Chapter Twenty #3
She’ll be losing her mind right about now. Thunder sends her into full panic mode, and Nadine mentioned she was at some wine tasting tonight.
I head for the guest house, hoping Muffin hasn’t destroyed anything, my flashlight beam cutting through the drizzle.
The door is ajar.
“Poppy?”
No answer. But I can hear something—soft voices, almost crooning, off-key humming.
I push the door open.
And my heart does this weird stuttering thing.
Poppy’s on the floor with Muffin, who’s shaking like a leaf.
The thunder vest is on, but it’s not helping.
Poppy has her wrapped in what looks like every blanket in the place, holding her close and murmuring nonsense.
Her dress is rumpled, her makeup smudged, but she’s completely focused on the terrified dog.
“Shh, baby. It’s okay. Just noise. Can’t hurt you.” Her voice is soft, soothing.
Muffin whimpers and presses closer, burrowing into Poppy’s chest.
“I know. Scary noise. But you’re safe. So safe.” She rocks slightly, like soothing a child.
I must make a sound because Poppy looks up. Her makeup is smudged, mascara tracking down her cheeks—from tears or rain, I can’t tell. Her hair is a mess. Still in that green dress, now wrinkled and damp.
Still devastatingly beautiful.
“She was scratching at the door,” she says softly, not quite meeting my eyes. “I couldn’t leave her out there.”
“Yeah—” I clear my throat, something lodged there. “Thanks.”
Thunder crashes. Muffin yelps and tries to burrow into Poppy’s chest.
“Oh, sweet girl.” Poppy adjusts the blankets, her movements gentle and sure. “We need a distraction. What do you think? Story? Song?”
“She likes Motown,” I hear myself say as I step inside and close the door behind me.
Poppy looks at me, eyebrows raised. “Seriously?”
“Nadine swears by it.” I move closer, drawn in despite everything.
Nadine. Right.
“Okay then.” Poppy starts humming—badly, off-key—but soft and sweet, and something in my chest loosens.
I should leave. Instead, I sit right there on the floor, back against the couch. Close enough to feel her warmth and catch hints of her perfume beneath the smell of wet dog.
“‘Cruisin’’?” I guess, recognizing the melody despite her terrible pitch.
She laughs quietly, the sound cracking something open inside me. “I don’t know the words.”
“That’s barely Motown.”
“I don’t know any Motown.” She keeps humming, her fingers stroking Muffin’s ears with infinite patience.
“Tragic.”
“Yeah, well.” She continues humming, but her voice wavers. “Add it to my list of failures.”
“Poppy—”
“Don’t.” Her voice is barely a whisper, raw. “Not tonight.”
So I don’t. I just sit there while she hums to my neighbor’s neurotic dog. The storm rages outside, rain lashing against the windows. Inside, it’s just us, terrible humming, a wet dog, and all the things we’ve said to each other.
Eventually, the thunder fades. Muffin’s breathing evens out, stops shaking. Her body goes heavy with sleep.
Falls asleep.
“You can go,” Poppy says without looking at me, still stroking Muffin’s ears. “She’s okay now.”
“What about you?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
“I’m fine.” But her voice is hollow.
“Liar.”
She finally meets my eyes, and I see it all there—exhaustion, hurt, frustration. “Takes one to know one.”
Fair.
I stand, joints protesting from sitting on the floor, and brush off my jeans. “I’m sorry. About earlier.”
“Which part? The robot thing or calling me na?ve?” Her voice is flat, carefully neutral.
“Both. All of it. The things I said were…” I trail off, searching for the right word. There isn’t one.
She looks back at Muffin, her profile sharp in the dim light. “Yeah. Me too.”
“Poppy—”
“Please just go.” Her voice cracks slightly, and I hate that I did this. “I can’t do this tonight.”
I want to stay. I want to tell her she was right, that I am scared, that she matters. Watching her take care of everyone—including a neurotic dog that isn’t even hers—makes me feel things I can’t name.
Instead, I go.
But I leave my door unlocked. Just in case.
An hour later, I’m pretending to read briefs, the words swimming on the page, when I hear it—scratching at my door, insistent, desperate.
I open it, expecting Muffin.
But she’s not alone.
Poppy is carrying her, wrapped in blankets like a burrito. Her hair is everywhere, no longer styled but wild around her face. Makeup gone, scrubbed clean. Barefoot, her feet probably still aching from those heels.
“She won’t settle,” she says, her voice small and uncertain. “Keeps crying. I think she wants—”
“Her spot.” I step aside without hesitation. “Come in.”
They enter like it’s normal, like we do this. Poppy, with her disaster hair and someone else’s dog, makes herself at home in my space as if she belongs here.
“Where’s her spot?”
I gesture to the rug by the fireplace. “There. She likes the corner.”
Poppy carefully settles Muffin, tucking the blankets around her. The dog immediately curls up, sighs deeply, and passes out.
