Page 83 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
"How are you feeling?" Meadow asked as they stood in the living room, the dying fire casting dancing shadows across the walls. "That was a lot to process."
"Surprisingly okay," she answered after considering the question seriously. "Seeing Cypress again, talking about what happened between us... it was difficult, but also healing in a way I didn't expect."
Meadow nodded, settling back onto the couch and patting the cushion beside him in invitation. She accepted gratefully,sinking into the comfortable space and immediately feeling the warmth of his presence beside her.
"Sometimes the conversations we avoid are the ones we need most," he observed. "Even when—especially when—they're difficult."
"Is that experience talking?" she asked, curious about the shadows she'd glimpsed in his own past.
"In part," he admitted, his gaze focused on the fire rather than on her. "I've had my own share of difficult conversations that I put off longer than I should have. Sometimes avoiding pain just extends it."
The comment felt like a door opening, an invitation to deeper understanding that she wasn't sure whether to accept. There was clearly more to Meadow's story than she knew—the mention of Eliza earlier, the weight Gus's comment carried about him being alone too long. But pushing for information felt wrong when he'd just given her space to process her own revelations.
"Thank you," she said instead, choosing gratitude over curiosity. "For tonight, for handling Cypress being here with such grace, for not making me feel like I had to choose between past and present."
"You shouldn't have to choose," he replied, finally turning to meet her gaze. "Your past is part of what made you who you are, and who you are is..." He paused, searching for words. "Extraordinary. Complex. Worth knowing in all your dimensions."
The sincerity in his voice, the way he saw her history as enrichment rather than complication, made something tight in her chest finally relax completely. This was what acceptance felt like, she realized—not tolerance or accommodation, but genuine appreciation for the full spectrum of human experience.
"What happens now?" she asked, the question encompassing more than just the immediate future. "With Cypress staying intown for a few weeks, with whatever this is between us, with all of it?"
Meadow considered the question seriously, his expression thoughtful in the firelight.
"Now we take it one day at a time," he said finally. "We see how things develop naturally instead of trying to force outcomes. We trust that if something is meant to be, it will find a way to flourish."
The wisdom in his approach appealed to her more than any declaration of grand passion or possessive claiming might have. There was patience in his philosophy, a willingness to let relationships develop organically rather than demanding immediate definition or commitment.
"I like that," she told him. "The idea of trusting the process instead of controlling it."
"Control is overrated anyway," he said with a slight smile. "Most of the best things in life happen when we're not trying to manage them."
As if to prove his point, he reached over and took her hand, the gesture simple but perfect in its timing. Their fingers intertwined with the kind of natural ease that suggested long familiarity rather than recent acquaintance, as if their hands were designed to fit together exactly this way.
"So," he said, his thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand. "About that offer to stay over tonight. Still interested?"
The question sent warmth cascading through her, desire mixing with affection and anticipation.
After the emotional intensity of the evening, the thought of staying here, of falling asleep in the guest room while Meadow slept just down the hall, felt like exactly what she needed.
"Very interested," she told him, meaning it with an intensity that surprised her.
"Good," he said simply, but his smile carried satisfaction and promise in equal measure. "Because I was hoping you'd say yes."
14
FIRELIGHT CONFESSIONS
~MEADOW~
The living room settled into a comfortable quiet after Flint and Gus's departure, their absence leaving behind the lingering warmth of friendship and the promise of tomorrow's shared work.
Meadow watched as Marigold curled deeper into the corner of the couch, her white dress pooling around her like spilled moonlight against the worn leather cushions.
The fire had burned down to glowing embers, casting everything in soft amber light that seemed to smooth the edges of the world, making the space feel separate from time and consequence.
"More wine?" he asked, noting how her glass had somehow emptied during the emotional intensity of the evening's conversations. The bottle Cypress had brought sat on the coffee table, still half full, the label catching firelight in a way that suggested expensive taste beneath his modest claims.
"Please," she said, her voice carrying the slight looseness that spoke to relaxation rather than intoxication. "I think I need it after tonight."
