Page 11 of I Do With You

Fragile sweetness, strength at your core. Drown in the softness, until I’m no more.

She moves the conversation away from that sensitive spot, telling me about various places around town I should be sure to visit while I’m here. She’s no tour guide, given that as she tells me about the various stores and businesses, I learn more about the people of Maple Creek and what Hope thinks of them than about the destinations themselves.

“For lunch? You have to go to Rosemary’s Diner. She’s the absolute sweetest woman ever, a staple of Maple Creek who makes the best burgers and cake. But don’t tell Anna at Cruz Cakes that, or she won’t sell you a slice of her famous honeybun cake, and you’d be missing out if you didn’t get that. The museum on Main Street is run by Frank, and he knows more about our town than anyone else and somehow makes a pretty dull history into something interesting. Oh, and I know you said you don’t like fresh air and outdoorsy stuff, but Marcus runs a super-popular boat tour. He does a champagne-sunset one and a coffee-sunrise one seven days a week during high season. You’d think the sunset is better, but the sunrise over the water is gorgeous this time of year, and it’s so quiet out there before anyone else wakes up. His coffee’s good too.”

I’ve damn near got an itinerary mapped out before Hope’s done, without a single titmouse in sight. Maybe this is what I came here for? Maybe Maple Creek is why I’m here? The inspiration I need?

Or Hope. She’s inspiring me, too, lyrics spinning in my head as she speaks, revealing herself and her town, piece by piece. Maybe she’s the muse I’ve been searching for.

Chapter 5

HOPE

Lying in bed, I can feel the impending panic attack that’s been building all day getting closer and closer, like a train coming down the tracks, heading straight for me.

I wanted an escape, and Ben’s done a great job of providing that all evening. We talked about nothing of importance, which was exactly what I needed. He kept me laughing with his dry sense of humor, preventing my brain from short-circuiting into a loop ofoh my Godon repeat. And once he noticed I was going for the tiny dill pickles on the admittedly Lunchable-esque board, he started pushing them all my way. Pickles and beer certainly aren’t the dinner I thought I’d have, but nothing about today is what I thought my wedding day would be like.

Now, in the quiet darkness, the anxiety is coming full throttle. And so are the tears, which are sliding hotly down my cheeks and onto the pillow I’m clutching like a lifeline.

What have I done? Why did I do it? And most importantly, now what?

I toss and turn, not having any answers, until a quiet sound catches my attention. I flip over, listening again.

What is that?

It’s Ben, I realize. He’s playing his guitar, so low I can barely hear the chords he’s strumming. Focusing on that, I try to identify the song,but it doesn’t sound familiar. After a while, I realize he’s playing the same bit over and over, like he’s learning it. I still don’t recognize it, though I’m not sure if it’s because I’m unfamiliar with the tune or he’s not very good at it yet.

Whatever it is, it’s now the soundtrack of broken dreams as I completely shatter into a million glittery pieces, crying myself to sleep. Not because I regret what I’ve done, but because ... I don’t.

“Sage! Olive! Breakfast is ready!” I shout down the hall, smiling when I hear the pounding of little feet coming my way.

“Mom! It’s my turn to pick the morning music,” Sage reminds me. It’s a tradition my mom started when I was a kid, and I’ve continued it with my girls, letting them take turns choosing a song each day. We started out with nursery rhymes and have progressed to pop music as they’ve gotten older.

“Nu-uh! You picked yestah-day! It’s my turn!” Olive argues.

They barrel into the kitchen with elbows flying, both fighting to be the first one to the stools at the island, where I’ve already placed their waffles and jelly. At five, they want to spread their own jelly like big kids, not have me do it, even though it’ll take an extra ten minutes for them to cover every nook and cranny and then lick the mess from their fingers. And that’s before they actually start eating.

Two pairs of blue eyes turn to mine, both demanding my judgment on whose turn it actually is.

“Sage, you chose yesterday. It’s Olive’s turn today.”

Like I knew she would, Sage argues back. “I did not! It’s my turn.” Of the two girls, she’s the spitfire, and Olive is the more laid-back one. But they’re learning from each other the same way Joy and I did.

Olive starts singing the Taylor Swift song Sage selected as a reminder.“Whoa-oh-oh-ohhh, it’s a cruel summah.”Her little drawl is the cutest thing I’ve ever heard. Truthfully, it’s more of a speech issue with-ersounds, but it’s adorable regardless, and I’ll miss it when she outgrows it.

Sage freezes, realizing that Olive is right. I can see it on her face, but she doesn’t want to admit that she was wrong.

“It’s okay, honey. You can choose again tomorrow—but what do you tell Olive for trying to take her turn?”

“Sorry,” she mumbles.

Crisis averted, Olive chooses her song. “Hey, Siri, play ‘Cruel Summah.’” She grins a gappy smile at Sage, who’s looking back in surprise. And then together, they sing along as they spread their jelly.

It’s the best start to a day since yesterday.

After I drop the girls off at school, the day is a whirlwind of teeth-cleaning and reminders that flossing is actually important and not a moneymaking scam by Big Flossing, and then I’m picking up the girls at school for an afternoon of dance classes, homework, and making dinner. Around six, my phone rings.

“Hey, babe,” I answer, after seeing Roy’s name on the caller ID.

---