The next day, before heading to the Calder house, I stood rooted in front of a flower shop for ages.
I'd been set on buying a bigger bouquet than usual, stupidly convinced that a bigger bunch of blooms would soften whatever disappointment Mrs. Calder was bound to feel. In the end, though, I left with the same small arrangement I always got.
Reese arrived to pick me up, took the flowers from me to tuck them in the car, then walked right back to lace his fingers through mine.
When we stepped through the front door, my first instinct was still to yank my hand away.
Mrs. Calder spotted the little gesture, but she just stepped aside to let us in, asking the same question she always did these days: how my injury was healing.
Baked potatoes sat on the dining table, and my napkin was folded r
