Page 128 of Love is a Game

I sip my water, waiting, appreciating the way Keith speaks—unhurried, like we have all the time in the world to solve things. Even though I have no clue how this relates to my messed-up life.

“It’s an analogy to explain personal traits,” he continues. “That some people are delicate like orchids—or like these dahlias.” He gives the wilted plants a look of sympathy. “They thrive and succeed only if they’re carefully cultivated. Add any form of stress, or neglect them, and they will most likely fail.”

I blink. “Okay—”

“Then there are the resilient ones,” he muses, scanning the yard. “The ones that survive even in the toughest conditions—like dandelions.”

“‘Dandilions’?” I repeat. “Aren’t they a weed?”

“Well, quite a pretty weed…even contains medicinal properties,” he qualifies. “They can take root anywhere, even crack through cement. Their roots dig deep—some go down fifteen feet. And they have a long lifespan. A dandelion you spot in a playground could be older than the kids running past it. Tough little things.”

He scratches his nose. “Anyway, I see those separate qualities reflected in my students. It explains why kids from the same family can have totally different behavior patterns. And whenever I think of the resilient type of kid…I think of you, Penelope.”

I’m taken by surprise. “Me?”

He nods. “You always bounced back from adversity. Your dad not being around? That had to be tough. And yeah, you were a little quiet and introspective sometimes, but you never backed down from a challenge. You held your own. Had it all over Tuck and Brady when you were kids.” He chuckles. “Always had this inner confidence, even when things didn’t go your way.”

“I did?”

“Yeah. Look at you now. You handled your mom’s estate, even with all the grief you’re still carrying. And you were brave enough to take off to New York straight after school. You took a risk on that internship. Even built something of your own.” He shrugs. “And if your business is struggling? Then it’s a lesson. One you’ll use to build something even stronger next time. Because that’s what you do. You bounce back. You’re a tough little—”

“Dandelion?” I grin.

“Yeah.” He bends down to adjust the hose, shifting it further along the garden bed. “It was a privilege to watch you grow up and to see the woman you’ve become—big-shot designer and all.” He glances up with a small smile. “You know, in many ways, Susan and I are just as proud of you as we are of Tuck.”

I blink rapidly as an unexpected sting of tears pricks my eyes. I never really considered that Susan and Keith might have felt that way about me. Carry such memories of me.

But I guess it makes sense. They’ve known me since I was eight—watched me through school, witnessed my angsty teenage years, saw the way I practically lived at their house some days. Keith was even patient enough to give me a few driving lessons when Mom was too busy. When I was desperate to get my license before Tuck did.

“It’s not always easy for small-town kids to make it,” Keith continues, his voice thoughtful. “Maybe it was the way you all had each other—you, Tuck, Brady, Mason. You pushed each other, inspired each other.” He shrugs. “Anyway, the point is, I have faith in you.”

I drop my gaze to the ground, feeling something unfamiliar lodge in my chest. Acceptance. Maybe even belonging. And it’s almost too much to process.

“And maybe you don’t have every answer yet,” Keith adds gruffly. “Maybe you don’t know exactly where you’re going. And as far as parenting goes, believe me, no one has the answers these days—with technology pervading kids’ lives, all the pressures they’re under? You just have to pour love into them and hope for the best.”

He gives me a pointed look. “And whatever’s happening now? You don’t have to solve everything at once. Just figure out the first thing, the most urgent, most important thing, and handle that. One step at a time, Penelope.”

His voice is calm. Certain.

And for the first time in hours, I feel like I can breathe.

Latching onto Keith’s quiet faith in me, I step back inside and face what I now realize isn’t just about the garden. The whole house is a mess.

I start with the dishes. Then the counters. Launder the sheets and towels. Before I know it, I’m knee-deep in a full-on cleaning spree. One small, manageable task at a time.

It’s a relief to focus on something simple. Tangible. Scrubbing away stains, wiping surfaces, clearing clutter. Each task has a clear start and finish. Unlike the mess in my head, this is something I can control.

I’m vacuuming when I spot it. The broken string of pearls, half-hidden by the table leg. I must have missed it in my last rather lazy cleanup. Now, I pick up the delicate strand, loop the ends together securely, and drape it over the back of a chair. As I keep going, my eyes drift back to it, the soft glow of pearls stark against the dark wood.

I pause. Fold the string in on itself, doubling the rows.

Hmm.

The sleeve I kept tweaking on Mia’s dress…I like it—really like it. Accordion folds in stiff fabric, positioned just off the shoulder, as striking and artful as a sail. I guess I wanted to invoke the setting of Blue Mountain Lake, its shapes and angles: peaks, arcs of bobbing boats, the rising crescent of the township surrounded by water and forest. And it works, it’s original, bold, and a touch whimsical.

But it’s not Mia. It’s a strong statement piece I love, but that’s not the point. This design has to be right for her…for her story.

I glance back at the pearls.

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