“Hopefully it tastes the same,” I replied, stepping aside so they could enter.
Olive darted past me, nose twitching like a puppy following a trail. “Are we having a feast?” she asked, eyes wide.
I crouched down so we were eye level. “I wouldn’t call it a feast, but I did make lasagna.”
“Best feast ever,” she announced, skipping into the dining room.
Madison shook her head, laughing softly. “She’s been talking about this all afternoon.”
“She likes being here,” I admitted quietly. “I like it too.”
Her eyes softened, and something stirred in my chest that I quickly tucked away before it could overwhelm me.
Dinner was louder than I expected. Olive filled every silence with stories about her day, about the drawing she made of the garden, about the bug she found under the porch. Madison listened with a patient smile, occasionally glancing at me, her eyes catching mine across the table. Each time, it was like a thread tied tighter between us.
Halfway through the meal, Olive paused with a forkful of pasta and squinted at the two of us. “Are you boyfriend and girlfriend now?”
The question took us by surprise. Madison’s eyes widened as she blushed, and I almost choked on my drink.
“Olive,” Madison said gently, trying to steer her back toward her plate to continue eating.
“What?” Olive looked from her to me, blinking with complete innocence. “You smile at each other a lot. That’s what Judith at school said her mom and dad did when they got married.”
I felt the back of my neck heat up, but I couldn’t contain the quiet laugh that slipped out. Madison covered her face with her hands, shaking her head, cheeks flushed.
“Not exactly,” I said carefully. “But we do like each other. A lot.”
Olive nodded, satisfied, and went back to eating as if she hadn’t just cracked something wide open at the dinner table. Madison peeked at me from behind her hand, embarrassed, but I caught her fingers under the table. I brushed my thumb over her knuckles, slow, deliberate. She stilled, then turned her hand so our palms pressed together, her warmth anchoring me in a way I hadn’t known I needed.
The rest of the evening unfolded in quiet sweetness. Olive insisted on helping with dishes, standing on a chair while I rinsed and Madison dried. Madison’s shoulder brushed mine more than once, and neither of us moved away. Later, when Olive sprawled across the couch with Bunny, drifting toward sleep, Madison and I slipped out onto the back porch.
The cicadas hummed in the distance. She leaned against the railing, and I stepped close enough that my arm brushed hers.
“Sorry about Olive,” she whispered, though she was smiling.
“Don’t be,” I said. “She just asked what was already on my mind.”
Her breath caught, and I turned toward her fully. I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my hand linger at her jaw. Her eyes fluttered shut, like she’d been waiting for this, and when I bent to kiss her, it was soft and certain.
Not rushed. Not stolen.
She kissed me back, fingertips grazing my arm, and I knew there was no going back. Not for me. Not for her.
Inside, Olive stirred, mumbling something in her sleep, and we pulled apart reluctantly, laughter spilling between us. But even as we went back inside, even as the night wound down, the truth remained.
We weren’t just circling each other anymore. We were stepping into something real.
Chapter 45
Madison
The morning felt soft around the edges, a little hazy from sleep and the kind of happiness that lingered in the air long after it had a reason to. I woke to the sound of birds chirping outside the open window and the gentle wheeze of the old ceiling fan. For a moment, I stayed still and watched the sliver of sunlight climb across the wood floor toward the bed. The guesthouse always smelled faintly of cedar and laundry soap, buttoday I could have sworn there was something warmer tucked into it, roasted rosemary from last night, or maybe just the memory of Seth’s laughter. Olive popped up beside me without warning, all curls and knees and morning breath. She pressed her cheek to my shoulder and squinted at the light.
“Are we having pancakes?” she asked, not hello, not good morning, only mission-critical information.
“We can,” I said, brushing her hair back. “But the flowers get a drink first.”
She slid off the bed and padded across the floor, a blur of pink shorts and mismatched socks, toward her tiny watering can on the windowsill. While she turned the spigot in the bathroom and carefully filled it halfway, I tied my hair into a loose knot and pulled on a soft tee and cutoffs. The kettle went on the stove. The familiar swing of small rituals steadied the flood of last night in my chest.
