Page 32 of Meadowsweet and Marigold (EverAfter CozyXverse #1)
UNEXPECTED REUNIONS
~ M ARIGOLD~
The gravel crunched beneath the truck's tires as Meadow navigated the winding driveway leading to the main house, each rotation of the wheels carrying them closer to an evening that had already proven far more eventful than anticipated.
Marigold's hands rested folded in her lap, fingers still trembling slightly from the aftereffects of their encounter behind the pharmacy.
The white dress she'd chosen so carefully felt different against her skin now—not just fabric, but a garment that had witnessed transformation, that carried the invisible imprint of Meadow's touch.
The ranch house emerged from the gathering dusk like something from a storybook, warm light spilling from windows that seemed to promise sanctuary and belonging.
It was a sprawling structure of weathered wood and stone, built with the kind of practical beauty that spoke to generations of careful stewardship.
Smoke curled from the chimney, and Marigold could almost taste the promise of warmth and home-cooked food carried on the evening breeze.
"It's beautiful," she murmured, her voice still carrying the hushed quality that seemed natural after intimate moments. The house felt like an extension of Meadow himself—solid, dependable, built to weather storms while offering comfort to those within its walls.
Meadow glanced at her, a soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"My grandfather built most of it. Added onto over the years as the family grew.
" There was pride in his voice, the kind that came from deep roots and careful tending.
"The kitchen's the heart of it all. Gus practically lives in there when he's not at the clinic. "
As they rounded the final curve of the driveway, Marigold spotted another vehicle already parked near the front porch—a sleek silver sedan that looked out of place among the practical trucks and work vehicles.
Something about its urban sophistication made her stomach clench with unease, though she couldn't quite articulate why.
"Looks like Cypress beat us here," Meadow observed, his tone carefully neutral as he pulled up beside the sedan.
Before Marigold could respond, before she could even fully process the implications of that name spoken aloud in this context, a figure emerged from behind the silver car.
The evening light caught auburn hair that she remembered threading her fingers through, illuminated a face that once meant everything to her, revealed the familiar lean frame that used to feel like home.
Time seemed to fracture, reality splintering into a kaleidoscope of past and present as she stared at the impossible sight before her.
Cypress Wolfe stood not twenty feet away, a professional camera hanging from a strap around his neck, his expression shifting from casual expectation to stunned recognition in the space of a heartbeat.
Her breath caught in her throat, trapped between her ribs like a bird beating against cage bars.
This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be real.
Willowbend was supposed to be her sanctuary, her fresh start, her place to heal away from the ghosts of her past. Yet here stood perhaps the most significant ghost of all, corporeal and present and staring at her with those same amber-flecked brown eyes that once looked at her like she held all the secrets of the universe.
"Marigold?" Cypress's voice carried across the space between them, disbelief coloring every syllable. He took a half-step forward, then stopped as if unsure of his welcome. The camera around his neck swayed with the aborted movement, a pendulum marking the seconds of their mutual shock.
Marigold could feel Meadow's gaze shifting between them, the weight of his attention like a physical presence as he began to piece together the significance of this moment.
Her hands clenched in her lap, knuckles whitening against the fabric of her dress as she struggled to find her voice, to make sense of a coincidence so profound it felt like the universe was playing some cosmic joke.
"Cypress." His name emerged as barely more than a whisper, carrying with it the echo of every conversation they never finished, every question that went unanswered when he walked out of her life with nothing more than careful explanations that explained nothing at all.
He looked the same, yet different. The boy she knew had been refined by time into something more defined, more sure of himself.
His auburn hair was shorter now, styled with the kind of casual precision that suggested success.
The simple jeans and button-down shirt he wore were well-cut, expensive without being flashy.
But it was the camera that drew her attention—professional grade, clearly well-used, worn smooth in places by familiar hands.
"I can't believe it's really you," he said, his voice stronger now, carrying that familiar warmth that once made her feel like the most important person in any room. "What are the odds?"
What were the odds, indeed? The question hung in the air between them, weighted with implications Marigold wasn't ready to examine.
Coincidence seemed too small a word for this moment, destiny too large.
Perhaps it was simply life's way of ensuring that no chapter ever truly closed, that the past had a way of resurfacing when they least expected it.
Meadow cleared his throat beside her, the sound gentle but pointed. "Should I ask if you two know each other?" There was something in his tone—not jealousy exactly, but a careful alertness that suggested he was reading the undercurrents of this reunion with his characteristic perceptiveness.
Marigold turned to look at him, seeing her own confusion reflected in his steady brown eyes.
How could she explain that the man standing before them represented a chapter of her life she thought she'd closed forever?
How could she articulate the complexity of seeing Cypress here, in this place that was supposed to be separate from everything that came before?
"We..." she began, then faltered, the words tangling on her tongue.
Cypress stepped closer, his movement triggering a cascade of memories—the way he used to approach her in the university library, confident but never presumptuous, always giving her space to retreat if she chose.
"We used to date," he said simply, his words carrying a weight that simple past tense couldn't contain. "It was... serious. For a while."
The understatement of that phrase—serious, for a while—made something twist in Marigold's chest. They were more than serious.
They were planning a future together, dreaming in shared whispers about the life they'd build.
Until the day he decided, with no warning and less explanation, that they weren't.
Meadow's eyebrow arched slightly, a barely perceptible shift in expression that nonetheless spoke volumes. Marigold could practically see him filing away this information, adding it to his growing understanding of who she was and what brought her to Willowbend.
"I see," he said, his tone carefully noncommittal.
The silence that followed felt pregnant with unspoken questions and half-formed explanations.
Marigold was acutely aware of the intimacy she and Meadow had shared just minutes ago, of the way her body still hummed with the memory of his touch, of the conversation they had about options and clarity and the beginnings of something real.
Now Cypress stood before them like a walking reminder of her capacity for poor judgment, of her history of loving people who ultimately decided she wasn't worth keeping.
"Cypress," she managed, finding her voice at last. "What are you doing here? In Willowbend?"
He lifted the camera slightly, a gesture that was both explanation and deflection.
"Work, actually. I took a photography gig here.
" His smile was sheepish, familiar in a way that made her chest ache.
"You know how I always carried a camera around in college?
Well, people kept telling me I was actually pretty good at it.
That maybe I should try doing it professionally instead of just as a hobby. "
The revelation caught her off guard. She remembered his camera, of course—an older model he'd saved for months to afford, always slung over his shoulder as they explored the city together.
He'd photograph everything: flowers in abandoned lots, morning light filtering through fire escapes, candid shots of people lost in their own worlds.
She'd teased him about it sometimes, called him her personal paparazzi when he'd catch her in unguarded moments.
"So you're a photographer now?" she asked, genuinely curious despite the emotional turmoil of seeing him again.
"Trying to be." He shrugged, the gesture achingly familiar.
"I've been doing some freelance work for the past year or so, building a portfolio.
This is actually my first real contract—documenting rural life for a magazine spread.
Willowbend was supposed to be just another small town to photograph, but now. .."
He trailed off, his gaze meeting hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. The implication hung between them—now it had become something else entirely, a collision of past and present that neither of them saw coming.
Meadow shifted beside her, and Marigold was suddenly hyperaware of his presence, of the way his scent mingled with the evening air, of the recent intimacy that still lingered between them like an invisible thread.
The contrast between the two men was stark—Meadow's solid, grounded presence versus Cypress's more ethereal energy, the steadiness of earth against the mobility of air.