And yeah, maybe I’m younger. But my sisters have trained me well, and I know what I want.
I don’t want the girl who wants to be seen on my arm.
I want the woman who sees right through me and still lets me in.
The woman who makes to-do lists like armor and smiles like it costs her something.
The woman who thinks I make her reckless, when really, she makes me steady.
And I’d build a thousand arches if it meant watching her finally believe she’s not in this alone.
12
FAIRY-LIGHT FUMBLE
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 4
Addison
Thursday evening. I don’t know why I brought wine. I said I’d bring pie.
It’s not exactly standard protocol for a professional site check, but the bottle ends up in my tote bag anyway, wedged beside a fresh copy of the blueprint, a revised bench layout, and two plastic cups that still have tiny party hat graphics from a kid’s birthday years ago. I tell myself it’s a peace offering. A reward. A thank-you.
But maybe it’s because I haven’t stopped thinking about Dylan’s expression. The quiet way he looked at me like I was something worth staying for.
Or maybe it’s because I want an excuse to linger.
The orchard hums in the soft glow of evening. It’s the kind of summer night Bluewater Cove is famous for — lavender skies, cicadas buzzing lazily, the scent of fresh earth and apples warming in the dusk. The kind of night that whispers, slow down. I park by the stone bridge and walk the rest of the way, sandals crunching over gravel, bottle clinking gently in my bag.
Dylan’s truck is already here, backed up near the trees. The tailgate is open, tools arranged with obsessive precision. He’s at the arch, sleeves rolled, sweat darkening the collar of his t-shirt, the soft thunk of his hammer rhythmic and unhurried. A pencil is tucked behind one ear, and his hair is damp from effort or the humidity, or both. He hasn’t seen me yet.
So I pause.
The arch is already beautiful. The frame curves like an invitation, smooth joints and clean lines, the kind of craftsmanship that whispers instead of shouts. It fits the orchard perfectly. It’s clear he hasn’t just built it — he’s listened to what the space wants to become.
That alone makes something in my chest tighten.
I clear my throat, trying not to startle him.
He looks up and breaks into a slow grin. “Evening, Boss Lady.”
I groan as I approach. “If you call me that at the fundraiser, I will revoke your pie privileges.”
“Scout’s honor,” he says, wiping his hands on a rag. “You came bearing gifts?”
I lift the tote slightly. “Blueprint updates. And, um… a peace offering.”
I pull out the bottle and cups. He arches an eyebrow.
“You’re full of surprises,” he says, accepting the wine. “Want to split the last daylight on the universe’s most romantic construction site?”
“If by romantic, you mean ‘smells like cedar shavings and impending back pain,’ then yes.”
He chuckles and pours. We settle on the edge of the platform, legs dangling. The sunset filters through the orchard, drenching the trees in gold.
For a moment, it’s quiet. Comfortable.
“How’s our bride?” he asks, sipping. “Still typing in all caps?”
