“I was scared to bring it up,” I admit. “I thought he would think I was ridiculous.”
“But he didn’t,” Daphne says.
“No, he didn’t. He told me that he hasn’t stopped thinking about me since the day he first saw me at the café.”
Lily makes a high-pitched squealing noise that I swear only dogs can hear. “Oh my god!”
We reach the far edge of the field where a massive tree stands, its thick trunk and wide branches creating a shaded canopy. It is our secret spot. When we were kids, we had discovered the small clearing behind it by accident, it has been ours ever since.
Daphne pushes aside the branches first. “Still perfect,” she says.
The clearing looks the same. Soft grass, wildflowers. The big flat rock we use as a table. Rose packed a picnic; we spread out a blanket and unpacked the food. Mini sandwiches, fruit, crackers and cheese.
“You deserve this,” Daphne says quietly.
“Someone good,” Rose adds.
“And Everett seems like a really good guy,” Lily finishes.
“Yeah,” I say, grinning softly.
For the first time in a long time, I believe it too. That I deserve a good guy.
19
Everett
Icradle my coffee mug in my hand, with the morning light shining through the kitchen window, leaning back in the chair, listening to the faint chirping of birds beyond the porch.
Mom moves around the kitchen, flipping pancakes and humming a tune I don’t recognize. “You’re quiet this morning,” she says without turning.
“Just thinking,” I admit.
She glances over her shoulder. “About the fundraiser?”
I nod. “Yeah, about everything.”
Dad shuffles in from the porch, his boots hitting the floor as he shakes them off. He pours himself a cup of coffee, gives Mom a kiss on the cheek, and sits across from me. We don’t speak right away.
Breakfast is a quiet ritual, the kind of moment that is supposed to be comfortable, but with Dad, they are always layered.
“I drove past the theater this morning,” he finally says, clearing his throat.
I take a sip of coffee. “Yeah?”
“There were a couple of older folks standing out front, talking about it, guessing what they think the first movie would be.” He takes a slow sip of coffee, eyes on the steam rising from his mug.
I let the words settle. Small praise. Not an apology, not forgiveness. But it is more than I expected.
“Sounds like you pulled it off,” he says quietly.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
He nods, then stands. “Heading into town. Be proud of what you did,” he says, and leaves.
Mom’s soft smile makes the tension in my shoulders ease a little. “That sounds promising.”
“Yeah,” I say.
