Page 78 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

“I think…” I begin. “I think maybe that whatever was going on between them, it had been for a while. And I ignored it until last night when they were standing in front of me.”

Logan anchors his thumb to my palm. “I’m sure it was difficult to see them at all, and worse to see them together.”

I shake my head. “Actually, no. I mean, sure, that conversation wasn’t fun by any means, but them being together isn’t what’s really bothering me.”

“What’s bothering you?”

I stare at our joined hands for another long moment. Steady. Unyielding. “I was so certain that the three of us were happy. I believed that in my core. It was a lie, but what if it’s not just a lie they told me? What if it’s a lie I told myself? How do I know the difference between what’s real and what I just want to be true?”

Logan doesn’t answer. Maybe my question is unfair. Unanswerable.

But then he says, “My mom was a really good carpenter.” When my eyebrows pull together, he smiles softly. “This will connect, I promise.”

I snort and rest my temple on his chest. “All right.”

“My dad was the one who taught me about framing and scale and sequencing, but Mom was the one who was passionate about the work. Somehow, I learned the most from her—that summer we built your uncle’s barn. Sometimes, we’d find a measurement that was off by a hair or a part of the design that didn’t fit as planned, and Mom would say something like ‘The tape measure tells you the numbers. Your eyes tell you the truth.’ Or ‘If you stare at it long enough and something feels off, it probably is.’ ”

It reminds me of her language from the letter. “Do you think that was her thinking about leaving?”

“Maybe. But what I’m trying to say is that, after many years of experience, I’ve learned that her advice is right. You might use tape measures to set posts and build walls, but sometimes your hands know more than your brain does.”

“That sounds like something my uncle would have said.”

“He was a wise man.”

I nod even though those words twist, too. “I’m sorry, but I don’t really understand what this has to do with Blake and Liv.”

Logan rakes his nails against his beard. “Sorry. This isn’t as eloquent as I’d like. What I’m trying to say is that your mind is right about a lot of stuff, but at the end of the day, it can lie. All you can trust is your gut.”

“That was very well said,” I whisper. “I didn’t know carpenters were so wise.”

Logan eyes me steadily. “I’m wise about as often as I dance.”

“So, quite a lot?”

“So, only with you.”

Warmth spreads through me as memories surface. Whispered dreams on a tire swing. A careful kiss in a tightening eddy. The impossible blossoms of a pear tree in autumn.

And then.

A front door snapping shut. My house lapsing into silence. One mug of coffee. One pair of boots. The taste of rain as ice scores my skin.

Cursed to solitude.

Fated to be alone.

Leaving.

“How do you know,” I ask, low, “what your gut is telling you?”

He tips his chin down. “How do you mean?”

“Like…” I smooth the quilt against my legs as I work through my tangle of thoughts. “I understand the metaphor about trusting your instincts when it comes to carpentry. And my uncle always tried to teach me to tend the land that way, too. But I don’t know how to apply that logic to big, complicated life decisions. When your mind is racing with a million thoughts, what does ‘trusting your gut’ even mean?”

Logan frowns, ducks his chin. “Can’t say I’ve gotten there yet. Let me know if you figure it out?”

I sink against his shoulder. “Yeah. Sure.”