Page 79 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
"Everything okay?" she asked quietly, her voice pitched for his ears alone.
He nodded, offering her a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just processing," he admitted. "It's not every day the past shows up at your dinner table."
The honesty in his response caught her off guard. She'd expected jealousy or possessiveness, the kind of Alpha behavior that treated romantic history as a threat to current interests. Instead, Meadow seemed genuinely focused on understanding rather than competing.
"Are you okay with him being here?" he asked, the question carrying genuine concern for her wellbeing rather than his own comfort.
The question stopped her short because she didn't know the answer. Was she okay with Cypress being here? Part of her wanted to say yes, that she was mature enough to handle the presence of an ex-boyfriend, that their history was just that—history. But another part of her recognized the emotional upheaval his appearance had caused, the way his presence had already begun to complicate the fragile new beginning she'd been building with Meadow.
"I don't know," she admitted, appreciating that he'd created space for honesty rather than expecting reassurance. "It's complicated."
"Most things worth doing are," he replied, his hand finding hers under the table and giving it a gentle squeeze.
The contact sent warmth radiating up her arm, a reminder of their earlier intimacy and the connection they'd begun to forge. Whatever complications Cypress's presence might represent, they didn't negate what was happening between Meadow andher. If anything, the contrast made her more aware of how different this felt—the steadiness of Meadow's attention versus the mercurial nature of her relationship with Cypress.
The sound of the front door opening announced Cypress's return, and moments later he reappeared in the kitchen with a leather portfolio under his arm. It was a substantial case, clearly well-used, with the kind of patina that came from travel and careful handling.
"This is just a sampling," he said as he opened the case on the cleared section of table. "But it should give you an idea of the kind of work I do."
The photographs that spilled out were remarkable—black and white images that captured not just scenes but emotions, moments in time that spoke to universal human experiences. There was a series from a small farming community in Iowa that showed the dignity of agricultural life without romanticizing its challenges. Another collection documented the renovation of a historic downtown district, capturing both the physical transformation and the hope in people's eyes as their community came back to life.
But it was the portrait series that took her breath away—intimate images of people in their environments, each one telling a story without words. An elderly man sitting on his front porch with his dog, the late afternoon light casting shadows that spoke to a lifetime of watching the world change. A young mother hanging laundry while her toddler played in the yard, the mundane moment transformed into something beautiful by the quality of light and the tenderness in her expression.
"These are incredible," she breathed, meaning every word. "You've really found your calling."
Cypress glowed at the praise, and for a moment she saw the boy he was—eager for approval, passionate about his art,proud of work that represented hours of patient observation and technical skill.
"Thank you," he said softly. "That means a lot, coming from you."
The weight in his words, the suggestion of deeper meaning, made the air in the kitchen suddenly feel charged with possibility and peril. She was aware of Meadow's stillness beside her, of the way Flint and Gus had gone quiet, sensing undercurrents they didn't fully understand.
"Your technique has really evolved," she continued, focusing on the professional rather than the personal. "The composition, the use of light—it's sophisticated in a way your college work never was."
"College work?" Gus asked with interest. "You two knew each other in college?"
The question hung in the air, innocent enough on the surface but loaded with the weight of explanation that had been building throughout the evening. Marigold glanced at Cypress, wondering how much he wanted to share, how much of their story he was comfortable telling in this setting.
"We did more than know each other," Cypress said, his voice carrying a mixture of fondness and regret that made her chest tighten. "We dated for awhile. It was..." He paused, searching for words that could encompass the complexity of what they shared. "It was intense. Serious. I thought we were heading toward something permanent."
The past tense landed heavily in the sudden quiet of the kitchen. Flint set down his wine glass with careful precision, while Gus's eyebrows rose in an expression of dawning understanding. Marigold could feel the weight of their attention, the curiosity about what happened to derail something that sounded so promising.
Meadow's hand tightened almost imperceptibly on hers under the table, a gesture of support that she was grateful for even as she struggled to process the emotions Cypress's words had stirred up. The casual way he mentioned permanence—something they never explicitly discussed but that she'd sensed hovering at the edges of their relationship like a promise waiting to be made—reopened wounds she thought had healed.
"What happened?" Flint asked with the direct approach that seemed to characterize his personality. "If you don't mind me asking."
Cypress glanced at her, a question in his eyes that she wasn't sure how to answer. The story of their ending was complicated, layered with misunderstandings and poor communication and the kind of youthful mistakes that seemed inexplicable in hindsight. But it was also deeply personal, tied to insecurities and fears that shaped both of them in ways they were probably still discovering.
"I screwed it up," he said simply, shouldering responsibility in a way that surprised her. "I got scared and made some very poor decisions about how to handle that fear."
The admission hung between them, heavy with implication and unspoken apology.
Marigold wanted to ask what he was scared of, what decisions he was referring to, but the kitchen suddenly felt too public for that kind of conversation. These were questions that needed private space, time to unfold without the pressure of an audience.
"Fear has a way of making us do stupid things," Gus observed with the wisdom of someone who'd made his own share of mistakes. "Especially when we're young and don't have perspective on what really matters."
"Exactly," Cypress agreed, his relief at the understanding evident in his voice. "I was twenty-two and thought I had tohave everything figured out. When I realized I didn't, I panicked instead of just talking to Marigold about it."
The revelation that their breakup stemmed from panic rather than a lack of feeling reframed everything Marigold thought she understood about that period of her life.
