“You laugh,” he says, tossing another bag onto the cart, “but my mother has already asked if I was bringing the ‘special someone’ I’m always talking about to dinner. And then followed it up with a smirking emoji.”
“Smirking emoji?”
“Yes,” he says, deadpan. “You know the one…the slanty-eyed smirk. Universally recognized as gay flirting.”
I arch a brow, barely hiding my amusement. “Universally?”
Levi huffs, nudging me gently. “Hush. You knowexactlywhat I’m talking about, and you know why receiving that particular emoji from your mother is unquestionably traumatizing.”
He sets another bag down with care, shaking his head. “But, you know, if existential dread and parental emojis haven’t scared you off, you’re welcome to join us for dinner. No pressure, but I’d…” He takes a steadying breath. “I’d like you there.”
I freeze, caught between the sudden thrill of being invited into his life even further and the quiet panic that this…meeting parents, sharing dinner, dissecting teasing emojis…is dangerously real.
It’s the exact kind of domestic intimacy I spent centuries convinced wasn’t meant for me.
But Levi is looking at me with those eyes, all warmth and hopeful expectation, and it’s terrifying how easily the answer slips from my mouth.
“I’d like that, too,” I say softly. “Existential dread included.”
A smile blooms across his face, slow and genuine and just for me, and his cheeks turn that enticing shade of pink I’ve grown particularly fond of. His shoulders visibly relax as we fall back into the messy rhythm of the task at hand, as if my acceptance has lifted a weight he’d been carrying quietly.
When we finally finish, Levi peels off his gloves and stretches his arms overhead. The gesture draws my gaze again, those long limbs and lean muscles making my mouth go dry.
“See?” he says brightly, dropping his arms and looking at me with that annoyingly dazzling smile. “That wasn’t so bad.”
“Worse,” I confirm, shooting him a flat look, but his eyes aretoo bright, and damn it, I feel it. The lightness. The way my frustration dulls just by being in his orbit.
He steps closer, tilting his head slightly, his voice dropping softer. “And yet…you stayed.”
I shrug, but something in my chest tugs at the way he says it. Casual, easy, like he’s perhaps used to people…leaving. I think of this morning. The endless red tape and the subtle but unmistakable smugness from the goddamn Fates.
But mostly, I think about how the moment I left city hall, my feet carried me here.
To him.
19
Levi
At 6:43 a.m.,The Nest groans to a stop across three parking spaces in front of the shop. For one delirious second, I consider pretending I’m not home.
But there’s already movement. My mother emerges from the RV first, wrapped in a cardigan so bright yellow it rivals the sun and holding a mug that readsLife’s a Garden, Dig It, a favorite from her novelty mug collection. Dark hair now streaked silver is pulled into a neat ponytail, and when she spots me immediately through my upstairs window, she waves enthusiastically like we’re separated by an ocean and not a narrow street.
My dad follows, binoculars hanging around his neck. His hair, now fully gray, sticks out at odd angles beneath a cap that proclaimsBird Is the Word. He looks up too, giving a casual thumbs-up as if this early ambush was mutually agreed upon.
Bryan and June Wilder always pick the earliest ETA…and stick to it.
They’re charming. Exhausting. Olympic-level champions of cheerful denial. Everything I’ve ever learned about pretending I’m fine, I learned from them. Smile until your cheeks hurt, laugh loudenough that no one hears the silence underneath, and always,alwaystalk about birds instead of feelings.
Or, plants, in my case. And lately, those plants…along with the sponsor emails and endless phone calls that come with them…have been my best excuse for not slowing down long enough to notice how much I’m running on fumes.
By the time I step outside, they’re fully engrossed in a debate about cardinal migration patterns. This is them. Perfectly ordinary and perfectly avoidant.
“Morning, Levi Strauss,” Dad says, hugging me like the nickname might finally stick. “Up with the dawn chorus, kiddo?”
I groan softly into his shoulder. “Not exactly by choice.”
Mom’s next, the scent of apricot soap and coffee enveloping me like it has for as long as I can remember. She leans back, holding my face between her palms, eyes searching mine with an intensity I’ve come to dread.
