Her venomous words come quickly, and I’m taken aback. Marigold has a venomous side? I suppose we all do. “Well, he makes furniture, so he deals more with straight lines, you know?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe your beautiful art threw him for a curve,” I laugh, and she smirks. “Or maybe you made him nervous, and he didn’t know what to say.”

“Why would I make him nervous?”

“Because he likes you,” I say slowly.

Her eyes widen before narrowing to angry slits. “He doesn’t like anything except killing trees.”

“Whoa, harsh. You have very big feelings about Peter Pike.”

Her brow knits. “Yes, big feelings,” she agrees with a small voice.

“Hmm, big feelings are valid, and maybe they’re big for a reason.”

“What reason?”

“You must care what he thinks. Since you still feel this way after all this time, your big feelings might push you toward a second chance. I love second chances. A lot of times, a second chance leads to something better than it was before.”

“Like recycled art?”

“Exactly. And my secondhand board games.”

“And your cats.”

“Ha, yes, my sweet collection of beautiful strays. That’s a perfect example. Pete’s a nice guy, and he thinks you’re nice—he told me so.”

“He did?”

“Yes, so keep an open mind about a second chance. Okay?”

She nods, fidgeting with the hem of her crocheted sweater. “Mom says you’re Grady’s second chance.”

Now, my nerves rise with big feelings. “Second chance for what?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Can we play games now?”

We set up on my small dining table under the wooden globe lamp that Pete created (and I pointed out to her). I learn quickly not to bombard her with questions, that she doesn’t like sharing dips, and that she loves rules, making gameplay second nature for her. What she lacks in conversation, she makes up for in being an excellent opponent. We play every finished game I’ve created: Milk & Eggs, Tickety-Boo, Zombie Grocery Store, and Scaredy Cats. She giggles incessantly over Tickety-Boo’s funny situation cards, making it a definite win, but Milk & Eggs is her favorite. We play it three times.

Returning it to my game room, she motions to another game spread across a folding table. “What about that one?”

“Oh, that’s Play Together, Stay Together. It’s about family dynamics and strengthening the ol’ family tree, but, I don’t know, it’s giving me trouble. It’s not right yet.”

“A work in progress. Can we play when it’s finished?”

“Absolutely,” I return, though I wonder if the game is a lost cause. I started it the day after Ashe proposed, modeling it after the Sullivans and employees at Sunny’s, but keep hitting obstacles to finishing it. Creating the game has become a game—a bad one that’s more frustrating than rewarding.