I swallow, my pulse quickening. “I have to admit, you completely shocked us. Dominic’s probably drafting an official recruitment offer for our trivia team as we speak.”
Hayden gives a half smile and keeps his hands buried deep in his coat pockets. “Glad to help.”
His tone is polite but distant. It lands oddly, as if something has shifted. I laugh, attempting to bridge the sudden change. “At this rate, you’ll be Stonevale’s newest celebrity. From mysterious funeral director to trivia hero overnight.”
Hayden’s posture stiffens, a hint of something raw cutting through his composure. Fear, I realize. Not anger. “Is that all I am?” he asks, quiet.
“What do you mean?”
He scans my face. “I mean, Levi…am I just a small-town curiosity? A joke for you and your friends?”
My stomach twists. I step closer, shaking my head quickly, desperate to clarify. “Hayden, no. Of course not…”
He exhales softly, a cautious expression plastered all over his face like he’s bracing for something he’s heard one too many times. “I know how people in this town talk,” he says, the light above the door shifting harsher shadows over his expression. “The whispers and rumors about how I must prefer solitude. People think I enjoy being the town’s recluse, but it’s not always by choice.” A humorless breath leaves him. “It was never about preference.”
I can see it clearly now: His solitude isn’t a quirk. It’s armor. Carefully forged and worn so long it looks like part of him. He’s built walls not to keep people out, but maybe to see who, if anyone, is willing to climb them.
Guilt claws at me. “Hayden, I’m sorry. I was teasing, and it didn’t land.”
His eyes soften a fraction, but he remains quiet, taking in my words. I debate taking another step forward, but considering how I feel like I’m already teetering dangerously on thin ice, I remain rooted in place.
“Tonight was great,” I continue, “not because you’re mysterious or whatever dumb thing I just said, but because I genuinely enjoyed your company.”
Hayden studies my face, searching like he’s looking for the catch. “Levi,” he begins, “it’s been a long time since someone wanted to get to know me.”
The strained honesty in his voice hits me deeply, lodging somewhere between my ribs. “Well, you’re in luck, because I do. I’m here because I want to be.”
He takes a slow breath but straightens suddenly, retreatingbehind his carefully maintained reserve. “I should go,” he decides, stepping back.
“Hayden, wait…” My heart sinks at the sudden withdrawal.
He shakes his head softly, eyes still gentle but resolute. “Good night, Levi.”
He climbs the stairs, polished shoes clicking against each step. My heart beats faster as I watch him disappear through the front door, darkness swallowing him like a secret kept safe. When the door shuts softly behind him, I’m left standing alone, the chilly night suddenly feeling enormous and impossibly quiet.
Hands in pockets, I replay every word. Hayden gave me a glimpse of something raw beneath his guard. Not mystery, but ache. I get the sense it’s something he doesn’t give away easily. And I know one thing: I won’t be another person who lets him fade quietly into the background.
I walk back through the silent streets, determined to find a way through his walls.
Brick by careful brick.
• • •
Monday morning arrivesunfairly fast.
I’m back in the shop, facing a towering stack of résumés, while Elijah, three espressos deep, radiates the kind of unsettling excitement usually reserved for villains mid-monologue.
I spent the weekend in agony, replaying every foot-in-mouth moment with Hayden, literally resisting the urge to show up at his door with an elaborate bouquet like flowers could fix what I’d stirred up.
Elijah, who is vibrating beside me, adjusts his tortoiseshell glasses and glances at his laptop. “Next candidate’s running late,” he announces. “Automatic deduction of points.”
He thrives on judging people, which is why I asked him to helphire an intern. Not just because he’s my best friend, whose opinion I trust implicitly, but as a college professor (and reigning HOA president, a title he wields like a diplomatic immunity), he’s made a career of assessing competence.
Or, lack thereof.
I roll my eyes and stretch out beneath the table. We’ve been holed up in Full Bloom’s back room for two hours now, cycling through a mixed bag of hopeful applicants. An intern is supposed to ease my burden, help me navigate spreadsheets, grants, volunteer schedules. But so far, candidates have either wildly misunderstood the assignment or caused me to question if I’d rather suffer through it alone.
Some people romanticize being a small-business owner. Those people have clearly never spent their midnights reordering potting soil and azaleas, drafting an expense report with one hand and eating cold takeout with the other. Because operating a successful business in a town this size means wearing twelve hats all at once. Florist, accountant, marketer, therapist…and now, community project manager. The garden’s just one more spinning plate I simply can’t afford to drop.
