an arrangement made entirely out of myrtle. Myrtle is generally used as filler greenery in a bouquet, too plain to be the main event, but in the Nightjar world collecting myrtle gives characters vitality points. I think the significance will make him smile.
Nicholas’s car rumbles up the drive shortly after six, which means he hasn’t made any stops after work, and I run to greet him right as he’s shutting his door. He turns and looks down at me, a grin instantly appearing on his face. His eyes are bright and flickering like firelight, and a swarm of butterflies threatens to fly up from my stomach and right out of my mouth. He’s holding my myrtle bouquet.
“Hey, you,” he says, nudging my arm with his elbow.
“Hi.” I take his lunchbox from him. (Look, I can be gallant!)
“Thanks for the vitality boost,” he says. “It came in handy when a three-year-old bit my finger.” He shows me an indentation of tiny teeth on the tip of his index finger.
“I hope you bit the kid back.”
“Her mom wouldn’t turn around long enough for me to get away with it.”
Has Nicholas ever looked this happy? No. What a shame, to know I’ve been accepting anything less than this smile he’s giving me right now.
I think he wants to touch the way we used to. I think he wants to kiss me. But he’s restrained. He leans his forehead down to mine. “You’re cute,” he half laughs, then pulls away and taps my nose. We stroll up to the house and if I’m not mistaken, there’s a new spring in his step.
We pass our evening setting up the Christmas tree and making popcorn garland. He fashions me a popcorn necklace, so I make him one, too. We take turns tossing popcorn into each other’s mouths. I’m marveling how every day is better than the one before it when he checks his phone and his face falls.
“What is it?”
“Text from Mom.”
I pile a load of unsavory words onto a cutting board and dice them up into tiny pieces. Deborah has not called or initiated a text in days. When Nicholas texted her to test the waters, the responses he got were about as angry and self-pitying as you’d expect. “What’d she say?”
“Uh.” He looks up at me, and his expression is so full of apology that I get a tug in my stomach and feel vaguely ill. “I forgot that I even agreed to do this. I told her yes weeks ago, and they’ve made plans for some big welcome, or else I’d try to back out.”
“Back out of what? What did you agree to?” Ridiculously, arranged marriage pops into my head and I’m ready to clash swords with some faceless woman in a bridal veil. I’ve got a ring! I saw him first!
“A trip to Cohasset, Minnesota. About fifteen years ago when Dad was still plugged into the investment world, he invested a chunk of money into a friend’s start-up beer brewery, and it did well enough that he bought himself a partnership. Once a year he goes and checks out the brewery and they go over the year’s figures in a meeting and decide how they want to grow the company. This year, though …”
He scratches his head. “Well, Dad says he doesn’t care what happens to the company anymore and he’s tired of long trips. He just wants to stay home. Mom’s worried about missing out on potential investment opportunities, so she gave me a pile of spreadsheets to look over and begged me to go as his proxy.”
“Oh.” I pick at a thread in the rug. “What day is the meeting?”
“Mom says a man named Bernard is expecting me at ten a.m. this Saturday.”
“Ten a.m.? How long does it take to get to Cohasset?”
He makes a face. “I don’t know. I think, like, seven hours? I’ll have to leave early. They’ll keep me busy all of Saturday, and with a seven-hour drive back I’ll have to stay in a hotel and leave Sunday morning.” He checks the weather app on his phone. “Snow and precipitation all day Sunday. Of course. I have no idea how long it’s going to take to drive back. I might get in late.”
“That’s the whole weekend,” I reply glumly.
“You could come with me.” Hope flares in his eyes. “You wouldn’t have much to do at the brewery, but we could look up other stuff in Cohasset to entertain you. We’ll play music in the car and