She laughs, low and genuine. “Text me later.”
“Deal.”
She slides into the driver’s seat, and I shut her door with a soft thunk. As I watch her pull away, brake lights winking, I realize my chest no longer simmers with Cassandra-sparked anger. Instead, it hums with momentum, like I’m rounding third on a perfectly hit double.
September’s changed the air, changed the color of the leaves, but what’s happening between Addison and me feels less like a season and more like something that’s finally taking root.
Back in my truck, bakery box riding shotgun, I cue up the playlist she insisted on sharing last week: Indigo Girls, fun., Letters to Cleo — our accidental soundtrack. As the first guitar chords fill the cab, I tap the steering wheel and picture fundraiser lights, pies on display, Addison’s laugh rising above the crowd. Cassandra’s words are already yesterday’s news.
Game on. And this time, our team’s playing for keeps.
18
BLUEPRINTS & BOUNDARIES
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 11
Addison
I’m back in the office after the pie tasting. At least we have that squared away for the fundraiser. These events are close together, and I fear I’m neglecting the fundraiser.
Meredith shows up at my office unexpectedly, dressed in head-to-toe ecru linen like she just stepped out of a magazine. Her phone dangles in one hand, manicured fingers tapping a silent rhythm on the clipboard she always carries.
“Addison,” she says as she steps inside, looking around the room like she’s evaluating shelf symmetry. “I had a cancellation in my schedule and thought I’d pop by.”
“Of course.” I stand, smoothing my jeans instinctively. “Is everything okay?”
She waves a dismissive hand. “Yes. Well, it’s as under control as it gets.”
I gesture toward the seating area. “Do you want to sit?”
She does, and I follow. There’s a pause — not awkward, just unexpected. Meredith isn’t usually the type to linger in silence.
“You’ve been busy,” she says finally, nodding at the mood boards and arch sketches pinned to the side wall. “Everything looks… good.”
“Thank you,” I reply cautiously. “We’re on track. The final floral mock-up is scheduled for Tuesday.”
Another pause. Then she sets her phone down on the table, as if surrendering it is a show of trust.
“Listen,” she begins, adjusting her blazer, “I know I’ve been intense. I know Daddy can be... pressure in human form. But I do want you to know — I appreciate how much you’ve handled.”
That almost sounds like an apology. I blink.
“Thank you,” I say, caught slightly off guard. “I know it’s a lot to juggle. I just want the day to be everything you dreamed.”
She studies me with her very particular brand of focus, the kind that used to make me feel like I was being audited. “It will be. Especially because of you. I wonder what feeds you and brings you joy Addy, to be able to bring such joy to everyone around you?”
I’m stumped, I’m not sure how to answer, but thankfully Meredith is good at monologues.
And then she leans back, voice softening. “If you’re free next week after the walk-through, you and Dylan should join us for dinner. Just casual. A thank-you. I know Gina’s a bit much, but Daddy might be less prickly if he sees you’re not working with an axe-murderer.”
I manage a laugh. Barely.
“That’s thoughtful,” I say carefully. “I’ll check his schedule.”
She nods, then breezes out.
I sit there for a full minute after the door clicks shut.
