Page 36 of Scr*wed By the Minotaur in Hallow's Cove
She laughed, and for a moment it was like we were back in college, right before the world got heavy. “That’s what I’m afraid of. Call me if you need anything. Seriously, Lea. It’s not weakness to need help, okay?”
She left me with a wave and a promise to visit soon, the bell over the door chiming a warm farewell. I watched her cross the street and felt a bittersweet pang in my chest.
I was cleaning up the last of the day’s detritus—a pile of rubber bands, some wilted stems, a few stubborn receipts stuck to the counter—when Rick came in. He was vibrating with excitement.
“There she is,” he said, sweeping me up in a hug that nearly knocked the wind out of me. “You survived your first twenty-four hours as a shop owner.” He set me down, grinning so wide it looked like it hurt. “And you didn’t even have to run off with a biker gang or join a snake cult to do it.”
I crossed my arms. “It’s early yet. Could still happen.”
“Not if I get to you first,” he said, and dove for a kiss that was all teeth and sunshine and barely contained pride. He plopped the cardboard box on the counter between us. “Open it.”
I eyed the label: “From the collection of Barnaby and Maisie Hallow.” I could tell it was Maisie’s handwriting, equal parts elegant and threatening. I opened the box, and inside was…a single, battered Polaroid, a first edition of a book on heirloom gardening, and a note scrawled on thick paper.
Lea: For the record, this is us rooting for you. Keep growing (and don’t kill the peonies). –M & B
Under the note, tucked between the pages of the gardening book, was a delicate pressed violet, its color still impossibly vivid. I turned the Polaroid over; it was a photo from last night, me and Rick behind the counter, arms thrown around each other, confetti from one of Roan’s poppers still stuck in my hair. I was laughing with my whole face, and he was looking at me with a kind of reckless joy I’d never seen caught on film. My throat went thick.
Rick read over my shoulder, getting uncharacteristically quiet. “Y’know, I think they’re right,” he said, looping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder. “You’re kinda stuck with us now. Whole town’s got their eye on you.”
“Is that supposed to be reassuring?” I leaned into him, letting my head tip back. “Because the pressure’s on. I already started planning my dramatic escape.”
He kissed the top of my head. “There’s nowhere you could go that I wouldn’t follow, Azalea Thompson.”
I almost made a joke—almost, but didn’t. Instead, I reached behind me, laced my fingers with his, and just stood there for a minute, letting the moment grow roots. It didn’t matter that the future was a mystery or that the only guarantee in life was more change; if I could stand here, in this tiny shop with my arms full of flowers and a man who smelled like sawdust and sunlight, I’d figure it out. I always had.
Rick
“How about you come up to my place and we order some food?” I said, attempting to sound casual but probably sounding more like a nervous game show host.
Lea squinted at me like she was trying to read the fine print on a suspicious contract. “You’re plotting something.”
“Am I?” I tried to pull off the innocent look, but it came out more like I was choking on a peanut.
I’d been planning this since we came back from the city, but now, standing with her in the empty shop, I could feel my nerves fizzing under my skin. I wanted her to move in. Not just sleep over, not just leave a toothbrush and an old band tee in my dresser, but to actually share a life, a roof, a calendar stuffed with grocery lists and overdue library books. I wanted her to know she was as permanent as the nails in my floorboards, as the foundation that kept the rain and wind from tearing my world apart.
But how do you sell the woman you love on the idea of waking up to your bad breath and chronic snoring every single day?
I led her out her shop door, hand in hand, the late afternoon sun painting us orange and gold. She kept up a running commentary about the day’s sales, the weirdest customer requests (“Did you know someone tried to buy a bouquet for their lizard?” “For thelizard? Or for the lizard’s birthday party?” “Unclear, but there was a cake involved, and the lizard wore a hat”). I only half-listened, because I was trying to build up the courage to say what I’d rehearsed a dozen times.
We walked through my shop and climbed the steps to my place. I unlocked the door and let her in first, resisting the urgeto yell “SURPRISE!” even though there was nothing to surprise her with yet.
She flopped onto my sofa, stretching, then propped her feet up on the coffee table. “What’s the game plan, captain?”
I busied myself with the takeout menus stacked on the kitchen counter. I had no idea what I was doing. “Uh, pizza? Thai? Tacos?”
“You’re the worst at decisions,” she said, affection in her voice. “Let me take a look.” She rifled through the pile, found a battered sushi menu, and tossed it at me. “Order your favorite. I’ll eat whatever. You know that.”
I watched her from the kitchen, the way her whole body loosened at the end of a long day—shoulders unknotting, toes fanning out, face losing the last of its retail-welcome mask. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and I wanted it every day. Or, at least, as many days as she’d let me have.
I put in the order—two sushi rolls, miso soup, and a surprise dessert because I liked the way her eyes lit up at the unexpected. I paced the kitchen as it processed, running through the speech in my head, then immediately discarding it because it sounded like something out of a bad rom-com.
She called out from the living room. “Hey, Rick? Why is there a new pillow on the couch that says ‘Welcome Home’?”
I froze, chopsticks in one hand, phone in the other. “Uh. That’s, uh. New marketing initiative. Cozy Up With Rick’s Hardware.”
She leaned around the doorframe, eyebrow cocked. “It has daisies on it.”
Heat crept up my neck. “Yeah, you know, brand synergy.”
