We were halfway back to the house when July started humming, soft and suspiciously cheerful.
"So," she said at last, stretching the word like taffy. I kept my eyes on the trail, watching my boots step over roots and loose stones.
"So," she tried again, bumping her shoulder gently into mine, "the geologist."
I didn't look at her. I adjusted the strap of my bag instead, suddenly very focused on a pinecone that wasn't in my way.
"Oh, come on," she laughed. "You can't pretend you don't know exactly what I mean."
I pulled my notebook from my pocket without slowing down, flipping it open to a blank page with hands that were steadier than I felt.
He's friendly.
She leaned over dramatically to read it and let out a bright, triumphant laugh. "Friendly? Friendly is how people look at baristas. He looks at you like you might be mildly magical."
Heat rose in my neck, flushing my ears. My chest tightened. I shook my head, bitterly certain; who could ever like me, broken and quiet like this?
July walked backward for a few steps so she could see my face. "So, did you get his number?"
I blinked at her, startled, and shook my head. She gasped like I'd just confessed to a crime. "You didn't?"
I hesitated, then pulled the notebook out again.
Why?
"Why?" she echoed, incredulous. "Because he clearly likes you. Because this is how humans continue interacting after meeting each other in the wild."
I looked away, out across the trees, jaw tightening. The path blurred for a second.
Inside, the thoughts were louder than her voice.
Even if that was true, and that is a big if, I'm still gathering the shattered pieces of my self-esteem and my heart. I'm still learning how to stand in a room without feeling like I'm apologizing for taking up space.
I closed the notebook without writing any of that.
July's voice softened as she turned to walk beside me again. "Hey," she said gently, bumping my shoulder a second time, lighter now. "I'm not saying you have to marry the guy. I just..." She sighed. "I just wish you could see yourself the way everyone else does."
I stared straight ahead, swallowing against the tightness in my throat.
"Maybe," she added carefully, "he might help you get there."
I didn't answer. But my fingers tightened around the Red Jasper in my pocket.
*******
At home, everything slowed.
Ash was waiting on his perch by the window when I came in, feathers slightly puffed, bright eyes tracking my every move. He lifted his wings in a wide, silent stretch, then settled again with a soft rustle.
I washed my hands, pulled on my gloves, and began preparing his food. The routine grounded me — measured portions, fresh water, slow, careful movements so I wouldn't startle him.
I hadn't grown up around anything so gentle.
The kitchen light hummed softly above me as an old memory surfaced, uninvited but familiar. A different house. Different kitchen. My mother's voice sharp from the other room, always busy with someone else, always irritated by the sound of me existing. The men who followed her through our life like passing weather.
Freak.
Weird.
