For a while, we just moved through the motions—me untying ribbon rolls, her flipping through the order book while Sunny explored her usual patch of sunlight near the counter. The steadiness of it all worked like muscle memory, pulling me back to myself piece by piece.
But it didn’t erase the echo of last night.
I could still see Emma sitting barefoot on my couch, a mug of chamomile tea balanced on her knee. Sunny had been wedged between us like a warm, breathing pillow. The room had been dim, just the soft glow of a lamp filling the silence between my sentences.
When I told her the test was positive, she didn’t gasp or lecture or tell me everything would be fine. She just listened, eyes kind and steady, and said, “You’ve always been the practical one, Lils. If anyone can handle a curveball like this, it’s you.”
“I don’t feel practical,” I’d admitted. “I feel… cornered. Like I’m trying to think five steps ahead, but I don’t even know which way’s forward.”
Emma had reached over and nudged my leg with her toes. “That’s because your brain’s still trying to catch up to your heart. Give it time. Men need a little space to catch up sometimes, too. Let him find his footing. You do the same.”
I’d laughed then, with watery eyes. “So basically, don’t panic.”
“Exactly.” She’d lifted her mug in a mock toast. “To not panicking.”
Back in the present, the sound of the cooler kicking on pulled me out of the memory. The sound was steady and familiar, like a heartbeat I could count on.
Emma rearranged the card display, watching me straighten a stack of vases. “You look more like yourself already.”
I turned to her, brushing a stray leaf from my sleeve. “Told you. This place is therapy.”
She smiled, but her eyes searched mine. “Just remember—therapy doesn’t mean doing it all alone.”
“I know,” I said softly, though part of me wasn’t sure I did.
She grabbed her purse and jingled her keys. “Okay, Ms. Therapist. I’m heading out. Call me if you need to talk halfway through the day.”
I rolled my eyes. “I won’t. I’ve talked enough.”
Just like that, she was gone, her laughter lingering even after the door shut behind her. The shop settled around me again, quiet and familiar. For the first time since yesterday morning with Sawyer, I felt something close to steady—like maybe I really could handle this.
By midmorning, the shop was filled with its usual rhythm—customers coming and going, cooler doors sighing shut, the faint snip of scissors as I trimmed stray stems, and the steady whisperof Sunny’s breathing from her nap near the register. I finally sat down at the counter to check my emails, still trying to convince myself I needed to eat something, especially now that I was eating for two.
Halfway down the inbox, a familiar name made me blink: Millie Thompson. The subject line read:Wedding Flowers for Our Girl!!!—three exclamation marks and all.
I couldn’t help it; I laughed. The cheerful tone in her message practically sparkled off the screen. She wrote that she and Joe were “over the moon” about their daughter Jaqie’s wedding coming up in a few weeks, and she wanted me—no one else, of course—to handle the flowers. Jaqie had always loved my arrangements at church and the way I decorated the pumpkin patch at the feed store each fall. “You made hay bales look like art,” Millie had written. “Joe,” she added, “had been bragging so much about his beautiful daughter and soon-to-be son-in-law, he might explode before she says, ‘I do.’”
My chest loosened enough for a real smile for the first time in 24 hours.
I dialed Millie’s number without even thinking. She picked up on the second ring. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite florist!”
“Morning, Millie,” I said, already smiling. “I just got your email. Congratulations! A wedding—how exciting.”
“Oh, it’s something all right,” she said with a laugh. “Joe’s prouder than a peacock and twice as nervous. He’s been practicing his walk down the aisle in the kitchen. Nearly tripped over the dog last night.”
I chuckled, picturing it. “That sounds about right for Joe.”
“I told him to stick to selling feed and let me handle the wedding chaos. Anyway, I’m bringing you some banana bread fresh from the oven. Thought we could talk flowers and save my husband from a panic attack.”
“Banana bread sounds exactly like what I need,” I said.
“Half an hour, hon,” she promised. “And don’t you dare make hot tea—I’m bringing mine.”
True to her word, the door whooshed open thirty minutes later. Millie bustled in, smelling faintly of cinnamon and sunshine. A foil-wrapped loaf and a thermos were tucked neatly into a basket, and her reading glasses were perched on top of her head.
“Joe sent me because he’s too nervous even to pick a tie,” she said, setting the banana bread down on the counter. “He’s at the feed store telling every poor soul that’ll listen how he’s about to marry off his baby girl.”
“That sounds like Joe,” I said, laughing softly as I unwrapped the loaf and poured the tea. The scent hit me—warm, sweet, comforting. I cut us each a slice and handed Millie her teacup, and we settled around the design table, surrounded by color swatches, fabric samples, and my half-scribbled notes.
