"It's a date." I laughed, feeling more free than I had in a long time.
"Look at you, making plans with friends like a normal person." She grinned and pulled me into one more hug. "I'mproud of you. Now go home and sleep. You look like you're about to fall over."
She wasn't wrong. The exhaustion hit fully as I drove home, the country roads blurring slightly in my peripheral vision. I kept the windows down, the cool air helping me stay alert, and by the time I pulled up to my cabin, I was running on pure determination.
The cabin was quiet when I entered, familiar and welcoming. Late afternoon light slanted through the windows, painting golden rectangles on the worn wooden floors. I dropped my keys on the hook, kicked off my shoes, and made it as far as the couch before my body gave out.
Just a short nap, I told myself. Just close my eyes for a minute. I woke to the sound of my phone buzzing, the light in the room shifted to the deeper gold of early evening. Disoriented, I fumbled for the phone and found a message from Micah.
I hope today went well. I've been thinking about last night, about the stars, and the conversation, and you. Thank you again for coming. For being willing to try.
Below it, a photo: the star chart Margaret had made, laid out on what looked like his desk, with a book about historical astronomical documents open beside it.
I did some research,his message continued. The chart appears to be from the early 1960s, based on the positioning of certain stars. The detail is remarkable, whoever made it must have spent hours on it. I thought you might like to know.
Tears pricked my eyes. He'd researched it. He'd taken something I'd shared with him and treated it like it mattered, like it was worth his time and attention. Such a small thing, but it cracked something open in me.
I typed back: That means more than you know. Margaret—my foster mother—she would have likedyou, I think. She appreciated people who took the time to understand things properly.
Three dots appeared, then:I would have liked to meet her. Anyone who taught you to love growing things must have been remarkable.
I sent a text back:She was. I miss her.
He responded quickly:Grief is just love with nowhere to go. It never really fades, it just becomes part of you.
I stared at the words, at the unexpected poetry of them from someone so analytical. Then I typed:Did you just make that up?
A second later my phone buzzed with a response:No. I read it somewhere once. But it felt true when I lost my father. It feels true now, talking to you about Margaret.
It does feel true, I admitted.Thank you for that.
He texted one last time:Always. Rest well, Daphne. I'll see you soon.
I set down the phone and looked around my cabin, at the herbs drying in the window, the worn quilt on the back of the couch, the photo of Margaret and Tom that sat on the mantle. The couple who'd taken in a broken, angry teenager and shaped me into who I was today.
My phone buzzed again, and I smiled before I even looked at it. This time it was Garrett:
Heard the market was good today. Levi said you looked happy. That makes us happy.
Then Oliver:We're grilling tomorrow if you want to come by. No pressure, just an open invitation.
And finally Levi:Monday can't come fast enough. Prepare for disasters and questionable artistic choices. It's going to be great.
Then I curled up on the couch with Margaret's old quilt wrapped around me, the one she'd made from scraps of fabric, each piece holding a memory, watching the evening light fade through the windows, and let myself feel something I hadn't felt in a very long time.
Hope. Real, terrifying, wonderful hope. Underneath the fear, underneath the doubt, underneath all the years of teaching myself not to want things—excitement. For tomorrow. For Monday. For whatever came next.
Margaret's voice echoed in my memory, soft and certain:You plant seeds of kindness and patience, and sometimes it takes years before you see the bloom.
Maybe, finally, something was starting to bloom.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Daphne
The invitation had seemed simple enough when Oliver texted it yesterday:We're grilling tomorrow if you want to come by. No pressure, just an open invitation.
No pressure. Right. I'd spent the better part of Sunday morning telling myself it was just dinner. Just a casual evening with people I was getting to know. People who happened to be four Alphas who were actively courting me. People whose home I'd never actually been inside, despite the dates and conversations and one unforgettable night under the stars.
