13. A Crown of Cypress #3
His eyes dropped to my crown, the blue ribbon Miss Delphine had woven into something delicate and lovely, and for just a moment, his expression shifted. Opened. Revealed something that looked almost like longing.
"Ask me again sometime," he said. "When we're alone."
The song ended. Callum released me slowly, his hand trailing down my arm until only our fingers touched, then nothing. He stepped back, nodded once, and melted into the crowd with the same silent efficiency he'd used to appear.
I stood in the middle of the dance area, flushed and breathless, my heart pounding against my ribs. Humid in areas that had nothing to do with the southern summer evening air.
These guys were going to be the death of me. One dance. Three starkly different partners, three entirely different ways of holding me, of moving with me, of making me feel like the center of something larger than I understood. Shit, no doubt the whole town had been watching.
The crown on my head felt heavier than it should have. Ribbon and wire and the weight of questions no one would let me finish asking.
The crown of cypress was an old tradition.
For those who will never wear a crown of cypress, this is their day.
I touched the ribbon circling my head and wondered what it would feel like to wear something more permanent. What freedoms would be lost? What responsibilities would that life hold?
Jasper reappeared with lemonade, and the moment passed, and the festival swirled on around me. I filed the question away. Added it to my growing list of things this town didn't want to explain. Crowns of cypress. Trials. Lords and ladies… that would have been a long-ago era indeed.
… And the way all three brothers had looked at the ribbon in my hair, like they were seeing something more.
The light was that specific golden-hour glow that made everything look like it had been designed by someone who understood composition.
I found myself mentally framing shots: the red and white bunting against old brick, the string lights just beginning to glow as the sun dipped lower, an elderly couple dancing in front of the stage with the easy intimacy of fifty years together.
“You’re doing that thing,” Jasper said.
“What thing?”
“The thing where you’re composing shots in your head instead of being present.”
“I’m present.”
“You’re mentally photographing the bunting.”
I was, in fact, mentally photographing the bunting. “It’s objectively excellent composition.”
“You’re a very specific kind of nerd,” he said, but he was smiling. “Come on. I’ll get you food and then you can photograph whatever you want.”
He took my hand, casually, like it was nothing, like he did it all the time, and pulled me into the crowd.
Jasper guided me through the crowd with an ease that suggested he'd been doing this his whole life. He knew everyone, and everyone knew him; stopping to chat, to clap him on the back, to exchange the kind of coded greetings that came from deep familiarity.
A group of men in their fifties called him over to settle a debate about a fishing trip from ten years ago.
A woman with a toddler on her hip asked after Rowena’s health with genuine concern.
A teenage boy working a ring-toss booth called out, “Hey, Mr. Voss!” with the kind of respect usually reserved for teachers or coaches.
“Mr. Voss?” I murmured as we walked away.
“I coached his little league team two summers ago.” Jasper shrugged, but I caught something in his expression, a quiet satisfaction in being part of something larger. “Small town. Everyone’s connected.”
I thought about what that would feel like, being woven into a place so thoroughly that your name carried weight. My name had felt like a liability for the past couple of years. Something to hide, to change, to abandon.
"The Voss boy," one elderly woman said, patting his cheek. "And who's this pretty thing?"
"This is Serena. She's staying at the family place."
The woman's eyes sharpened, taking me in with sudden intensity. "Is that right?" she murmured. "Well, well."
Before I could ask what that meant, Jasper was pulling me toward a food booth, talking enthusiastically about ribs.
I kept seeing them: the looks, the glances, the way people watched me with something that felt like speculation.
Like they were waiting to see what I would do.
It wasn’t unfriendly, exactly. More like anticipation.
The way people watch the end of a movie they’ve seen before, curious how a new viewer will react to the twist.
A cluster of women near the lemonade stand stopped talking when we passed, their eyes tracking me with what felt like appraisal. An older man at the woodworking booth nodded at Jasper and then looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Two teenagers whispered behind their hands.
"Do I have something on my face?" I finally asked.
"What?"
"Everyone keeps looking at me."
Jasper's expression flickered, something between amusement and discomfort. "They're curious. New faces in Magnolia Creek are rare."
"It feels like more than that."
He didn't deny it. Just handed me a plate piled with ribs and pointed toward a less crowded area. "Come on. I'll show you the good seats."