Page 82 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
"Really good," Cypress agreed, standing and gathering his camera and portfolio with practiced efficiency. "And Marigold..." He turned to her with an expression that carried years of unspoken sentiment. "I'm glad we had a chance to talk. To clear the air. And I'm glad you've found a place where you can be happy."
"Thank you," she told him, rising from her seat on the couch to see him off. "I'm glad you're pursuing your photography. You always had such a good eye—it's wonderful to see you've turned that into something professional."
They stood there for a moment, former lovers turned friendly acquaintances, the weight of their shared history balanced by the recognition that they'd both moved beyond it. There was sadness in the moment but also peace, the bittersweet satisfaction of closure achieved.
"I'll probably see you around town while I'm here," he said as they moved toward the front door. "Willowbend isn't exactly large enough for us to avoid each other."
"I'd like that," she responded, meaning it. The prospect of occasional friendly encounters no longer felt threatening—if anything, it felt healing, a chance to demonstrate to herself that she could maintain cordial relationships with people from her past without being defined by those relationships.
As Cypress gathered his things and prepared to leave, Meadow appeared at her side with the quiet presence that was becoming familiar. His hand found the small of her back, a gesture of support and connection that felt natural despite the complexity of the evening.
"Drive safely," Meadow told Cypress, the words carrying genuine concern despite whatever complicated feelings might exist between them. "These roads can be tricky at night if you're not used to them."
"I'll take it slow," Cypress promised, slinging his camera bag over his shoulder. "Thank you again for dinner. All of you. This is exactly the kind of authentic community experience I was hoping to document."
He paused at the door, hand on the handle, and turned back one last time. "Marigold, I know this was unexpected for both of us, but I'm really glad we ran into each other again. You deserve all the happiness you've found here."
And then he was gone, disappearing into the darkness beyond the porch light, leaving the rest of them standing in the doorway watching his taillights disappear down the long driveway.
The silence that followed his departure felt pregnant with possibility and questions, the natural pause that came after emotionally significant events. Marigold was aware of Meadow's solid presence beside her, of Flint and Gus behind them in the hallway, of the way the evening had shifted now that they were back to the original group.
"Well," Flint said finally, breaking the contemplative quiet. "That was interesting."
"Interesting is one word for it," Gus agreed with a chuckle. "Though I have to say, he seems like a decent guy. Easy to see why you two were together."
The casual acceptance in his voice, the lack of judgment or possessiveness, reinforced Marigold's growing appreciation for the emotional maturity of the men in Meadow's pack. There was no jealousy over her past relationship, no need to diminish Cypress in order to elevate themselves—just genuine assessment of character and acknowledgment of complexity.
"He is a good person," she agreed. "We just... weren't right for each other at the time. Maybe we were too young, too uncertain about what we wanted."
"And now?" Meadow asked quietly, the question carrying weight beyond its simple words.
Marigold turned to look at him, finding his brown eyes serious but not demanding, curious rather than controlling. The contrast with how other Alphas might handle this situation struck her forcefully—the trust implicit in his question, the space he was giving her to process and respond honestly.
"Now I know what I want," she told him, meaning it with a certainty that surprised her. "And it's not in the past."
The smile that spread across his face was warm and relieved and something else—hopeful, perhaps, or simply happy. It transformed his features from handsome to devastating, the kind of expression that made her heart skip beats and her stomach flutter with possibility.
"Good to know," he said simply, but there was satisfaction in his voice that suggested her answer was exactly what he hoped to hear.
"On that note," Flint announced with characteristic directness, "I think Gus and I should head home. Early morning tomorrow, and this feels like a conversation that might be better continued in smaller numbers."
"You don't have to leave," Marigold protested, though part of her was grateful for their intuitive understanding of the situation.
"We know," Gus said with a grin. "But we want to. Besides, someone needs to make sure Flint actually gets some sleep instead of staying up all night working on his latest forge project."
"It's not staying up all night if I start before midnight," Flint argued, though his tone suggested this was a long-standing debate between them.
"It's staying up all night if you're still hammering metal when I leave for the clinic at six AM," Gus countered. "Which has happened more than once."
Their easy banter provided a comfortable backdrop as they gathered their things and prepared to leave. There were casual embraces all around—the kind of physical affection that spoke to deep friendship and chosen family bonds. When Gus hugged her, he whispered something that made her laugh despite the emotional complexity of the evening.
"Take care of our boy," he murmured in her ear. "He's been alone too long."
The comment carried weight beyond its playful delivery, suggesting depths to Meadow's history that she was only beginning to understand. But it was said with such warmth and obvious care that it felt like welcome rather than warning, an invitation to be part of something meaningful rather than an obligation to fix something broken.
After they left, the house felt different—quieter, more intimate, charged with the awareness that Meadow and she were finally alone together.
The evening's revelations hung between them like silk curtains, visible but not obstructive, adding texture to the space they now occupied together.
