Page 13 of Hooked on Emerson
They fell silent again, but Ava could feel the weight of unspoken words pressing against her. Finally, she set her mug down. “I was telling her about Seattle,” she said quietly. “Thefloral design studio that offered me an apprenticeship back in January.”
Emerson’s facial expression remained neutral, but she caught the slight tightening of his fingers around his cup. “That sounds like a good opportunity.”
“It is. Was.” She traced the rim of her mug with her index finger, feeling the smooth, warm ceramic. “I turned it down when she got sick. Thought there’d be time later for... well, whatever comes next.”
“And now?”
She met his eyes. “Now I don’t know if I’m staying because I want to or because I’m afraid to leave.”
He nodded slowly. “That’s a hard line to figure out.”
“Yeah.” She took another sip, grateful for his lack of platitudes. “The thing is, I love the shop. I do. But I don’t know if it’s enough anymore. If this town is enough.”
“What would be enough?” he asked, his voice gentle.
The question caught her off guard. She’d been expecting encouragement to stay, to honor her mother’s legacy. But instead, he was asking what she wanted. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Something different. Something that’s mine, not an inheritance. A chance to figure out who I am without all the expectations weighing on me.”
Emerson nodded, understanding in his eyes. “My dad left when I was twelve,” he said after a moment. “Just packed up one night and disappeared. For years, I kept thinking he’d come back. Kept his tools in the garage, his chair at the table.”
Ava watched his face, the careful control as he shared this piece of himself.
“One day, I realized I was living in a house full of ghosts,” he continued. “Not just his, but the ghost of who I thought I’d be when he came back.” He met her eyes. “It took me a long time to understand that waiting isn’t living.”
The words settled between them, ringing with truth.
“How did you stop waiting?” she asked.
“I started building things.” A small smile touched his lips. “Started fixing what I could. Figured out that even if I couldn’t control who stayed, I could control what I created.”
She nodded, understanding washing through her. “That’s why you’re so good at it. The fixing.”
“Practice,” he said with a shrug. “Lots of broken things in this world.”
They finished their coffee in silence, the ache in Ava’s chest slightly lighter. As they stood to leave, Emerson hesitated.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I think you’d be good anywhere. Here or Seattle, or somewhere else entirely.”
The simple faith in his words caught her by surprise, warming her from the inside out. “Thank you,” she said softly.
Outside, the day had brightened, the light humidity replacing the dew. They walked toward their cars, shoulders occasionally brushing.
“I’ll meet you at the shop?” Emerson asked.
“Actually,” Ava said, “would you mind if we took a detour first? There’s something I want to show you.”
Twenty minutes later, they stood at the edge of a small clearing behind the town’s old mill. Wildflowers dotted the tall grass, and a narrow creek wound through the center, its water clear and swift.
“My mom used to bring me here when I was little,” Ava said, picking her way through the grass. “She’d collect wildflowers and teach me their names. Buttercup, Queen Anne’s lace, black-eyed Susan.”
Emerson followed, his footsteps careful. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s on the ‘Someday’ list too.” She gestured toward the old mill. “She wanted to turn it into a greenhouse. Said the light was perfect.”
They moved closer to the building, its weathered boards and broken windows speaking of decades of neglect. Emerson ran a hand along the exterior, testing the stability of the frame. “It’s still solid,” he said. “Needs a lot of work, but the bones are good.”
Ava smiled at the familiar phrase. “That’s what you said about the bench.”
“It’s true of most things worth saving.” He stepped back, surveying the structure. “You thinking of picking up where she left off?”
