Page 31 of Rise
“For the road,” she offered, managing a soft, gentle smile.
He looked at the box in her hands, then up at her. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” she said, nodding her head. Her eyes remained locked on his, wide and open and honest, and she added, “But neither did you.”
Because hedidn’thave to do it, not any of it. Beck had remained rooted in his seat as she had settled into that uncomfortable phone call with her father. And after, he had made space for her, without reallyknowingthat she’d needed it. It was as if he had a sixth sense buried within him; a sense of what people needed, and how to give it to them. She wasn’t sure anyone had ever paid close enough attention to her to notice these things before, not since her grandmother. And she wanted him to know that she appreciated it, even if the words didn’t come as easily as she’d hoped.
This, a quiet offering of care to take him through the rest of his day, would have to be enough. At least for now.
He took the outstretched box from her, his grip careful. His fingers brushed hers in the handoff, barely there, but still enough to raise the hairs on the back of her neck. He stood, tucking the box under one arm, and Hazel walked him to the door, though neither of them said anything.
The bell chimed overhead as he pushed it open, the sound light and new and perfect.
She hesitated, just for a breath, and then cleared her throat.
Beck turned back, his movements slow.
“See you in the morning,” she offered, the words floating between them as if the wind itself had carried them. Her lips curved at the edges, the smile gentle and warm.
“Yeah,” he said, his own lips curving to match hers. “See you then.”
Then he was gone.
6
The knock came just as Hazel was rinsing soap suds from her wrists, the sink still half full with tepid water and floating forks. Early evening light angled through the kitchen window, soft and golden. Outside, the breeze had picked up, rustling the hedges along the porch and carrying the faintest edge of salt in the air. She hadn’t expected anyone, but something about the knock felt familiar, not urgent. A rhythm without rush.
She dried her hands on her grandmother’s favourite dish towel, its hem fraying, the lemon print faded to a gentle ghost of yellow. Her bare feet padded across the hardwood floor; it was cool against her skin as she moved through the still-quiet house.
She cracked the front door open without pausing to check who it was first.
A woman Hazel just barely recognized stood on the porch like she belonged there, with her soft grey cardigan hanging open over a cornflower-blue tunic and dark-washed jeans. Her hair curled like ivy around her shoulders, streaked silver in places that caught the light. In one hand she held a wicker basket with a folded cloth draped over its contents, and in the other, two mismatched teacups clinked together gently, porcelain tapping porcelain.
“Hi, Hazel,” she said, with a warm, velvety voice that reminded Hazel of slow jazz and thick wool blankets. “I’m Sylvia. I was a friend of your grandmother’s. From Northlight.”
Hazel hesitated for a breath— not because she minded the company, exactly, but because it took her a second to place the name. Not from memory, but from guilt. Sylvia Shaw. Her grandmother had mentioned her once or twice, always in passing.She had been at the funeral, too.
“A friend from the studio,”she’d said during one of their rushed calls, back when Hazel had been juggling twelve-hour shifts and squeezing her grandmother’s voice into the in-betweens. She hadn’t asked questions then, just nodded and half-listened as she laced up her shoes or packed up plated pastries. She remembered thinking it was nice that her grandmother had a friend to keep her company. Even better that her grandmother had taken an interest in yoga; she’d always felt better when she was moving her body.
And now here that friend was, on the porch, carrying tea like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Hazel pulled in a steadying breath and opened the door wider. “Of course, hi. Come in.”
Sylvia stepped inside with quiet confidence, the creak of her tall boots soft against the floorboards. She moved like someone who’d walked this house before— recently, too, like she remembered its rhythm. She paused just long enough to glance across the entryway as she toed off her boots, or as if she was remembering the clatter of Hazel’s grandmother’s keys in the ceramic bowl on the console table by the door.
Hazel led Sylvia into the living room, adjusting the hem of her faded, oversized sweater. She brushed a hand through her hair, tucking some of the wilder strands back behind her ears. The space had shifted in quiet, subtle ways: Hazel’s coffee mug on the windowsill, a stack of cookbooks resting on the arm of the couch, the faint smell of cinnamon and flour clinging to the air instead of solely lavender and eucalyptus. It was still her grandmother’s house, but it was beginning to carry Hazel’s weight, again, too.
Sylvia set the basket down on the coffee table, unwrapped the cloth, and pulled out a thermos like this was something they’d done before.
“I hope this isn’t too forward,” she said, pouring the tea into the porcelain mugs she’d brought along. Her kind, blue eyesremained trained on her own movements. “I just figured you might want some company. And Wendy always said mint helped you think.”
Hazel blinked. “She said that?”
“All the time.” Sylvia smiled, handing Hazel a cup. “Said you liked it strong, with a little honey. I brought some.”
The scent curled upward, mint and something floral, gentle and warm. Hazel wrapped her hands around the cup slowly, as if afraid it might vanish.
She felt the words before she found them. “I’m sorry we didn’t meet before.”
