“Blake! I didn’t know you were working here again.”

“Hi Mr. Lonney! Yes, I’m back. Just helping out while Dad’s out of commission.”

He grumbles something and shakes his head. “I heard about your dad’s heart attack. Damn shame. Your father’s a great man.”

“Thanks. He really is.” I’ve had pretty much this exact conversation with about a hundred different people in the last three weeks. Being back at the shop is both agonizing and soothing — like putting cream on a burn. It stings, being back here in Connecticut, walking away from the New York life I thought I wanted. But it feels right, too. The pale green walls of the flower shop feel like home. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it until I walked back through those front doors. The smell hit me like a tidal wave — the heavy perfumes of the roses, the gardenias, the springy scent of the daisies, the lilacs, and beneath that, the loamy smell of the soil from the potted plants we sell. I half expected the melange to make me nauseous — after all, just about everything does these days — but instead it just made me feel calm. Peaceful.

“What can I get for you, Mr. Lonney?”

“A dozen roses.” He takes off his tweed cap and presses it to his chest, chuckling to himself. “Had a little incident installing the new dishwasher.”

“Oh dear. Dishwashers can be tricky.” I tap the side of my nose knowingly.

“I’ll say. ‘Course, it helps if you hook the thing up right, so that when your wife turns it on for the first time, the water actually goes into the dishwasher instead of gushing all over your brand new kitchen floors.”

“Ouch. How are the floors?”

“Being replaced next week.”

“Double ouch. Want to make it two dozen?”

“Yeah, maybe you better.” He sighs, but it’s not bitter. It’s the contented sigh of a man resigned to the playing out the same dynamic in his life over and over.

I guess those dynamics aren’t so bad, if they’re ones that are warm and comforting.

Logan and I … what kind of dynamic did we have? He’d always have all the power, would always have to be in control. I’d always be the one with no power, Blake the fuck-up, the baby. Well, I’d managed to break that dynamic, didn’t I? I finally stood on my own two feet. Even if it cost me everything.

“Where’d you go there, Blake?” Mr. Lonney is looking at me with concern.

I shake my head and give a small laugh. “Sorry. A bit spacey these days. We’ll get those roses done up for you right away.”

“‘Preciate it. Give my best to your father, too, won’t you, Blake?”

By the time I get back to my parents’ that night, I’m ready to collapse. My feet are aching. Even though my baby is still the size of a grape, I feel like I’ve been lugging around a twenty-pound bag of potatoes all day. A bag of potatoes that gives me heartburn and makes my ankles swell. Oh, and makes me have to pee all the time. This pregnancy defies the laws of physics.

Dad is sitting on the couch in the living room, watching Jeopardy. I can hear the shower running upstairs. That’ll be Mom. She was at the shop late, too, and only left about half an hour before I did. I’d offered to stay and tally the day’s receipts and lock up so that she could go home to Dad.

“Hiya pumpkin. There’s leftover meatloaf in the fridge,” Dad calls out as soon as I close the kitchen door behind me. “Well, lentil loaf, that is. I’m not sure what your mother was thinking with that one.”

I drop my bag, cross into the living room, and bend down to kiss his cheek. “She was thinking that she didn’t want you to have another heart attack.”

“Don’t you girls worry about that,” Dad says gruffly. “I’m just fine now. I should be going into the store, you know.”

“I know.” I smile. “But you know what the boss says.” Dad’s been off work for almost four weeks now, and it’s driving him crazy. His doctor said he could go back to work a couple of days a week, but Mom’s insisted he stay home for at least another week. And we all know she’s really the one he needs to listen to. So here he is, house-bound until she gives him her blessing.

I hobble back into the kitchen and grab the lentil loaf out of the fridge. I poke at it with a fork. It looks grey and kind of like it’s disintegrating. I can’t say I blame Dad for not wanting to eat this. On the other hand, I’m starving right now, and even this grey lump-loaf looks better than nothing.

Two minutes later, I yank it out of the microwave and inhale half of it on my way back to the living room.

Dad wrinkles his nose. “Even the smell is off-putting.” His eyes flick to the television. “Who is Marilyn Monroe?”

I blink in confusion, then remember he’s watching Jeopardy. Dad may not have gotten into Days of Our Bold and Beautiful Hospital, but he did discover a passion for the Gameshow Network. His particular favorite is quiz shows — I forgot how much my dad loves trivia.

“I don’t care,” I say with my mouth already half full of lentil loaf. “I’m famished.”

Dad frowns, pealing his eyes away from the television. “You’re working too much, Blakey. You need to take it easy.”

