But I don’t know if I can hear any more. My heart feels like a deflated bounce house. “Go, before he decides to show up at the front door.”

Jack grimaces, swiping his phone to accept the call while stepping through the back door.

I turn my attention back to the ocean, losing my focus in the ebb and flow of the waves.

This heartbreak shit is overrated.

Twelve

The next month passes in a blur of avoidance. Avoiding Jack. Avoiding addressing the huge emotional elephant sitting between us on the couch every Sunday night—the only time I don’t go out of my way to not see his face. And sure as fuck avoiding dealing with my feelings.

Because feelings are dumb, and surely if I just ignore them, they’ll go away.

That’s how these things work, right?

Luckily, business at Bridge and Blooms is, well, blooming. I was worried orders would die down after the social media hype, but they keep coming in. I still work my shifts at the bar, not ready to give up my one source of sure income just yet, but every other hour of the week is spent managing emails and social media, sourcing flowers and trying to stay local about it, and actually creating and delivering the arrangements themselves. It’s beyond exhausting, and there are several days when I don’t think I can take another step. But I keep pushing and pushing, determined to prove I’m capable of some sort of success. Terrified it’s all going to fall away at any minute.

I still haven’t bitten the bullet and hired any employees, but now that Gemma is back in full-time teaching mode, I think I’m going to have to. And even though Jack has never once complained about the literal garden his kitchen has become, it might be time to start looking for a studio. Bridge and Blooms is on the way to outgrowing its space. It also probably wouldn’t be a terrible idea for me to have some space from Jack.

Because in the rare moments we cross paths during the week, just the sight of him leaves me as wilted as a hydrangea cut from its stem and left without water.

And on Sundays, when we still carve out the time we’ve dedicated to hanging out together, I feel his eyes on me, almost pleading with me. I want so badly to know what those eyes are trying to tell me, but I’m too chickenshit to actually look at them and see.

Jack clicks off the TV one Sunday night mid-September, shifting himself on the couch so he’s looking right at me instead of at the screen.

I stay curled tightly up in my corner, a blanket wrapped around me as both a comfort and a shield.