Page 21 of Pumpkins & Promises
I set down my tea cup harder than necessary. "But he should have said something."
"Perhaps. But that's not really what this is about, is it?" Hazel's voice is still gentle, but there's a challenge in it. "When you heard that conversation, what was the first thing you thought?"
I open my mouth to argue, then close it. Because she's right. The first thing I thought wasn't hurt or confusion. It was confirmation of what I'd been afraid of all along. That Wesley was too good to be true, that someone like him couldn't really want someone like me.
"You both got scared," Hazel continues. "And instead of talking about it, you both did what scared people do. You protected yourselves."
"So what am I supposed to do? Pretend it didn't happen?"
"No, dear. You're supposed to decide what you really want." Hazel sets down her knitting and looks at me directly. "Do you want to be right, or do you want to be happy?"
"I want to be honest."
"Good. Then be honest about this. Do you think Wesley Thorne is the kind of man who would manipulate someone for his career?"
I consider the question seriously. Wesley, who carved a wonky leaf on his first pumpkin and called it "identity crisis art." Who listened to Uncle Frank's woodworking stories with genuine interest. Who looked at me like I was something precious, not something useful.
"No," I admit quietly. "I don't think he is."
"And do you think you're the kind of woman who would use someone for social media followers?"
"Of course not."
"Then maybe," Hazel says gently, "you're both just two people who care about each other enough to be terrified of losing it."
I sit in silence for a moment, watching the late afternoon light filter through the bare branches of Hazel's oak tree. In the distance, I can see smoke rising from the cabin's chimney.
"I told him it was over," I say finally.
"Endings," Hazel says, picking up her knitting again, "are really just beginnings in disguise. The question is, what do you want to begin?"
An hour later, I'm back home, standing in the barn with a pumpkin in my hands and a carving knife that feels heavier than it should.
Dylan finds me there as the sun is setting, surrounded by orange shavings and doubt.
"What are you doing?" he asks, leaning against the doorframe.
"Something stupid. Or brave. I haven't decided which."
He comes closer and sees what I'm carving into the pumpkin's surface.
"For Wesley?" Dylan's voice is carefully neutral.
"Maybe. If he wants it to be."
"Em..." Dylan sits down on a hay bale across from me. "Are you sure about this? Because yesterday you were pretty convinced he was using you."
"Yesterday I was scared." I smooth my finger over the carved letters, checking that they're deep enough to read clearly. "Today I'm still scared, but I'm more scared of giving up on something real because it might hurt."
"And you think it's real?"
I think about Wesley's face when he kissed me. The way he looked at my family's dinner table like he'd found something he didn't know he was missing. The hurt in his eyes when I accused him of thinking the worst of me.
"Yeah," I say. "I think it is."
Dylan nods slowly. "Then I guess you better go deliver that pumpkin."
The drive up to the cabin feels both endless and too short. By the time I pull into the gravel driveway, my heart is beating so hard I'm surprised it's not echoing off the mountains.
