Page 11 of Hooked on Emerson
Then she pulled back, laughing too loudly, the sound echoing off the windows. He stepped away too, brush still in hand, heart oddly unsteady.
“Heathens,” Ava muttered, wiping her arm. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”
He grinned, relieved at her tone even as his skin still felt like it remembered the shape of her wrist.
The rest of the day passed quietly. Customers came in and out, drawn by the floral display Ava had refreshed midafternoon. Emerson replaced a loose bracket on one of the side shelves, then helped her carry a heavy planter from the back to the front stoop.
Around five, with the sun slanting low through the windows, Ava poured them both iced tea and sat on the newly restored bench. Emerson went to join her, the bench creaking softly beneath their combined weight.
“You ever think about leaving Millfield?” she asked after a few sips.
He stared out the front window. A couple walked by, hand in hand, laughing about something small. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “When I was younger, I thought I wouldn’t stay. Thought I’d end up somewhere bigger. Somewhere no one knew me.”
“And now?”
He glanced at her. “I guess I stopped needing to disappear.”
She nodded, her expression unreadable and distanced.
They sat in silence for a while, watching the town flowing around them. A breeze stirred the flowers in the window box, and the sound of a dog barking echoed faintly down the street.
“I found a shoebox under the counter this morning,” she said eventually. “Full of old notes and receipts. One of them was a to-do list titled ‘Someday.’”
Emerson looked at her. “What was on it?”
“Paint the back wall, replant the side garden, take a train to Oregon, learn how to make croissants.”
“Ambitious.”
“She wrote it five years ago.”
Ava turned toward him. “I think I might try. One thing at a time. Maybe not Oregon. But I could repaint the wall.”
He smiled. “I’ll help.”
“I figured you’d say that.” She gave him a little smile, shoulders slouched with relief.
They sat there for some time, watching the sky begin to change colors. Eventually, Emerson stood and brushed off his jeans. “I’ll be back in the morning. We can finish the second coat.”
Ava didn’t move from the bench. She watched him gather his things, her hand resting lightly on her knee.
“You could come earlier,” she said suddenly. “Before we open. Just for coffee.”
He paused, toolbox in hand. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He didn’t smile, but the look in his eyes softened. “All right,” he said with a nod. “Eight o’clock.”
She nodded, her fingers curling slightly around the edge of the bench.
“Goodnight, Ava.”
“Goodnight, Emerson.”
The morning was less humid and the dew still clung to the grass and stone of the cemetery like it couldn’t bear to let go. Ava walked slowly between the rows of headstones, a small bundle of lavender and white roses clutched in her hand. The wet grass soaked the hem of her jeans as she moved through the silence.
She knew the path by heart now. Twenty-three steps past the old oak, then left at the granite angel with the chipped wing. The route had become as familiar as the walk to the shop, though she’d only been making it for three months.