“I’m fine. Honest.” I’m not exactly fine, though. I’m exhausted. I go into the shop every day at seven a.m., and I don’t get home until after eight in the evening. Mom is putting in almost as many hours as me. When it used to be the three of us, we could split the work between us. Dad worked the front of the shop, and Mom spent most of her time in the back, working on the arrangements and dealing with the major greenhouses we work with. I would alternate between the two — covering for Dad in the front, and helping Mom in the back when I could. I wasn’t a floral designer like she was, but I could cut stems and ribbons and unwrap the deliveries as they came in. It worked well with the three of us, but now that we’re down to just two, it’s exhausting. I’m not sure how they managed without me when I was in New York, and the thought fills me with an agonizing guilt.

“I just don’t like to see you working yourself to the bone like this.” Dad’s hand-wringing is the same every day, so I’m starting to get used to it. I just smile and nod as I finish off my lentil loaf.

Imagine how much worse he’d be if he actually knew I was pregnant.

Yeah, okay, I haven’t told them yet. I know I’m going to have to tell them eventually, but I haven’t figured out how. It’s going to kill my dad, and I just can’t bear to see that look of disappointment in his eyes.

It’s getting harder to keep it from them, too. I’m starting to show a tiny little bit, but with baggy tops and leggings, it isn’t really obvious. But last week, I went for my first appointment with an obstetrician here in town, and a follow-up with my old family doctor. I had sworn them both to secrecy, and while I trust their professionalism, I also know the realities of small town gossip. It’s only a matter of time before the wrong person asks Mom if she’s excited about her impending grandparenthood.

“Mr. Lonney was in today,” I tell Dad, because it’s something to think about other than … everything else.

“Oh?” He raises his eyebrows. “What this time?”

“Faulty dishwasher installation. Ruined kitchen floors.”

“Two dozen roses?”

“Yup. His wife must be just about ready to walk out.”

“Are you kidding?” Dad chuckles, one eye still on the television. “I’ve met her a couple of times and trust me, that woman has the patience of a saint. The roses aren’t really because he needs to buy her forgiveness. I think they’re just an excuse for him to dote on her. What is Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels?”

“Aw. That’s cute. He told me to send you his best.”

Dad grunts. “I don’t need anyone’s sympathy, you know.”

“No one’s feeling sorry for you, Daddy.” I roll my eyes. “They just miss seeing you around the store.”

“Well, don’t you worry. I’m going to be back on my feet before you know it, and you’ll be back to your glamorous life in New York.”

“Right.” I pick at an invisible piece of lint on my oversized t-shirt. I also haven’t told them yet that I have no intention of returning to the city. The Connecticut life suits me just fine. “I’m going to have a bath.”

“What is Mount Rushmore?” Dad calls back. I laugh and shake my head.

Upstairs, Mom has already emerged from the bathroom and is in her bedroom with the door closed. I grab a fluffy blue towel out of the linen closet and then shut myself in the bathroom. It’s still steamy and smells like Mom’s lavender soap.

I turn on the shower first so that I can rinse off. Is it just me, or is it disgusting to get into a bath when you feel really gross? It’s like sitting in a stew of your own sweat. No thank you. Plus, it’s virtually impossible to wash your hair properly in the bath.

I soap up my hair and my skin and let the water pound down on me a minute. My eyes are already starting to fill with tears. Okay, so that’s the real reason I like to shower before I get into the bath — the sound of rushing water provides a perfect cover for my nightly sobfest. I don’t even have to think about it now — as soon as the hot water starts to pelt my back, the tears come.

I’ve cried every night that I’ve been here, ever since I walked away from Logan. Every time I picture him sitting across from me at Green Street, I cry. Every time I think about his lips against the back of my neck, I cry. Every time I think about lying in bed with him, or about drinking coffee with him in the morning at the office while he dictated the day’s to-do list to me, or about the time we traipsed through the city with Jack and Daisy, drinking milkshakes and talking about dinosaurs and butterflies, I cry.

Sometimes I think I’m an idiot for walking away from him. Did I say sometimes? I mean pretty much every minute of every day. It nags me like the worst kind of obsession. The notion that I screwed up. That I could have just said yes and had everything I ever wanted. Logan, a baby, a family.

But if I’d said yes, wouldn’t I always be wondering how long it could possibly last? Wouldn’t I always be tiptoeing around, waiting for him to decide he couldn’t do this? Wondering if he could ever love me the way I wanted him to? Doesn’t my child deserve better? Don’t I deserve better?

I did the right thing. I think. I hope. God, I hope.

By the time I’m done showering, I no longer feel like having a bath. Instead, I step carefully out of the shower, wrap myself in the fluffy blue towel, and pad down the carpeted hallway to my bedroom.

Nothing’s changed since I left here a few months ago — my room is exactly the same as it was when I left. I pull a pair of cat pajamas out of my drawer and tug them on, then crawl under my familiar striped duvet, into my narrow twin bed. I dig my battered copy of What To Expect When You’re Expecting from its hiding place under my bed. Despite being exhausted, it takes me forever to fall asleep, and I read long into the night.

