Page 52 of Unlocking Melodies

The sun began its descent, turning everything golden and soft. One of those perfect spring evenings that made Oakwood Grove look like it belonged on a postcard, all warm light and long shadows and ducks plotting their next tactical sandwich acquisition.

Neither of us moved to leave. Something had shifted between us, subtle but significant, like a key change in a familiar song.

A splash interrupted whatever heavy moment might have followed. Mr. Quackers had apparently decided we'd had enough serious conversation, landing between us with all the subtlety of a feathered wrecking ball. Water droplets scattered everywhere, including on Ethan's probably-costs-more-than-my-car suit.

“Well,” I said, watching him try to maintain dignity while being sprinkled by pond water, “at least Mr. Quackers remembers me. That's something, right?”

“Your duck,” he said with fond exasperation, “has absolutely no respect for Italian wool.”

“Of course not. He has an MBA in bread-based economics, remember? Designer labels mean nothing to him.”

The sunset painted everything in soft focus, making even Mr. Quackers look briefly majestic before he ruined it by trying to eat Ethan's shoelaces. In that golden light, with ducks plottingaround us and unspoken things settling into comfortable silence.

“We should probably rescue your shoes,” I said, watching Mr. Quackers employ increasingly creative tactics. “Before he adds designer footwear to his criminal empire.”

“Probably.” But neither of us moved. The moment felt too delicate to break, like those last rays of sunlight turning the pond to gold.

A breeze carried the scent of spring and distant music from someone's car radio. Mr. Quackers, having failed in his footwear acquisition mission, settled for judging us silently from his new perch on the bench back.

“You know,” I said, surprising myself with the honesty, “I spend so much time trying to remember who I was that sometimes I forget to figure out who I am now.”

Ethan's smile held something I couldn't quite name but somehow recognized anyway. “Maybe that's not such a bad thing. Sometimes who we are now is better than who we're trying to remember being.”

As if to punctuate his point, Mr. Quackers chose that moment to demonstrate his approval by attempting to nest in Ethan's perfectly styled hair.

“Oh sure,” Ethan said with dignity that was somewhat undermined by having to dodge duck feet, “now he likes me.”

“What can I say? You've been approved by the local wildlife. That's practically a citizenship requirement in Oakwood Grove.”

His laugh felt like a new song starting – one we might both be ready to learn, even if we couldn't quite remember the old ones. And maybe that was okay. Maybe some things were better written from scratch anyway.

Mr. Quackers settled between us like he belonged there, clearly considering himself the supervisor of whatever was happening on this bench. The sunset painted everything inpossibilities, and for once, I didn't mind not knowing exactly what came next.

Sometimes new memories were better than trying to chase old ones. Sometimes a sunset and a criminal mastermind duck and a laugh that felt like coming home were enough to start with.

Chapter 13

Take Two

The evening light did funny things to your perception. At least, that's what I told myself as I watched Jimmy laugh at Mr. Quackers' increasingly dramatic attempts to claim territory on our bench. The sunset had softened everything – the park's edges, the pond's ripples, and apparently my carefully maintained defenses.

My phone buzzed for probably the hundredth time. Mia, no doubt, with more updates about the board's growing concerns. But for once, the corporate world could wait. Right now, all I could focus on was the way Jimmy's eyes crinkled when he laughed – exactly the same as they had at Rosewood, exactly the same as every memory I'd tried so hard to forget.

“Have dinner with me.”

The words escaped before my business-trained filter could catch them, coming out more like a demand than an actual invitation. I winced immediately, watching Jimmy's eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“That wasn't...” Smooth. Real smooth. “I meant...”

Jimmy's expression shifted from startled to amused, clearly enjoying watching my composure completely desert me. Mr. Quackers, sensing weakness, chose this moment to make another attempt at my shoes.

“Would you like to have dinner?” I tried again, my usual confidence nowhere to be found. “With me? If you're comfortable with that, of course. No pressure. Entirely your choice. I'm making this worse, aren't I?”

Mr. Quackers, apparently deciding to help, chose this moment to attempt what could only be described as a tactical distraction maneuver, sending a spray of pond water directly at my suit.

“I think,” Jimmy said, fighting back a smile, “your new friend is trying to tell you something about formal wear at duck ponds.”

“Your duck,” I said with what dignity I could muster while dripping pond water, “has strong opinions about Italian wool.”

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