Even though he owns the supply store, he insists on delivering himself. Once, when I asked why, he shrugged and said: “Some things are worth the drive.”
I didn’t press, but part of me wonders if I’m that thing and whether that’s supposed to make me feel special…or guilty.
We have an arrangement. Simple, no complications. Ezra’s like that. Easygoing, with a smile that could make you forget your name.
But lately it feels hollow. I toss a handful of dirt back into the bin. “It’s black gold, my guy. Show some respect.”
Ezra raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You say that every time I drop off a batch. At this point, I’m starting to wonder if you’re running a secret dirt cult in here.”
I roll my eyes, wiping my hands on my apron. “If I were, you’d be my high priest.”
Ezra laughs. “Hell yeah, I would. But, for real, what’s got you deep in thought back here? Everything okay?”
I hesitate. “It’s nothing,” But as I say it, my thoughts drift back to him. Hayden Harlow. My pulse spikes just recalling his scowl.
Ezra’s not buying it. “Bull. Spill.”
I sigh and glance over at him. There’s that look again. Half playful, half concerned, like he’s carefully navigating some invisible line, trying to decide whether or not to push further.
I give in. “Hayden Harlow came in yesterday. He had opinions about sunflowers.”
Ezra’s brows shoot up immediately. “Harlow? The funeral director? What’s he got against sunflowers?”
“You tell me,” I reply, dragging a hand through my hair. “You’d think I committed some kind of sin by sending sunflowers to the funeral home. He was…kind of intense about it.”
Ezra laughs softly, leaning comfortably against the counter. “Well, to be fair, intense seems to be that guy’s default setting. I swear, he’s been in town forever, and I still know nothing about him.”
“No one does,” I agree, flicking potting soil off my sleeve. “Some towns get myths, we get Hayden Harlow. He practically invented ‘mysterious loner.’ ”
Ezra snorts, nudging my shoulder playfully. “And here you are, pissing off the most intimidating man in Stonevale. Bravo.”
“Mmm. Thanks,” I deadpan. “Love that for me.”
Ezra heads toward the door but turns back. “You’re still coming to the happy hour, right? Or are you skipping to write poetry about tall men in suits who scowl for a living?”
Stonevale has more bake sales, mixers, and obligatory social gatherings than any town could possibly justify, and I’ve got less than forty-eight hours to summon my good-citizen grin before the next one.
I chuckle, but it’s hollow. “I’ll be there.”
Ezra shrugs, that mischievous glint in his eye. “You better. It’s the only place in town where the wine’s as free-flowing as the gossip.”
I laugh knowingly and wave him out.
Our town has a way of wrapping itself around your heart. Brick buildings, hand-painted signs, neighbors who wave and immediately text the group chat. Charming, picturesque, predictable…like Ezra.
Which is why I opened the shop right in the center of Main Street, a florist shop that’s as much community gathering spot as it is business. Weddings, funerals, last-minute “please forgive me” bouquets, I see it all. It’s not glamorous, but it feels important. It feels like mine. Between that and the Stonevale community garden I’ve been dreaming about for years nowfinallyinching toward reality, I like to think I’m doing my part to keep our sleepy New Jersey town thriving.
Most nights I’m buried in grant applications and plot sketches long after the shop closes. Half my kitchen table is a war zone of sticky notes and to-do lists.
The problem? Some days it’s a lot. The shop, the greenhouse, the planning meetings and endless paperwork. I love every pieceof it, but there are mornings I wonder if I’m piling too many bricks onto my own shoulders, daring myself to see how much I can carry before I start to crack. The work is comforting, though. My phone buzzes with a text from my mom:Saw this article about “The Healing Power of Ritual.” Thought of you.Three heart emojis, like that makes it lighter. I stare at it a moment too long before pocketing the phone. I can’t bring myself to reply. Not right now. Because if rituals worked, things might be different.
I pull out my notebook, trying to shake off the feeling. Flowers are easier. Predictable in their unpredictability. Water, light, growth. Done. People don’t work that way.
Take Hayden Harlow, for example.
Everyone in our small little town knowsofhim. The funeral director who keeps to himself and never shows up at community events. I’d heard whispers for years but never actually met him until now.
His blunt voice cuts through my mind, like it’s still hanging in the air, sharp and lingering. The way he carries himself, all rigid formality, as if the world owes him something. I glance down at my dirt-covered chinos and worn boots, the contrast between us suddenly feeling glaring. He and I couldn’t be more different.
