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This week has been a rollercoaster of emotions, forcing me to confront not only my relationship with Rowan, but my own identity. I’ve spent my whole life cowering from the world, constantly trying to fit in and please others.
But in reality, I’ve been denying my own happiness all along.
“Starting tomorrow, I’m teaching after-school lessons for kids in the studio I’ve been renting from Clyde. I talked to him about it, and he thinks it’s a great idea.”
His eyes shimmer with tears, the big softy, but he tries to keep his cool. “Yeah. That’s good. Real good.”
“Dad,” I groan.
“What do you want from me, dammit? I’m just so proud of you.”
The late afternoon sun shines through the greenhouse, striking his handsome face, and I’m overcome with how much love I have for him. He’s always had my back, no matter what. My best friend, my confidant. “I love you, and I’m so sorry for making such a mess of things.”
“You were trying to do right by your momma. I can’t fault you for that. And I love you, too. So much.” He hugs me one last time, his voice quiet in my ear. “Just… don’t quit on him, Mol. It’s going to work out with Rowan. I feel it in my bones.”
More than anything, I wish he were right. Being apart from him has been agonizing, but for as much as I want to believe differently, I don’t see how it’ll happen.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“It’s your call whether you want to sell the shop, but I’ve still got the number of the woman who was interested if you want it.” His smile is faint, but optimistic. “We’ll take every step of the selling process together, but if you choose to hold on to it, then I’ll respect that, too.”
It’s as I’m silently asking Mom for the answer—if this is what she wants me to do; if she’s at peace with this decision—that I catch sight of something unbelievable over Dad’s shoulder.
I step past him, getting as close to the window as I possibly can, and frantically swipe a circle in the dirt caked on the pane.
There, in the middle of a barren plot of dirt, a tiny sunflower flits in the breeze. An ache builds in my chest until I can’t stand it any longer, and when Dad steps beside me, all I can do is point.
“Well I’ll be damned…” he murmurs.
I think of that last packet of sunflower seeds I found—the ones I keep safely tucked between the pages of Amelia’s gardening journal—and I know without a doubt this is a sign from her. The push I needed to let go and start over.
But I’ve got one last thing I need to settle first.
“Let’s head back to town,” I say once my eyes are finally dry. “There’s someone I need to talk to.”
“You got it, sweetheart.”
He walks me out to his truck and bawls like a baby when I play the song I wrote for Mom on the way home.
* * *
“Open up, Wade!” I pound my fist on the door to his fancy apartment. “I’ll stay out here all night if I have to.”
It takes another minute, but eventually, the locks rattle and he cracks it open.
“Molly?” His eyes bulge, flitting across my birthmark before frantically shifting behind me. “Why are you banging on my door like you’re the cops, and how’d you know where I live?”
I study his unusually flushed cheeks and his unkempt blond hair while folding my arms over my chest. “It’s a small town. People talk.”
“Whatever.” He doesn’t open the door, but he doesn’t slam it in my face, either. “What do you want?”
“Well, I—” I lose a bit of gusto when it dawns on me that he called me Molly instead of scarface.
The blend of paprika, cayenne pepper, thyme, and garlic seep through the opening he’s hanging half in, half out of. The aroma is spicy, warm, and fresh, as if I caught him in the middle of making dinner, even though it’s eight o’clock at night.
“You…?”
I’d given myself a pep talk on the way here. Had mapped out all the ways I was going to tell the person who’s spent years tormenting me, just because he could, that I’m no longer taking his shit—but the words freeze in my throat when I see a shadow pass behind him.
