Page 33 of Off the Beaten Path

Finley moves around the shop like she could do it in her sleep, carefully choosing a flower before adding it to the bundle or putting it back in the vase if she doesn’t like how the combination looks. She seems to forget I’m here, lost in her own little world of flowers and color, and I can’t help but watch, transfixed. I don’t think there’s anything in my life that consumes me as wholly as it seems flowers do for Finley. It’s sort of beautiful to watch someone so clearly in their element.

My eyes fix on the wall where, painted in forest green letters, is a Ralph Waldo Emerson quote. “Love is like wildflowers; it’s often found in the most unlikely places.” It makes something snag in my chest, those words. They’re so simple yet beautiful, and it makes me appreciate the name of the store even more.

Finley steps in front of me, holding out a beautiful bouquet. It’s nothing like I would have imagined—greens and pinks and oranges instead of reds and whites and pinks—but it’s perfect.

“I love it,” I say, a smile tugging at my lips.

Her face brightens, sunshine on a summer day. “Good, I’m glad. Just email and let me know how many you need, and I’ll make sure to have them done. I won’t be able to deliver that evening because June is in a musical at school, but I can do it that morning if that works for you.”

I knew about the musical because Jodi also won’t be able to attend the auction, although she will be helping all the way up until the event.

“That morning works great,” I tell her, beginning to pull my gloves back on.

Finley watches me silently, a wrinkle forming between her brows. “Wren, can I ask you something?”

My eyes catch and hold on hers, and it feels so much like looking into Holden’s eyes, although softer, more curious.

“Sure,” I say with a shrug.

“You and Holden.” She says this more like a statement, and I find myself breathless, waiting for her to continue. “The rumors aren’t true, right?”

My head tips to the side as I examine her. Short blond hair, engaging hazel eyes, smattering of freckles across her tan nose. “No, they’re not true. We’re just friends.”

Truth be told, after that weird encounter on Saturday morning, I feel the ground between us is more unsteady than ever. For a few short moments, it was as if the world was blotting out around us, and it was just his hands in my hair, his fingers on my skin. It didn’t feelfriendlyat all.

She makes a noise in the back of her throat, moving back behind the counter without another word.

“Couldn’t you have asked him that?” I ask before I can think better of it.

Finley shrugs, her creamy sweater slipping off one of her shoulders. “Sure, but he probably wouldn’t have answered. He rarely opens up to anyone.”

I’ve noticed this. It seems that for every layer of Holden Blankenship I peel back, there’s another behind it, reinforced with steel. I’m starting to wonder if it’s possible for anyone to know the real him. If he would ever let anyone close enough.

It’s probably foolish of me, but I’m self-aware enough to admit that if he ever did, I hope it would be with me.

It’sbeentwodayssince the call with Mia, and I’m still fuming. I haven’t told anyone about the promises she made to June because I know my mother would tell me to confront her and Finley would tell me that I should cut off their communication. I don’t need anyone to tell me these things. It’s not like they’re not in the back of my mind constantly, taking up space and hanging on like weights dragging me down.

If I’m being honest, it’s not the anger with Mia that’s eating at me. It’s the imprint on my mind of the look on Wren’s face when she left. I was harsh with her, I know that. It’s just that, where Mia is involved, I don’t always react with the most grace. And I took out that frustration on Wren.

Which is why I’m pacing the length of the tiny cabin instead of working, my eyes drifting to the window every few seconds, waiting for the telltale dust to stir in the dirt driveway that signals her arrival.

As if my thoughts conjured her, I see a slip of yellow in the corner of the window and then a plume of dirt rising into the chilly air, followed by the exhaust fog from her tailpipe.

Maybe I should try to look busy, not like I’ve been standing here, waiting for her to arrive, but I don’t have it in me to pretend. There’s that gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach that feels a lot like guilt, and I’m desperate to make things right. I’d rather have her snark and pestering than her silence.

The front door squeals open, and I make a mental note to grease the hinges. Wren enters, a wrinkle forming between her brows as she notices me standing in the middle of the living room, no tools or work around me.

“Holden—”

“I’m sorry about Saturday,” I say, cutting her off.

She blinks, surprise coloring her delicate features. One shoulder lifts in a shrug, making the soft cashmere of her sweater slip over her collarbone. “It’s fine, Holden. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“No, I do.” I palm the back of my neck, warm under the weight of her stare. I feel like she can see straight down to the depths of my soul, where it’s dark and cold and empty, that little piece of myself that I’ve hidden from everyone.

Wren leans against the now drywalled arch separating the kitchen and living room, one ankle crossing over the other. She’s silent, waiting for me to continue. I wish I had the words to tell her how much that means to me. The women in my life have always talked over me when I struggled to put my thoughts into words, even if they meant well. It’s like they think that I don’t know what I’m feeling, so they try to help me get there. What I’ve never been able to explain is that I always know exactly how I’m feeling, I just don’t know how to express it.

Maybe Wren knows this from all those months we spent texting, when she would respond immediately and I would take long minutes to send back my reply. Regardless, sheknowssomething my own family and my ex-wife have never been able to figure out.

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