is there something bigger going on? I purposely postpone my shower, hoping the delay will help me fill time and then I can rush to be ready.
After a morning that felt endless, I finally step out the door with only ten minutes to spare. My maps app says nine minutes to the address—that is, if I don’t get stuck behind June Honeycutt. She drives like she’s practicing for the Amish buggy races.
Two of my neighbors appear, veering up my walkway with celestial-prank-level bad timing. It’s official. I’m firing my guardian angel.
“Heya, Daisy. Do you have a minute?” Rose asks.
“A minute,” I say. Exactly a minute.
“We’re passing a petition,” Claire says, clipboard in hand.
Rose launches into a ramble about land preservation and how Conrad O’Connell sweet-talked half the town into a bad decision. Her voice drifts like porch gossip on a lazy afternoon.
“We want a revote,” Claire explains.
“I’ll sign,” I cut in. “I need to go or I’ll be late.”
I could tell them a revote won’t likely happen. The ground’s already been broken. But I don’t have time to get into any of that.
Claire’s pen hovers just out of reach.
Rose keeps talking—something about “fighting the good fight” and “what’ll become of our children’s children.” She could be a filibuster.
“Slow down, Daisy,” Claire says with a sage tone. “Life’s short enough without you sprintin’ through it.”
“I know. I’ve just got somewhere to be.”
“Ah don’t we all,” Rose says. “But you aren’t doin’ yourself any favors living in a hurry.”
“Amen,” Claire says, finally thrusting the clipboard at me. “Sign here.”
While I scrawl my name in record time she says, “Yes siree. If it’s not a wedding or a funeral, there’s no rush.”
My heart’s racing. I can feel the seconds ticking away. Why did I leave myself no leeway?
“I’ll be savoring. Slowing down. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I start to walk away.
“Your address, Daisy,” Rose says. “They need your address or it’s not official.”
I pivot, writing my address so quickly, I’m surprised smoke doesn’t come off the tip of the pen.
“Okay. There you go,” I say, practically trotting to my car.
“Slow down, Daisy!” Claire shouts.
“Savor the moment!” Rose chants like a motivational speaker.
I send them a thumbs up, fire my engine and tear out of my parking spot like I’m at the starting line of Nascar. A glance at my dashboard tells me it’s already five minutes after noon.
Patrick’s going to think I’m a no-show.
I come to a rolling halt at each stop sign along the way, taking off every time before it’s fully legal.
My eyes flick to my rearview.
No.
No. No. No.
Red and blue lights swirl on a police car.
My stomach drops. I grip the wheel so tightly my knuckles ache—my steering wheel might as well be a stress ball. Every stop sign I rolled through flashes through my mind like a criminal highlight reel.
Maybe if I drive perfectly for the next ten seconds, the patrol will let this one slide.
The chirp of a siren precedes the bullhorn notifying me, “Pull over, Daisy.”
I follow the command and pull my car to the curb, glancing at the clock on the dash. Twelve minutes after twelve.
Chuck Mason, one of our local police officers, approaches my car. I watch him in the side mirror, wondering what could be the worst thing to happen if I tear away from here without waiting for him.
I’ve never been a rebel. Always colored in the lines. I pride myself on being responsible and dependable. But right now I feel like pulling a hit and run—or at least the run part. I don’t actually want to hit anything.
“License and registration, Daisy?”
“Chuck, you literally called my name over the speaker.”
“Protocol,” he says, fighting a grin. “You realize you blew through those stop signs like a greased pig on Founders Day?”
He extends his hand.
I pop open the glove box. The contents spill onto the floorboard—napkins, straws, my tire pressure gauge, and the plastic keeper where I store my registration.
“I know! I’m so sorry. Patrick told me to meet him—some mysterious thing—and I’m already almost fifteen minutes late.”
“Oh, shoot! That’s today?” Chuck says, eyebrows leaping. “If I wreck Patrick’s big plan, I'll never hear the end of it.”
“You know about it?” I gape.
“Sure do. Now don’t run another stop sign—hang tight. I’ll get you there myself.”
Chuck practically sprints back to his cruiser and before I know it, the siren is on full blast and he’s leading me through town, straight to the location where Patrick asked me to meet him.
We pull up to the curb. The siren cuts out. Chuck waves as he drives away, grinning widely into his rearview mirror.
Patrick turns, staring at me like I’m the emergency he didn’t train for—but it’s more than that. I see it now. He’s as nervous as I am, and possibly there’s a flicker of hope in his gaze.
Our eyes linger on one another, holding me still and calling me out. The laughter in my chest tangles with something sharp and real.
Patrick: the podcaster, the firefighter, the man I hated.
But now … I’m not sure my heart remembers how.