Chapter 30
THIRTY
JACKSON
The next morning, Jackson walked across the yard, heading to his parents’ kitchen for some fresh coffee. He’d run out and hadn’t been to the store in the last couple of days, and if he knew his mom, he knew she’d have a fresh pot waiting for any and all who stopped by.
Dew made the grass slick, glinting in the pale light.
Bits of clippings stuck to the leather of his boots as he walked, the cool air sharp against his face.
From the barn came the familiar chorus of Daisy and Tinsel, their low hums and impatient snorts echoing across the quiet yard.
They were hungry, and if he didn’t get to them soon, they’d be chewing on the gate again.
Saturday mornings were always quiet this time of year—spring planting just beginning, no rush of customers the way fall brought with its hayrides, pumpkins, and Christmas trees. The quiet should’ve felt like a blessing, like it once did. Instead, it pressed in on him.
The kitchen smelled like frying bacon and the promise of fresh coffee.
His mother was at the stove, her apron tied neatly around her waist, the cast-iron skillet hissing as she turned the strips of bacon with a flick of her fork.
A bowl of pancake batter rested on the counter, blueberries already rinsed and ready.
An oldies station played softly in the background.
“I’m surprised to see you this morning,” Beth said. “After you left the wedding with Zoe, I thought you might’ve stayed at her place.”
“Didn’t want you worrying about me,” Jackson lied.
“I worried when you were overseas. I don’t worry when you’re with Zoe.” Beth gave him a pointed look. “Besides, a text would’ve sufficed.”
“I’ll keep that in mind next time.”
Beth looked over at him, opening her mouth as if to say something, then shutting it, then trying again. Finally, she said, “I can see the dark circles under your eyes, Jackson. You haven’t been sleeping. Do you want to talk about it?”
Jackson poured cream into his coffee, watching it swirl. “Do I ever want to talk about it?”
“No,” Beth said, calm as ever, “but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop asking.”
He shot her a level stare over the rim of his mug.
“You can glare all you want,” she continued, unfazed. “I’ve been seeing that look on your face since you were a little boy. I’ll keep asking because I’m your mom, and I care.”
“That’s just it,” Jackson muttered. “You have to.”
Beth turned down the skillet flame and set the fork aside.
“No, I don’t. There are plenty of parents out there who don’t care, sad as that is.
But I’m not one of them. Nobody has to do anything.
I choose to show up for you. Every day. Not just you—your brother, your sister, too.
As long as I’m breathing, you’ve got me in your corner. ”
Jackson grumbled into his cup, “Probably you and no one else.”
Beth’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “Something happened with Zoe?”
He exhaled through his nose, shoulders sagging. “I guess you could say that. I just… I don’t want to hurt her. I care about her, Mom. I really do. That’s why I think I need to keep some distance. She feels things so deeply, cares so much, I don’t want my pain to hurt her.”
Beth wiped her hands on a dish towel, studying him. “Who are you to decide what’s best for her? Shouldn’t that be her choice?”
“Would you want your pain laid bare for the person you love?” Jackson’s grip tightened on his mug.
“You’re more than your past, Jackson,” she said softly. “And Zoe knows that. She’s known you longer than anyone else in Maple Falls. You like to think you’re good at hiding things, but she sees you. And she loves you just how you are.”
“She doesn’t know everything,” Jackson snapped.
“No,” Beth agreed gently. “And she never will—unless you let her in. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself. That’s what love is, honey. Being willing to be seen. Even in the hard times.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know if I can.”
“It’s hard, I know. But isn’t she worth it?” Beth patted his hand, then turned back to the stove before the bacon burned.
Jackson had no appetite. The smell of pancakes, butter, and maple syrup smelled like home, like heart, but today it made his stomach turn.
He left the kitchen without breakfast. His mom’s words tumbled in his head as he walked toward the greenhouse.
His latest shipment had arrived. It was water plants for the pond project, flats of wood anemones, and, unfortunately, another misplaced order for Zoe’s flower shop too.
He couldn’t let the flowers sit and wilt.
Just like he couldn’t let things go unresolved with her.
The drive into town felt longer than usual.
Jackson gripped the wheel tighter than he needed to.
Every mile closer to Maple Falls twisted his gut more.
He kept replaying last night—the way Zoe had looked at him, hurt and dismayed, the words he’d thrown like stones.
The anger and bitterness he’d never meant to show to her.
By the time the town square came into view, his palms were damp against the leather steering wheel.
Maple Falls looked deceptively calm: shop windows propped open to let in the cool spring air, tulips blooming in the planter boxes along the sidewalks, sunlight glinting off the gazebo’s white paint.
People were out with coffees in hand, their laughter carrying down Oak Way.
And then there was the Cherry Crush Flower Shop.
He spotted it instantly, the cheerful yellow awning stretched over the display window. Fresh arrangements filled the glass—pale daffodils, pink ranunculus, lilacs cut from someone’s garden. Even from across the street, it looked alive, vibrant. Everything Zoe was, and he wasn’t.
Jackson parked across from the shop and cut the engine. For a moment, he didn’t move. His hand lingered on the keys, the tick of the cooling engine filling the cab. He could just sit here. He could drive away. Pretend the delivery hadn’t come in. Pretend last night hadn’t happened.
But then he glanced at the passenger seat, at the crate of flowers waiting for her—her order, her world—and something in him hardened.
He owed her this. An honest apology.
Jackson dragged in a breath, shoved the truck door open, and climbed out. The air smelled faintly of coffee from the café down the block, and bread fresh from the bakery. He lifted the crate of flowers from the truck bed, the wood rough against his palms, and crossed the street.
The closer he got, the more he felt the weight in his chest. Through the glass, he could see Zoe moving inside, her hair loose around her shoulders as she adjusted a display. She looked so at ease among her blooms, sunlight glancing off her skin.
And he—he was about to walk in and shatter that calm all over again.
Jackson adjusted his grip on the crate, squared his shoulders, and as the little brass bell chimed, he pushed open the shop door.