Page 109 of October
The weekends though? They were forthem. For family time. They were our slow moments, blankets on the lawn, Lola dozing on my chest, Alice building towers out of blocks or grass, Jimmy sketching something in his notebook with earbuds in, doing homework, or just going out and planning dates with his girlfriend, yes girlfriend, and just like that, we were still learning, still healing, but more than anything, we were building. A life that was ours. One we weren't just holding onto anymore, but shaping with our own hands. Steady. Sacred. Moving forward. Together.
One weekend, a few weeks before the official opening, we all went to October's new shop. The space still smelled faintly of fresh paint and sawdust, with boxes stacked in corners and shelves waiting to be filled. It didn't matter; it already felt like hers. Like home.
We spent most of the afternoon helping. Alice and Jimmy labeled jars and arranged baskets while Lola napped in her stroller. October moved through the space with a kind of quiet joy, asking us about display ideas, scent pairings, even music for the soft background playlist. She let us in, completely into the making of something she'd dreamed about for years.
Around lunchtime, we spread a picnic blanket right in the middle of the floor. A mess of sandwiches, juice boxes, coffee in mismatched mugs, and crumpled napkins. It wasn't glamorous, but it was perfect.
Later, after we finished sorting the last of the inventory and vacuuming up glitter (Alice's contribution), October and the kids headed to the car while I stayed back to lock up.
I turned off the lights, did one final check, and stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind me.
That's when I saw him. Leo.
He stood across the street, half in shadow, wearing the same navy windbreaker I remembered from years ago. Leo, the janitor from my father's company. The man who used to whistle jazz while he mopped the marble floors. The one who always kept mints in his pocket for kids who looked nervous before big boardroom meetings. I hadn't seen him since the fallout.
"Thomas," he said, voice warm, almost amused.
"Leo?" I blinked, stunned. "God—it's been months. How have you been?"
He shrugged. "Still vertical. Still sweeping up messes, just not the ones in your father's building."
I stepped forward, hands shoved into my coat pockets. "I'm sorry I never came back. Not once."
Leo waved a hand. "Don't worry about that. It's getting better now. Took time, but the poison left with the people who brewed it."
I nodded, unsure of what to say. The silence stretched for a beat before he tilted his head and gave me a once-over.
"You look happy," he said simply.
"I am," I said, and meant it. "It was bad for a while. But we're getting there. Slowly."
He smiled, a little crooked. "I'm glad. You were always a good kid, Thomas. Just got swept away for a while."
He turned like he was about to walk off, then paused and glanced back over his shoulder.
"Maybe," he added casually, "you just needed a reminder. Or a text from an unknown number... something to make you see the truth with your own eyes before it was too late."
He winked.
and just like that, he disappeared into the fading light of the street, his footsteps soft, his figure swallowed by distance. I stood there, stunned. Oh my God. It was him. My heart kicked against my ribs. Grateful. Shaken. Completely undone.
"Thomas?"
October's voice drifted from the car, gentle and grounding. "You okay?"
I turned to look at her, her face in the glow of the dashboard light, our kids in the back, the warmth of everything we'd built waiting for me.
I exhaled.
"Perfect," I said, and it really was.
Chapter Thirty-Six: Tender Is the Build
Six months later...
the scent of jasmine, sandalwood, and warm amber clung to my fingertips the way memories do, soft, stubborn, impossible to wash off. The perfume shop was finally open. Mine. Ours. Sunlight pooled across the terracotta tiles in the front room, catching on glass bottles and gilded labels, each scent a tiny universe I had blended by hand. Every shelf told a story: rain-drenched fig trees, burning oud in old churches, honeysuckle climbing an abandoned wall. People came in shyly at first, then lingered, drawn to the tenderness stitched into each blend.
It wasn't just a store. It was the life I never let myself dream of, not fully. I worked there most mornings, wearing linen and gloss, selling memory in a bottle and during my lunch break, I'd take a small vial and a sandwich, drive to the shelter, and sit with Thomas in the garden behind the kennels. We'd eat cross-legged on the grass, dogs napping nearby, and I'd place a new scent in his palm.
