She nods. “Yes.Canyoulisten for once.”
I feel like the joke just wrote itself, but I don’t dare point it out. Instead, I just let my gaze shift from one of her eyes to the other, mentally reminding myself not to kiss her.
“Okay,” I say finally.
We walk a few blocks in silence, the streets strung with St. Patrick’s Day decorations and green lights, blinking against the gray early afternoon. The air smells of salt and wood, like it always does down near the water. Darcy’s a step ahead of me, her limp more noticeable on the slight decline, but she doesn’t slow down. I watch the way her hair blows behind her, how her lips tug into a smile as she points at a cute pair of gloves througha shop window. I could follow her like this for blocks. Maybe forever, if she asked.
When we approach Pike Place Market, Darcy weaves us through the crowd like she’s done it a thousand times. We pass stalls packed with handmade soaps and freshly caught fish. She stops for samples at every table, handing me dried mango, lavender honey, and some kind of spicy chocolate that I’ll see in my dreams.
I’ve lived in Seattle for years now, but I’ve never actually shopped Pike Place. I only ever come downtown for the diner and the occasional night out. So I just follow her, wide-eyed, like a tourist in my own city.
We pass a flower stand, and I stop short. Buckets of tulips spill out onto the sidewalk. Thick stemmed with yellow, red, and pink petals. like a flower field right on the water.
Tulips are my favorite.
“Only five dollars!” the woman behind the stand says, clipping a fresh bundle without looking up. I shake my head.
“Thank you. Maybe next time.”
Darcy frowns, then pulls a five from her pocket and hands it over. She circles the rows of buckets, tapping her finger against the little dent in her chin, until her eyes lock on a gorgeous bouquet of pink and yellow tulips. Without another beat, she scoops them up, and strolls on.
As we walk away, she pushes it into my hands.
“They’re for you,” she says.
Taken aback, I blink. “What? Why?”
She shrugs. “Because you stopped walking.” Then she pauses, her brow furrowing as she catches the look on my face. “What?”
“I just—nobody has ever bought me flowers before, is all.”
A valley forms between her brows. “What?”
I hitch a shoulder, gesturing to myself. “Relationship-less, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah, but still.” She waves me off, looking forward. “It’s criminal. Pretty girls deserve pretty flowers.”
My fingers tighten around the stems as warmth pools in my chest, and my face, and my stomach. I don’t say anything else, but I don’t stop smiling, either. I just walk beside her, weaving through the sea of people.
You know how they say love is in the little things? The small gestures in everyday life?
I realize it when she stops on the sidewalk, pulls off one glove and tucks it into her armpit, then takes a cautious, excited bite of honeycomb she bought from a local beekeeper. The honey clings to her teeth as she pulls it away, and without thinking, she holds it out to me to try, like we’ve always shared food and germs and laughter.
It’s in that moment I know for a fact I’m not falling anymore.
I am fully, helplessly, unconditionally in love.
The honey’s thick and treacly, sticking to the roof of my mouth. I finish licking the sugar off my lips, my tongue smacking like a dog with a mouthful of peanut butter, and continue on. I know she’s probably tired by now. She’s been doing a lot better since the new treatment plan started, but that doesn’t mean she’s invincible. Burnout sneaks up on you. I’d rather step in early than wait until she’s struggling and pretending she’s not.
“We should probably head back,” I suggest, tugging my sleeves down as a salty breeze pushes past. She doesn’t stop.
“We haven’t even gotten to the best part,” she says.
I frown. “What are you talking about?”
She just grins a devilishly pretty grin. “You’ll see.”
We walk side by side down the street, trading bites of homemade sweet chili jerky and reminiscing every moment of how we destroyed the Cougars in the semis last night. Eventually, the sidewalk spills out onto the waterfront. The scent of the ocean deepens, laced with caramel and buttered popcorn.The wooden planks of the pier creak faintly beneath our feet as Darcy guides me onward.