I’m bleary-eyed at work the next day. I’d kill to be able to have a coffee. Instead, I drink herbal tea and rub my stomach every time I yawn.

“This is for you,” I mutter to my grape-in-utero. “I hope you appreciate it.”

The chimes over the front door tinkle, and I stand up straight. A woman enters. She’s wearing a caramel-colored coat and has gorgeous hair that falls down over her shoulders. It’s blonde, but it’s got so many rich highlights and lowlights that it almost looks ... gold. It looks so good that I want to secretly snap a picture so I can bring it to my hairdresser, once I can finally get my hair colored again.

She looks around the shop a bit, pausing in front of the ready-to-go bouquets for a minute and selecting one that Mom made up this morning — pale pink peonies and deep burgundy ranunculus. She brings it over to the counter.

“Great choice,” I say with a grin. “I absolutely love peonies.”

“Me, too.” She smiles. Her eyes are dark blue, the color of denim. There’s something so familiar about her face. I purse my lips, thinking, as I ring in the bouquet.

“You recognize me, don’t you?”

I look up, blinking in surprise. “I have no idea who—”

I stop. I was going to say I have no idea who you are, but in that second I know exactly who she is. The burnished blonde hair, the dark blue eyes, the sardonic half-smile.

“You’re Heather. Logan’s sister.”

“And you’re Blake.”

“Yes.”

Her eyes go immediately to my stomach, and I realize she knows. Of course she knows. Logan would have told her. My hand flutters protectively over my barely-there-bump.

“Blake, I love my brother.”

I don’t respond. She obviously came here because she has something to say, and I want to hear what it is before I play my own hand. Not that I have much of a hand to play.

She sighs, fingering the soft petals of the peonies. “I love him, but he’s hard to love sometimes. I get that.”

I want to tell her that he’s not. That it’s easy to love him — the easiest thing in the world, really. It’s just hard to know where you stand with him. And that’s the problem. How can you ever know where you really stand with a man like Logan Cartwright? A man who keeps everything tucked up nice and neat inside him?

“I’m very protective of him, as I’m sure you can understand,” Heather continues. “And I want to make sure you understand that this baby is part of the Cartwright family. You can’t keep it from him. From us.” Her lips are firm now, the half-grin long gone, replaced by a look of determination.

“I know,” I say again, but this time I push my shoulders back and force myself to meet her eye. “And I have no intentions of doing anything like that. I made it very clear to Logan that he was welcome to be as involved with this baby as he wanted.”

Heather deflates slightly. “I know. He did say that. It’s just that … it’s not just about the baby now. He can’t think about that baby without thinking about you, Blake. And that’s what’s killing him.”

I don’t say anything in response. I feel like every cell in my body is holding its breath.

Heather shakes her hair out. It catches the light and seems to glimmer. Okay, seriously, would it be inappropriate for me to snap a covert picture right now? It would, wouldn’t it?

“Logan has lost a lot, you know. More than any man his age should have to lose. And yet ...”

I realize then that I actually am holding my breath, and let it out in a whoosh. Heather gets a funny half-smile on her face. It reminds me so much of Logan that my knees go wobbly.

“Yet I’ve never seen him like this,” she finally admits. “Even after Laura — he was in shock then, and he had a lot of anger that I’m not sure he ever really dealt with. But God, Blake, I’ve never seen him like this. He’s missing work, moping around his apartment. I don’t think he’s shaved in three weeks, and trust me, that’s not like my brother at all.”

“Really?” There’s a gleeful note in my voice. I clamp my mouth shut when Heather side-eyes me.

“Yes, Blake, really. I don’t know why you turned him down, but if for some reason it was because you didn’t think he really cared about you, you should know you were wrong. Very wrong.”

“Right.” I stare down at the counter, at the bouquet Heather had picked out, and blink back tears.

“Don’t punish him, Blake. He’s lost so much already. He didn’t get a choice when he lost Laura. That was just a cruel trick of the universe. But this — this is just stubbornness. It’s stupid. It’s …” Heather breaks off, and when she dabs at the corner of her eye, I realize she’s actually crying.

She shakes her head again, composing herself. “Anyway, he’d kill me if he knew I’d come here. I just couldn’t sit there and watch him suffer. I did that for too long. I won’t do it again. Not when you’re both alive and well and actually have a chance at happiness.”

I manage a half smile, but my stomach is rolling with a thousand twisted emotions. “Did you still want these?” I say, nudging the bouquet.

“Oh. Of course. They’re beautiful.” Heather smiles.

I ring up her credit card and watch her leave, that familiar burnished blonde hair swishing over her shoulders as she goes.