Page 55 of Hooked on Emerson
Emerson’s letter had crystallized something she’d been circling for months: she wasn’t afraid of failing in Seattle or succeeding in Millfield. She was afraid of allowing herself to truly belong, to commit, to build something lasting in a world where everything, everyone, could be lost in an instant. Her mother’s death had taught her that painful lesson.
But Emerson had shown her another truth. That building was worth the risk. That connections, even temporary ones, gave life meaning. That love wasn’t about possession or permanence, but about supporting each other’s growth, whatever form it took.
I’m yours, Ava. I think I have been since that first day, when we were strangers pretending not to be.
The words from his letter echoed in her mind as she made her way back toward town. The sun was beginning its descent now, casting long shadows across the familiar streets. She passed the hardware store, the town square, the café again. Mason waved from inside, and she returned the gesture with a smile that felt lighter than any she’d worn in months.
There was one more place she needed to visit before finding Emerson. One more piece of her journey to complete before she could tell him her decision.
The cemetery was quiet in the late afternoon light, the old oak trees casting dappled shadows across the neatly trimmed grass. Ava made her way to her mother’s grave, the path familiar beneath her feet. Twenty-three steps past the old oak, then left at the granite angel with the chipped wing.
Her mother’s headstone was simple, the granite polished and clean. She knelt beside it, placing her hand on the cool stone. “I’m back,” she said softly. “I went to Seattle, saw the studio. It was everything I thought I wanted.”
Birds called to each other in the trees overhead. A gentle breeze stirred the grass around the headstone, carrying the scent of earth and the last wildflowers of the season.
“But I realized something while I was there. Something important.” She traced her mother’s name with her fingertip, feeling the carved letters beneath her skin. “I don’t have to leave to find myself. I’ve been here all along, becoming who I’m meant to be, right where you planted me.”
Tears welled in her eyes, but they weren’t the painful ones of grief. They felt cleansing, releasing. “I’m not staying because I’m afraid to leave, or because it’s what you would have wanted. I’m staying because I choose to. Because this is where I want to build my life, my future. With the shop, with the mill maybe. With Emerson.”
The name felt right on her lips, solid and true. “You would have loved him, Mom. He fixes things, builds things. Sees the potential in what’s broken or forgotten.” Her voice softened. “He’s seen me that way too, even when I couldn’t see myself clearly.”
She sat in silence for a while, watching the light change as the sun dipped lower toward the horizon. There was peace here now, not just grief. The understanding that her mother’s absence didn’t mean her influence was gone. It lived on in Ava’s hands as they arranged flowers, in her appreciation for beauty in unexpected places, in her growing certainty about where she belonged.
When she finally stood, brushing grass from her knees, she felt lighter. Ready. The decision she’d made in Seattle felt more certain than ever, rooted now in a deeper understanding of what she truly wanted, what would truly fulfill her.
It was time to find Emerson. To tell him everything—about Seattle, about his letter, about her choice. To see if the certainty she felt was mirrored in his eyes. To begin building something together, something neither of them could create alone.
As she walked toward the cemetery gates, her phone buzzed in her pocket. A text from Emerson, sent just moments ago:
Found your note. When did you get back? Can we talk?
Ava smiled, typing a quick response:
Just now. Yes. I’m on my way to you.
She slipped the phone back into her pocket and quickened her pace, heading toward her car. The town spread before her, bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. Her town. Her home. Not because she had inherited it, but because she had chosen it. Because here, in this place, with these people—with him—she could grow roots and wings at the same time.
The road back to his workshop felt both familiar and new, each turn bringing her closer to a future she was finally readyto embrace. As she pulled up to the familiar converted garage, she saw him standing in the doorway, waiting, his tall frame silhouetted against the warm light inside.
Her heart quickened as she stepped from the car. Their eyes met across the distance, and for a moment, neither moved. Then Emerson took a single step forward, his expression full of hope and uncertainty, of questions not yet asked but hanging in the air between them.
Ava closed her car door and took a deep breath, preparing to bridge the space between them—not just the physical distance, but all the unspoken words, the choices made and unmade, the future waiting to be built together.
Ava's hands were chilled in the water as she separated stems by feel rather than sight. The sensation grounded her, but this time it felt new and refreshing. Freesia bobbed against her wrist, its sweet scent rising with each gentle motion. She arranged the stems in a loose circle on the counter, their cut ends gleaming wet in the soft light that spilled across the workbench.
The shop was quiet except for the occasional creak of old wood adjusting to the early hour. Outside, a light breeze stirred the trees. Ava stood barefoot behind the counter, her shoes kicked off near the door, apron tied loosely over her sweater dress. The sleeves were pushed up, exposing goosebumped forearms, but she didn't mind the chill. The ranunculus felt like velvet against her fingertips as she added them to her arrangement. They werecream-colored with centers that darkened to amber, like honey crystallizing in sunlight.
These weren't for anyone else. Not an order. Not a customer request. Not a gesture for someone's celebration or sympathy. Just for her. It was something she hadn't done since the day after her mother's funeral, when she'd numbly arranged white lilies and pale roses without feeling their texture or scent, without seeing the shapes she was creating.
Today was different.
Today, she chose blooms by instinct, letting her hands remember what her mind had forgotten. The weight of a hydrangea head, heavy with petals. The slight resistance of eucalyptus stems as she scored them with her knife. The way calla lilies—deep purple ones her mother had once called "the drama queens of the flower world"—curved like dancers. She added a cluster of blue thistle, their spiky texture a counterpoint to the softness surrounding them.
"What would you think of this?" she whispered, not to anyone present, but to the memory of her mother that lingered in the corners of the shop. Not with grief now, but with a soft curiosity. The question wasn't laden with the need for approval anymore. Just acknowledgment of the woman whose hands had taught hers.
Ava remembered watching those hands when she was small, perched on a stool beside the workbench. Her mother would hum as she wrapped wire around rose stems, strengthening them for wedding bouquets. Her fingers never seemed to hesitate, moving with a certainty Ava had envied and then finally learned.
She stepped back to study her creation. A cluster of blue thistle here, a surprising pop of coral there. No rules. No symmetry. Just shape and motion and truly feeling. The arrangementwasn't perfect as it leaned slightly to one side, and the eucalyptus threatened to overwhelm one corner, but it felt like hers.
