Page 38 of Peacocks

I sighed. Hopefully, Lane wouldn’t notice since there were plenty of other things for him to see on the wreath.

I wiped a hand across my brow, smearing dirt over my skin, and got back to work. This wreath needed to be perfect. For Lane. For the man who deserved everything.

The smell of fresh blooms filled the air, mingling with the scent of sawdust and the faint tang of Georgia clay I’d used to create the base for my Georgia Bulldog wreath. He’d been a professor at UGA and had spent a number of years on campus and in the community. It was silly, probably, but I wanted him to have pieces of where he came from and to show him just how well it coordinated with the place he’d ended up.

I’d also worked some tiny wooden carvings of animals into the vines—his patients, the ones I’d seen him care for with that steady, quiet determination. I’d shaped a small peacock feather out of wire and tucked it near the top, a nod to Disco Dave and the day Lane had looked at me like I was more than just his landlord. I’d crafted a honey jar and added that, too, as a symbol of how much I loved our mornings together.

My hands moved on autopilot, but my thoughts ran wild, picking apart every stupid dream I’d let myself have over the past six months. Lane smiling at me over breakfast. Lane’s hand brushing mine as we wrangled Disco Dave and his crew. Lane kissing me like I mattered.

I smiled to myself. As much as I gave Lane, he gave me back a hundredfold in the simple pleasure of his company, the warmth of his presence, his daily kindnesses, and the way he let me care for him, not because he necessarily needed it but because he understoodIdid.

The two of us could sustain each other for a lifetime, if he’d let us, and I wanted the wreath to show that too. I wanted him to see the hope and possibility of a life with me. I wanted him to see that my heart was his with no strings attached—no contracts and no down payment required.

This wreath was a story. His story. Our story. And if Lane did decide to leave someday, I wanted him to have this wreath to take with him so he’d remember that somebody in the world saw him, understood him, appreciated him… and loved him.

I stepped back, wiping my hands on my jeans as I stared at my creation. It wasn’t just the best Entwinin’ wreath I’d ever made; it was the best thing I’d ever made, period, and I was pretty damn proud of it.

But it occurred to me that I didn’t quite know how to give it to him.

Some folks liked to make a big production of giving their wreaths right in the middle of town at the Entwinin’ festival, and I understood that. Part of the fun was being able to show the world how much love and pride you had for your Entwined. All the displays of affection, all the positivity and joy from seeing other people happy… it was energizing and uplifting.

On the other hand, plenty of folks preferred to give their wreaths privately—an opportunity for a sweet and specialmoment between sweethearts or friends—and I understood that too.

But what did you do when your Entwined had said he wantedcasualand your wreath practically shoutedI’m in love with you? What did you do when you wanted your Entwined to know how very special he was, but you didn’t want him to feel awkward that he didn’t have a wreath for you or pressured to love you back?

I turned off the lights and locked the workshop behind me. I climbed the stairs to Lane’s apartment and laid his wreath on the Welcome Mat, propped against the door where he’d find it in the morning. That way, the wreath didn’t have to mean anything more than Lane wanted it to, and he didn’t have to worry about responding in any kind of way in front of me.

But when I went home and climbed into my bed to snag a few hours of sleep, the night felt heavier than usual, like the weight of all the things I wasn’t telling Lane was pressing down on my chest.

Eventually—soon, maybe even tomorrow after the festival—I needed to tell him how I felt.

I needed to ask him if there was any possibility the novelty of living in the Thicket would wear off one day… and, if not, would he want to make a go of it with a simple country boy like me?

I wokeup only two hours later and packed up my truck with the wreaths I’d made, hoping the noise from the engine wouldn’t wake Lane too early.

The first several deliveries went by quickly. After seeing several sleepy faces light up with excitement when I showed them their custom wreaths, my mood had improved. As the morning wore on and my truck got emptier with each visit, I feltmyself relaxing. This was my town, these were my people, and their optimism was contagious.

I loved the Entwinin’. It was like Valentine’s Day but with a ton more authenticity and the social acceptance of expressing love and affection for friends and neighbors the same way we did for our romantic loves.

It was a holiday of celebrating others, celebrating community, celebrating togetherness.

When I finally finished my deliveries and made it into town, the sun had burned off the morning chill, and it had turned into a gorgeous spring day. The square was alive with music and laughter, wreaths strung from every post and hanging from shop doors. Kids ran by with sticky fingers and wide grins while couples walked hand in hand, sharing soft smiles and whispered promises.

I walked toward the center of the action, enjoying the people I’d known my whole life celebrating love in all its forms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because it was.

Maybe my midnight crisis had been my insecurity talking. Maybe I wasn’t giving Lane enough credit to know what he wanted. He’d told me he was happy in the Thicket. Now, in the light of day and around all of the best of what made my town the most special place on Earth, I could see it. Whywouldn’the love it here? I sure did.

“Jaybird, sweetheart!” My grandma Emmaline walked hand-in-hand with Amos Nutter, the man she still called herbeau, though they’d been Proud-Nutters since their marriage a couple of years back. “Happy Entwinin’ to you!”

I grinned back at her before dodging a few racing kids to peck her on the cheek. “And to you. How’d you like your miniature Bovine wreath, Amos?” I asked.

Grandma’s hands were too knotted up with arthritis to be able to make her own wreaths anymore, but I was more than happy to create anything she wanted to her very specific, detailed instructions.

Amos pulled his khaki jacket open to display the eight-inch wreath strung from a rope around his neck like a pendant and nestled against his heart. “Best damned cow I ever saw,” he said, reaching for my hand. “And considering I once showed Rocket Ranger Rosita at the state championships, that’s saying quite a bit. You do good vine, son.”

I shook his hand, feeling strangely proud. “Glad to hear it.”

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