Page 115 of The Games We Play
I stayed quiet, the weight of her words settling into my chest.
“Was he the one that got away?” I asked, almost afraid of the answer.
Sandy smiled, soft and fond. “For me, no, because I met Hank shortly after that, and that man was my whole world. Though I sometimes wonder what would’ve happened if I’d let my heart be just a little braver.”
She turned fully toward me now, her eyes shining with quiet certainty. “What Mac did hurt you. And you haveeveryright to be angry, to feel betrayed. But don’t confuse your hurt with the whole truth. Ask yourself this, is your pride protecting you, or is it keeping you from something that could be real?”
I looked down at my half-finished bouquet, the petals now trembling in my hands.
“I don’t want to get hurt again,” I whispered.
Sandy reached for my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “No one does. But the best love stories? They’re built on choosing to stay even after things fall apart. Not because it’s easy but because it’s worth it.”
Her words hit a place I’d been avoiding for weeks.
I looked down at the bouquet again, watching how the soft cloud of baby’s breaths curled around the bold daisies.
“I should also mention,” I said, folding one side of the brown paper, then the other, and tucking the bottom beneath to create the perfect wrap, “I’ve been making him grovel for the last few weeks. Earn my trust back, inch by inch.”
Sandy let out a full, delighted laugh—the kind that shook her shoulders and tilted her head back. “Oh, Penelope. Only you would have a man on his knees.”
I shot her a playful wink. “Literally”
She grinned. “Oh, my. To be young again.”
We worked in quiet rhythm for a while, the gentle snips of scissors and rustling paper filling the space. I found comfort in the movement, in the way my hands kept busy even when my thoughts refused to sit still. But the question had been building in my chest, pushing harder with every heartbeat.
“Do you think it’s too soon?” I finally asked, pausing with my hand resting on the edge of the counter. “To give in? Should I stick to my word?”
Sandy looked at me, no judgment in her expression—just calm, steady warmth. “Too soon says who? You’re the one setting the standard here, sweetie. No one else. You created those boundaries because you needed them. Because he needed to work to earn his way back to you.”
I nodded slowly, still unsure.
“Do you think he’s done that?” she asked.
There it was—vulnerability, thick in my throat. I didn’t know. I was still living in the shadow of the unknown. But talking to Sandy cracked something open. Her story. Her kindness. It reminded me that love didn’t have to come perfectly packaged to be real.
“You don’t have to decide today,” she said softly. “Take a few days. Sit with everything we talked about. Ask yourself what you want, not just in this moment, but in the long run. You’re smart. Passionate. Beautiful inside and out. You already know the answer, you just have to trust yourself to hear it.”
Her words wrapped around me like a warm breeze. I felt something close to clarity—not certainty, not yet. There was peace, and maybe that was enough for now.
“But if it were me,” Sandy added with a mischievous grin, giving my shoulder a playful bump with hers, “I’d make him sweat it out a little longer. It’s more fun that way.”
I laughed, wrapping my arm around her shoulders and pressing a grateful kiss to her cheek. She smiled into it, leaning against me with the kind of warmth that made you feel instantly safe.
“Thank you, Sandy. For everything.”
As we pulled apart, she brushed her hands off on her apron, and her smile stayed soft.
“Oh, I saw that flyer you posted at the grocery store this morning, about the bar,” she said casually. “The crochet club would love to come out and support the library fundraiser.”
“That would be amazing,” I said, my heart lifting a little. “The more the merrier.”
“You know who the ladies are hoping shows up, though?” she asked, her tone dipping into something gossipy and gleeful.
I hummed, slapping a sticker onto the paper to seal the bouquet. “Who?”
“That Logan boy. Especially if he gets up on that mechanical bull, shirtless.” Sandy giggled like a teenager. “Those muscles on him…”
