Page 120 of Imperfect Arrangement
“Turn it.”
My fingers crank the handle, and the Ferris wheel begins to move, slow and steady like a music box. It does one full turn as the cabins change their places.
“Look inside the top one.”
I lean closer to find two small figurines, one with long red hair and one with blonde curls, each holding a sunflower. My vision blurs. “Ray?—”
“You have no idea how much you mean to Quill, how much you mean to me, Willow.”
My arms wrap around him on instinct, my body shaking as I bury my face in his chest. Raymond catches me without hesitation, his solid grip anchoring me in place. My fingers clutch at his shirt, desperate, as if letting go would mean falling apart completely.
“Are you trying to kill me?” My voice wobbles.
His low chuckle rumbles through me, his fingers tracing slow, soothing circles down my back. “Not at all.”
When I finally lift my head, his gaze locks on to mine. He brushes a tear from my cheek with his thumb. I don’t know what I did to deserve him—to deserve any of this. And yet, a cruel, realistic part of me refuses to believe it’s meant to last.
A WISH FOR STRENGTH
RAYMOND
Something is wrong.
I feel it before my eyes even open. The bed beside me is empty and cold, and not the kind where Willow has just slipped out, leaving behind a mess of tangled sheets in her rush to make sure Quill doesn’t wake up and see her here. I’ve told her a hundred times that my daughter sleeps like a hibernating bear and the chances of her waking and finding Willow in my bed are deep in the negative. But that damn woman never listens.
But today isn’t that. No, this is different.
The feeling burrows deep in my chest as I sit up, scanning the room. I push a hand through my hair and glance again at the neatlymadebed beside me—not messy, not abandoned in a hurry.
My stomach knots as I turn to look at the nightstand on her side. The space that had started to collect pieces of her—her lip balm, her night cream, the paperback she’d been reading—now sits completely empty. Everything is wiped clean like she was never here at all.
Fuck. No fucking way.
I throw the covers off and stride out, heading straight to Quill’s room. The door creaks as I push it open, and there she is, sleeping soundly, arms wrapped around her new stuffed pony. I exhale through my nose and head for the left wing. The door to Willow’s bedroom is closed. I knock once…then again.
My lips twitch for a second as I remember her first evening in my house and how I stood outside this very room. How much everything has changed…
I turn the doorknob.
My heart wishes that once again I’ll find her walking out of the shower, wrapped in that towel that barely covers her, Captain Lick hot on her heels. But none of that greets me. There’s no sound of the shower running. No Captain Lick trotting around. No hint of the tangerine scent she always leaves behind.
I scan the space, my pulse hammering. Everything is in perfect condition—really perfect, to the point the room looks like it was never inhabited. Her skincare bottles from the vanity are gone. The jewelry box where she keeps all her rings and bracelets is nowhere in sight. Even the throw blanket she uses to roll Captain Lick in at night is missing. The only thing still here is the dog bed Grandpa Will bought.
I grip the edge of the dresser, my knuckles going white.
What the hell did you do, Firefly?
Did she really just…walk out while my daughter and I were sleeping?
My breath turns uneven, anger and something sharper, like hurt, clashes inside me. I know she’s afraid of commitments, but running without an explanation…that’s not Willow Pershing. She stands, fights, argues until her face turns red, and yet here I am, all alone. I spin toward the door, ready to grab my phone, call her, and drag her ass back home, when I see it.
A single sheet of paper resting on the desk, its edges curling slightly. The familiar green page with gold embossing at the top that reads Blooming Quill is a part of the wedding estate’s stationery.
My fingers curl around it. I don’t want to read it, don’t want to see whatever words she’s left behind. I already know this letter isn’t some casual goodbye. This is Willow Pershing walking out of my life.
I inhale once before I start reading.
Dear Ray,
