I set my phone facedown and exhale. It doesn’t catch in my chest like it used to. My home is quiet, sunlight spilling across the wood floors, and I can almost hear the faint echo of clapping from the wedding as if the orchard is still applauding.
Refilling my mug, I settle at my desk and stare at my website’s “About” page. It’s always been clean. Professional. Safe. I wrote it after Simon and I split our business partnership, when I was determined to rebuild with polish and poise. The kind of copy that keeps people from asking questions.
But now it feels… empty. Not false, but unfinished.
Addison Bennett Events: modern elegance with a touch of whimsy. We plan, coordinate, and deliver unforgettable moments. Serving Ontario and beyond.
Accurate, but where’s me in any of that?
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I don’t overthink it. I don’t ask Dylan or Maggie or Google what sounds most marketable. I just write what I feel.
We believe beauty can be found even in the unexpected. That grace under pressure matters just as much as perfectly folded linens.
We work hard. We lead with kindness. We believe every event is a collaboration between vision, trust, and a planner who will show up, rain or shine.
Literally.
I read it twice, then hit publish before I can second-guess myself. That little rush, not of fear but of pride, hums under my skin. I think it’s what confidence feels like when it’s brand new.
I sit back, staring at my balcony through the glass doors. It’s still a little messy — a crooked planter here, a forgotten citronella candle there — but the light outside is soft and golden, the way it gets in late September when the air starts whispering that summer’s almost over.
And I want to share it. Not the brand or the testimonial or the reputation, but this. The quiet pride. The homemade marinade already soaking into skewers in the fridge. The fact that I thought of Dylan last night when I dusted off the patio chairs.
I could text him. Or call. Or pretend I need help finalizing the fundraiser guest list.
But that’s not who I want to be anymore.
So I open my voice memo app and hit record.
“Hey. I was going to text, but… this felt better. Um, hi.”
I pause, laugh a little.
“I was thinking it’s probably time we start planning the fundraiser. And also… I just want to see you. Not in a hurricane or under an arch. Just you, me, and grilled stuff on my balcony. Tonight, if you’re free. Bring your appetite. And maybe your opinions on fairy lights. Let me know.”
I listen to it once. Then I send it before I can chicken out.
Dylan.
Be there around 6:15.
The hours between then and when he knocks feel oddly charged, not nervous. I fluff the outdoor pillows, light the good candle, and put actual effort into plating the food instead of dumping everything on the tray at once. My speakers hum with a playlist that’s part jazz, part indie acoustic, and I realize I’m… happy. Not proving anything. Just being.
When Dylan shows up at six-fifteen on the dot, he’s carrying a bottle of cider and a tote bag full of grilling tools. I raise an eyebrow as he holds up a set of tongs like a bouquet.
“I didn’t want to assume you had proper equipment,” he says.
“You’ve known me for what, two months? And already you think I’m a culinary hazard?”
“Not a hazard. A delightful mystery.”
He leans in to kiss my cheek... just my cheek, but the press of his lips lingers. He smells like cedar and citrus and something warm and familiar. I think he might smell like safety.
I lead him through to the balcony, and he whistles low as he sees the lights strung and glowing. “You went full Pinterest out here.”
“Don’t act surprised. I live for this kind of stuff.”
We fall into an easy rhythm. He flips the skewers with the confidence of a man who’s cooked for a firehouse, and I toss the salad with slightly more grace than I had last time I tried not to drop a bowl mid-event. We talk shop, brainstorm fundraiser themes, rule out “Stop, Drop, and Glow” on principle, and laugh over his suggestion that we add a s’mores station and call it “Burn Baby Burn.”
