MY HEART
I didn’t know what to say. I was embarrassed. And a little heartbroken. And a lot humiliated. But he just sat there with me and ate strawberries. Took a bite of one of my dumb sandwiches and said it was “delicious, with a surprise jelly twist, but where’s the crust?”
We watched the sun go down together, just the two of us, and he didn’t say anything cheesy or awkward. He just sat there with me like it wasn’t weird or sad at all and we talked about school and stuff.
I told him he didn’t have to come.
And he said, “Sure I did. You asked.”
And that right there? That’s Peter. He always shows up.
When it was all done, he said, “You know, Viv, this was actually pretty great. Sunset. Sandwiches. No Eli telling the same dumb joke five times. I’d say it was perfect.”
PERFECT.
Then he winked—ACTUALLY WINKED—and said, “Let me know when the next picnic is. I’ll be the first to RSVP.”
And then he was gone. He carried the cooler upstairs and went inside. Like it was nothing.
But it wasn’t nothing to me.
I think maybe—I don’t know—I think maybe reliability is actually the dreamiest thing there is. Not flowers or mixtapes or boys who play guitar. But boys who show up with root beer and call your sandwiches delicious and treat you like you matter.
Peter McCarthy showed up tonight. For me.
And it might’ve been the smallest thing in the world. But it felt like everything.
Love,
Viv
P.S. I really hope he meant it when he said he'd come to the next picnic. Maybe next time I’ll actually plan it just for him. Not that I’d ever admit it.
Not bad, Vivien Lawson. Not bad at all.
Vivien stepped all the way to the entrance of Danny’s loft and took a moment to drink in the fruits of her labor. The sports bar with a touch of refinement and elegance had been achieved with perfection, right down to the tribal-themed woven rug and the understated pillows on the sectional.
The sun was nearly down, but that gave an orange glow to the room that truly brought it to life.
The bar was welcoming, the built-ins were subtle but functional, and the new black felt pool table seemed like it had been there forever. And since it took three monstrous moving men to get it upstairs, it might very wellbethere forever, too.
She angled her phone and took another picture, trying to get the snapshot just right for the Vivien Lawson Designs Instagram page, already crafting the caption.
“Equal parts masculine and refined, cozy and luxe…elevated,” she whispered. “A touch of sophistication and definitely one-of-a-kind.”
“I hope you’re describing me for one of those diary entries you tell me you like to write.”
At Danny’s voice, she turned, lowering the phone and giving a quick—slightly embarrassed—laugh. “The room, my friend, the room.”
“Which is chef’s kiss perfection, Ms. Lawson.” He reached the top of the stairs and opened his arms toward the space. “You crushed it. I’m in love. With the room, of course.”
“Don’t ruin my moment,” she warned lightly, her voice laced with humor. “I’m having a professional high here.”
He was barefoot, as always, in dark jeans and a soft black tee that was maddeningly attractive. His mostly pepper but slightly salted hair was tousled, like he’d run a hand through it a few times before coming upstairs.
“You’re right,” he said after a beat. “It deserves a moment of appreciation. You made it look effortless, too.”
Vivien laughed. “Well, it’s one room, you had no make-or-break opinions, and your budget was more than generous. In this case, itwaseffortless.”
