Chapter 11
SAWYER
The group chat Liam set up at the start of the season has been lighting up my phone all morning.
It kicks off while I’m still toweling off from my shower, notifications stacking up faster than I can read them. By the time I’m dressed and heading out the door to do my community-outreach hours at the store with Juliette, the chat has fully committed to whatever chaos it woke up choosing today.
I check it once while tying my shoes. Trash talk. A badly cropped meme. A message that makes zero sense unless you were present for a very specific locker-room conversation, which means Liam definitely started it.
I should mute the thread. I know this. I even hover over the option. Instead, I lock my phone and head out, because lately there are two things I’ve learned about myself: I have terrible impulse control, and I don’t like missing anything—especially when I’m on my way to see Juliette.
The chat buzzes again in my pocket, impatient. I get the feeling it’s not going to let me ease into the day quietly, so I flip it open to see what’s new.
Owen:
Dude.
Owen:
Is this you??
He drops a link, and it’s the video I shot with Juliette two nights ago at the store. The stupidly charming, way-too-close shot of me gently watering a plant like it’s a delicate baby animal. The one Juliette posted ten minutes ago.
Ty:
Bro I just watched this twice and I don’t even own plants…yet.
Liam:
Do you do house calls now or is this a shop-only situation?
Campbell:
Because your fern is dying?
Owen:
I’m crying. You look like a calm suburban dad explaining lawn care on public access TV.
You guys need to stop.
Liam:
No but seriously. If I Venmo you can you come whisper encouragement to my succulents?
Campbell:
“Hey little guy. You’re doing great.” That’s what you sound like.
We have a reporter coming today. Please do not make this worse.
Owen:
Here we go - you’re going to be interviewed as the NHL’s hottest plant therapist.
Ty:
Headline: Local Hockey Star Trades Pucks for Pots
Liam:
LOL
Campbell:
I’m telling PR you need a new nickname. Plant Daddy won’t cut it anymore. Plant King!
If you do that I will block all of you.
Owen:
It will be worth it.
Growling, I can only fantasize what I’d do to any one of them since I’m already standing out front of Leaf it’s not hurried, but not slow either. Her eyes are soft, and something warm lies within them. “I know you are. That’s why I’m stepping out so you can do what you need to do.”
She squeezes my arm, a small grounding touch. Then she walks away. I stand there for a second before forcing myself to turn and go inside, letting the door close behind me.
Charlie is already walking toward me with something folded over his arm.
“Here,” he says, holding it out.
I take it, confused, and then laugh when I see what it is.
An apron. But not just any apron—dark green, heavy canvas, with SAWYER stitched neatly across the front.
I look up. Charlie is wearing one, too. CHARLIE in the same careful embroidery.
“This is really cool,” I say.
“I made them this weekend,” he tells me. “For all of us.”
I run my thumb over the stitching. “Because we’re a team?”
Charlie smiles. “I’d like to think that. At least for the time we’ve got you.”
Something warm settles in my chest as I raise a fist to his and we bump.
A moment later, the bell over the door rings and a woman with her hair pulled back into a tight bun walks in with a photographer trailing behind her.
I can tell it’s the reporter by the way her eyes are already scanning the shop like she’s hunting for a story.
Charlie leans in just slightly. “I’m here if you need me.”
I straighten my shoulders, slip the apron over my head.
“Let’s do this,” I say.
It’s showtime.
The interview wraps without a hitch, clean and easy. We even manage to sneak Charlie into a photo with me standing behind the counter, his smile proud and slightly bewildered, like he’s not entirely sure how he ended up there but is pleased all the same.
By the time I step back outside, the day feels settled. Accomplished. I’m halfway down the block when the faint scent of magnolias reaches me again, soft but unmistakable. Juliette.
The memory follows immediately. The way she smelled when I hugged her. Clean and warm, magnolias in bloom, light and steady rather than overpowering.
I shouldn’t have done it. The hug. It was instinctive and unplanned.
Stupid, impulsive, and probably inappropriate by any reasonable standard.
But, I tell myself it was nothing. A reflex.
A normal human moment that does not need to mean more than it should.
Except my jacket still carries her. The magnolia scent lingers in the fabric, faint but persistent, as if it has no intention of leaving anytime soon.
I adjust the collar, unsettled by how much I do not want it to fade.
And if I’m being totally honest with myself, it isn’t just the hug.
It’s the dance, too. The way we laughed, spun a little, bumped into shelves like the world had shrunk down to just the two of us and a song we didn’t plan to care about. The way my hands found hers and stayed there longer than necessary. The way the music stopped and neither of us moved right away.
I don’t know if she felt what I did in that moment. I don’t know if she noticed how hard it was to step back once the song ended. But I do know I’ve been carrying the memory of it with me all day. The warmth. The ease. The almost of it.
I’m still thinking about that when my phone buzzes.
Juliette:
Thank you again for understanding today.
I smile as I walk.
Of course. You explained. I listened. Growth? (pun intended)
A second passes.
Juliette:
I wanted to see if you’d be free one day over the weekend so we could talk about the workshop idea?
Does talking involve eating of some kind?
Juliette:
I don’t know why that sentence makes me nervous.
I think we could break bread and discuss said workshop. Do you like Thai food?
Juliette:
I can like it as long as it gives us a chance to put the plan into motion for a workshop…
There’s a pause. I can practically feel her smiling. I walk a few more steps, then type again before I can overthink it.
Okay. Thai it is for a planning session. I’ll check my schedule and let you know when I’m free.
Juliette:
Thank you. Again.
We’re on a roll. It’s a text roll, but still. There’s rhythm to it. Ease. The kind that makes you forget you’re staring at your phone on a sidewalk instead of having an actual conversation.
And hey…don’t forget. I can get you and Theo tickets if you want.
The typing bubble doesn’t appear.
I wait a second longer than I should. Then another.
No reply.
Which is fine. Probably. She’s busy being a responsible adult with a kid and a million moving parts. Still, I slide my phone back into my pocket with a quiet exhale, the space where her response should be lingering just a little too loudly.
And for the first time all day, I wonder if I stepped one inch too far.
By the time I reach my car, still nothing. Then—my pocket vibrates.
Juliette:
Thank you. But no.
I swallow, then type carefully.
What if I arranged for you to watch the game from a box? Family and VIPs only. Private. Theo could watch from the balcony. You could sit inside, or just eat the food and listen to a podcast. Zero jumbotron risk.
There’s a beat.
Juliette:
…
Then the dots stop. Then they start…
Juliette:
Okay wow. That is generous of you and it sounds AMAZING!
I laugh out loud.
Tell you what—if you think you might want it, I’m happy to ask. I owe you and Theo for letting me burst into your lives like this.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Then:
Juliette:
Be truthful. Is it weird that I have PTSD from a jumbotron at a hockey game?
My thumbs move without hesitation.
No. It would be weird if you didn’t.
Silence. I slide into my car, start the engine. The phone dings.
Juliette:
No promises, but I’ll think about it.
“Yes,” I whisper, pumping my fist like I just scored in overtime.
Sounds like a deal. You let me know.
A second later:
Juliette:
I grin at the screen. Not only did I get a hug today, but I also scored a thumbs-up.
That’s progress.