“Seriously? That’s all it took?” Poppy stares at the sleeping dog, incredulous.
“She’s particular.”
“She’s ridiculous.” But she’s smiling slightly, the first real smile I’ve seen since the patio.
“Yeah, well.”
We stand there, awkward. The weight of our earlier fight hangs between us like smoke. I can still see the hurt in her eyes, the way she holds herself carefully, as if she might break.
“I should—” She starts toward the door.
“You could stay.” The words are out before I can stop them, rushing out like they’ve been trapped. “Until she’s really settled. In case the storm comes back.”
She looks at me for a long moment, searching my face. “Just until she’s settled.”
“Right.”
“On the couch.”
“Of course.”
“This doesn’t mean—”
“I know.”
She curls up on one end of the couch, pulling her knees up. I sit on the other, keeping a careful distance between us. A full cushion of space that feels like miles.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not na?ve. I know the statistics. I know half of these marriages won’t last.” Her voice is quiet, thoughtful. “But I also know that moment when they look at each other and think, ‘You’re it. You’re my person.’ And even if it ends… that moment was still real.”
I don’t know what to say to that. The truth of it sits heavy in my chest.
“I believe in that,” she continues, staring at the dark fireplace. “I believe in fighting for that, even if it doesn’t always last in the end.”
“That’s…” I search for words.
“Na?ve?” There’s a challenge in her voice.
“I was going to say brave.” The admission costs me something.
She looks at me, surprised, her lips parted.
“Believing in something you know might hurt you—that’s brave. Or stupid. Maybe both.” I hold her gaze.
“Speaking from experience?” Her voice is soft, careful.
I think about Emily. About believing in forever until it wasn’t. About closing myself off so nothing could hurt like that ever again. About the six years that weren’t enough.
“Maybe.”
Thunder rumbles in the distance, softer now. Muffin twitches but doesn’t wake.
“We should sleep,” Poppy says, but neither of us moves. “Big day tomorrow.”
“Right.”
But neither of us moves. The space between us feels charged, electric.
“Dean?”
“Mm?”
“This is complicated.”
“Everything with you is complicated.” But I’m almost smiling.
She almost smiles back. “Is that bad?”
“I’m starting to think complicated might be worth it.”
“Yeah?” Hope flickers across her face.
“Ask me in thirty-six hours.”
“What happens in thirty-six hours?” She’s watching me carefully now.
You leave. And I either let you go or do something stupid.
“The wedding’s over,” I say instead, the coward’s answer.
“Right. The wedding.” Something dims in her expression.
Silence settles. Comfortable this time. The storm’s passing. Muffin snores softly.
“Stay,” I say, the word coming out rough. “Tonight. Here. The guest house is cold and—”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” I wasn’t expecting that.
“Just sleeping.”
“Just sleeping.”
“On the couch.”
“Sure.”
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For earlier. With the restaurant. For coming to check on us. For… this.” She gestures vaguely at the space, at us, at whatever this is.
Something in my chest shifts. Loosens. Like a knot coming undone, like breathing after holding your breath too long.
“Get some sleep, Poppy.”
“You too.”
I grab blankets from the hall closet and pillows that actually match, making the couch as comfortable as possible by tucking everything around her. She curls up, dress and all, looking small, exhausted, and perfect.
I head upstairs to shower, letting the hot water beat against my shoulders. After changing into sweats and a T-shirt, I try not to think about her downstairs on my couch.
I fail spectacularly.
When I come back down to check, she’s asleep, curled on her side with one hand tucked under her cheek like a child. Muffin has migrated from her spot and is pressed against Poppy’s stomach, protective.
They look… right. Like they belong here. Like this is how it should be.
That feeling in my chest intensifies. Or maybe it gets better. It’s hard to tell.
I grab a book from the shelf and settle into the chair across from them, just for a minute, to make sure they’re okay.
I wake up four hours later, the book resting on my chest and my neck cramped. Early morning light filters through the windows, gray and soft.
Poppy’s still asleep, but she’s shifted. The blanket is half off, and her dress has ridden up slightly, exposing more of those legs.
Muffin is awake, watching me with judgmental eyes from her spot against Poppy’s stomach.
“Don’t start,” I mutter, my voice rough with sleep.
She huffs and settles back down, but keeps one eye on me.
I stand slowly, my joints protesting, and fix Poppy’s blanket, being careful not to wake her. My hand brushes her shoulder, and she sighs, turning into the touch, seeking warmth.
That thing in my chest?
Yeah. I’m fucked.
Completely, thoroughly fucked.
And tomorrow’s the wedding.
The day after that, she leaves.
I look down at her sleeping on my couch, at Muffin guarding her like a tiny, neurotic sentinel, and I know with absolute certainty that I’m going to do something stupid.
The only question is whether it’ll be letting her go or asking her to stay.