Page 81 of Weekends with You

“Whatever you have to tell yourself,” he said, his laughter returning to me like the tide. I nudged him with my shoulder, and he ripped off a piece of my croissant for himself.

“Watch it,” I said. “I can change my mind at any time, you know.”

“I really, really hope you don’t,” he said, any trace of a joke gone from his tone. “Would it help to take some time this month to focus on ourselves?” he asked after a minute of silence. “If we’re less of a mess, then maybe whatever’s going on between us will be less of a mess, too, won’t it?”

“I like that idea,” I said, basking in its simplicity. “I like that a lot.”

“Just try not to forget about me, will you?”

“I couldn’t if I wanted to.”

We would both have to tread lightly, but dipping our toes in felt like the perfect place to start.

May

“Isn’t it time for you to get going?” Renee asked, all but shoving me out the door. “I can manage here without you, you know.” Lately, I wasn’t so sure about that. Not that I’d ever say that aloud.

“I know, I know,” I lied. “But I feel so bad for taking the whole weekend off when we have projects to do. Let me just finish this before I go.” I nodded to the pile of spiky cornflower and delicate lily of the valley on the table, which I was determined to turn into a giveaway for a small bridal shower before I left for the weekend.

“I can manage,” Renee said. “It’s a bridal shower, Lucy.”

I wasn’t worried about the quality of her work so much as her well-being. Lately, trying to hide the way the shears trembled in her hands seemed exhausting for her. Her office chair had far more back support than the stools in the studio, and she’d been rolling it out lately to sit in when she was working on arrangements. When I first started at the Lotus, she could stand for hours at the workbench and never so much as stop for coffee. Now a cup of tea was a permanent fixture in her hand, and she did more admiring of my work than creating her own.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked. I hadn’t realized I’d been staring, and I scrambled for a response.

“Like what?” I tried to play dumb, but I should have known better.

“Lucy, I said I’m fine. I have my daughter giving me that look often enough. I’m not sure I need it from you, too.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“Those big brown eyes of yours say enough. And you’ve been hovering for weeks, pet. Every time I lift a box larger than a biscuit, you stop what you’re doing to watch me like I might crumble to bits on the spot.” She was right, and I was a fool to think she wouldn’t notice. Jewish pseudo-granddaughters were just as anxious as Jewish pseudo-grandmothers.

“Sorry,” I said. There was no point in denying it. “I can’t help it.”

“I know you can’t, and I love you for that. But do please try, will you? You’ll give yourself a migraine with all that worrying.”

“Nowwho’s doing the worrying?”

“The old lady, as it should be.” She shot me a wink, flashing an eyelid nearly as blue as the cornflowers. “Now finish this up. I don’t want you to be late.”

“Sorted,” I said, getting back to work.

I didn’t want to be late, either. This wasn’t really a Warehouse Weekend I could be late for. We’d known what we were doing for this one in advance, given the level of planning and preparation it involved compared to other Warehouse Weekends.

Finn’s parents were opening a bed-and-breakfast in Cork, and we were all spending the weekend there so the staff could get in a practice run before the real guests started to arrive. And since we could hardly get ourselves to happy hour down the street in one piece, it was proving to be a hell of a project getting the whole lot to Ireland.

As I finished the piece for the bridal shower, tying off thebouquet with a glittering gold ribbon, I tried to ignore the short list of other projects on the bench beside me. It was just one weekend, and it wasn’t a ton of work. Renee could handle the rest. She’d said so herself, hadn’t she?

“Are you sure you have the rest of these?” I asked, gesturing to the list. I couldn’t resist double-checking, even if I was being a nuisance.

“I’ve been doing this for nearly sixty years,” she laughed. “I can handle this weekend.”

“You’re right,” I said, hoping it was conviction I detected in her voice, not tension.

“What about you?” she asked. “Can you handle this weekend?”

I hadn’t seen Henry since he left the Sunday after our last Warehouse Weekend, and since he was in Glasgow for the month, he was just meeting us in Ireland instead of coming home first. We’d been back to routine texts, takeaways over FaceTime, trying to line up Netflix so we’d be watching the same film at the exact same time, constantly missing each other’s calls, and dancing on the fine line between something casual and something real.

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