Page 122 of Catching Sparks

I’m extremely relieved that she doesn’t mind that I jumped in with her son and husband. If she had, it would have bothered me, but I was prepared for any outcome when I decided not to keep biting my tongue.

I’ve never feared standing up for those I care about. And that extends to the man I love, even if it does include risking a potential relationship with his family. Reggie may have his reasons for doing what he did with the Jocelyn situation, but so does Garrison, even if they aren’t the most flattering. The hurt Garrison has felt from his father has only made it impossible for him to see that. They need to talk. Only then will he be able to scrape away the painful scar tissue that’s built over his wounds and start fresh.

Once everyone has finished eating, I look to Cynthia for any hint on what she wants us to do next. Whether we outright tell the two men to go talk or if we leave them a subtle opening instead.

“Poppy, would you be a dear and help me clear the table so we can get to washing the dishes?” she asks smoothly.

I nod. “Sure.”

Dragging my hand from the middle of Garrison’s back to his shoulder, I feather a kiss across his cheek and give him a reassuring squeeze. His following sigh is heavy, weighed down.

“You two are not as subtle as you think you are,” he mutters.

My lips twitch as I pull back and look into his eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t go too far. I want you close.”

I kiss his cheek again, unable to help it.

“I’ll just be in the kitchen. One shout and I’ll be here. Promise.”

“Fine.”

“So grumpy,” I sing, ruffling his hair as I push away from the table.

He glares at me, but the crinkle at the corners of his eyes betrays him. I have no doubt that if his parents weren’t staring at us right now, he’d swat my ass as I saunter behind his chair and begin clearing the dirty dinner plates from the table.

Reggie stacks the plates from the opposite side of the table and has them waiting for me to add to the one in my arms while Cynthia carries the leftover chicken to the kitchen.

I thank him for the help and then follow after Cynthia, flashing Garrison an encouraging smile before slipping out of view. It’s easier to breathe once we escape the tension in the dining room, and I set the plates on the marble counter beside a double farmhouse sink.

Joining me at the sink, Cynthia asks, “What do you think the odds are that they figure their shit out tonight?”

“Selfishly, my hopes are high. I just want him to open himself up more instead of putting up that steel wall of his, and I think he holds off on doing that because he’s scared anyone he does let in won’t stay around long. I’m sure your husband is an incredible man, Cynthia, but I’m going to have Garrison’s back regardless of the outcome tonight.”

A gentle hand falls to my shoulder, and I stare at it before looking up to find Cynthia staring at me with gleaming eyes.

“There’s a reason he broke that habit with you. Thank you for protecting my boy. He might think he doesn’t need it, but he does. You are perfect for him, Poppy. I can’t express to you how happy I am that I got this day with you. To watch the two of you together and witness the love between you . . . I will never forget it.”

She drops such a weighted declaration on me, and I struggle to find a reply worthy of it. But she’s not done, and by the time she is, we’re both crying.

“Eight weeks is not long enough for a love like the one you share. I understand why you both feel as though that’s all you can have, but please, for me, just remember that there’s always more than one route to take you where you need to go. Your mind and heart will always present you with two different routes, but sometimes, it’s your gut you have to listen to.”

GARRISON

Poppy disappears, Mom not far behind, and I feel the loss of her presence beside me like an amputated limb. I itch beneath my skin and know no matter how deep I’d dig my nails into my flesh, I know I’d never be able to soothe it.

The conversation that’s about to happen between my father and me is long overdue. The weight of that isn’t lost on me. It could go very, very wrong, or it could go fine. I wouldn’t put bets on either side yet.

“Do you have somewhere you want to start?” Dad asks once the sink starts to run in the kitchen. “The floor is yours.”

I look at him. Really look at him.

His age shows with every new wrinkle on his forehead and around his mouth. Exhaustion radiates from his slouched shoulders. Even lazing around the house, he’s wearing a deep purple polo with cream stripes and a pair of khaki pants. His style is atrocious. I used to get a kick out of it. None of my classmates’ dads dressed like mine while I was growing up, and even if I thought it was ridiculous most of the time, I loved his uniqueness. His lack of care for what others think about him is one of my favourite qualities about him.

With his eyes dull and mouth flat, he looks genuinely upset. I want to believe him, but I’m too stubborn to.

“Do you really not know when I stopped trying with you?”

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