Page 36 of Meadowsweet and Marigold (EverAfter CozyXverse #1)

"We did more than know each other," Cypress said, his voice carrying a mixture of fondness and regret that made her chest tighten.

"We dated for awhile. It was..." He paused, searching for words that could encompass the complexity of what they shared.

"It was intense. Serious. I thought we were heading toward something permanent. "

The past tense landed heavily in the sudden quiet of the kitchen.

Flint set down his wine glass with careful precision, while Gus's eyebrows rose in an expression of dawning understanding.

Marigold could feel the weight of their attention, the curiosity about what happened to derail something that sounded so promising.

Meadow's hand tightened almost imperceptibly on hers under the table, a gesture of support that she was grateful for even as she struggled to process the emotions Cypress's words had stirred up.

The casual way he mentioned permanence—something they never explicitly discussed but that she'd sensed hovering at the edges of their relationship like a promise waiting to be made—reopened wounds she thought had healed.

"What happened?" Flint asked with the direct approach that seemed to characterize his personality. "If you don't mind me asking."

Cypress glanced at her, a question in his eyes that she wasn't sure how to answer.

The story of their ending was complicated, layered with misunderstandings and poor communication and the kind of youthful mistakes that seemed inexplicable in hindsight.

But it was also deeply personal, tied to insecurities and fears that shaped both of them in ways they were probably still discovering.

"I screwed it up," he said simply, shouldering responsibility in a way that surprised her. "I got scared and made some very poor decisions about how to handle that fear."

The admission hung between them, heavy with implication and unspoken apology.

Marigold wanted to ask what he was scared of, what decisions he was referring to, but the kitchen suddenly felt too public for that kind of conversation. These were questions that needed private space, time to unfold without the pressure of an audience.

"Fear has a way of making us do stupid things," Gus observed with the wisdom of someone who'd made his own share of mistakes. "Especially when we're young and don't have perspective on what really matters."

"Exactly," Cypress agreed, his relief at the understanding evident in his voice. "I was twenty-two and thought I had to have everything figured out. When I realized I didn't, I panicked instead of just talking to Marigold about it."

The revelation that their breakup stemmed from panic rather than a lack of feeling reframed everything Marigold thought she understood about that period of her life.

For years, she'd carried the belief that he simply stopped caring, that whatever they'd shared hadn't been as real for him as it was for her. To learn that fear—rather than indifference—motivated his actions didn't erase the pain, but it did complicate it in ways she wasn't sure how to process.

"Communication isn't exactly taught in school," Meadow observed, his voice carrying the kind of hard-won wisdom that suggested personal experience with the consequences of poor choices. "Most of us have to learn the hard way that assumptions and silence cause more damage than honest conversations."

There was something in his tone, a weight that suggested he was speaking from experience that went beyond general observation.

Marigold filed that away for later consideration, adding it to the growing list of things she wanted to understand about the man whose hand was currently anchoring her to the present moment.

"Looking back, I can see how badly I handled things," Cypress continued, his gaze finding hers across the table. "I should have talked to you instead of just... withdrawing. You deserved better than that."

The apology she never thought she'd receive settled into her chest like a stone dropping into still water, sending ripples through emotions she thought she'd processed years ago.

Part of her wanted to accept it gracefully, to acknowledge his growth and move past the pain that had defined this chapter of her history.

But another part of her—the part that spent months questioning her own worth after his departure—needed more than general statements of regret.

"What were you afraid of?" she asked, her voice quieter than she intended but carrying clearly in the attentive silence of the kitchen.

Cypress's hands fidgeted with his napkin, the nervous gesture so familiar it made her heart ache.

"Everything," he admitted with a laugh that held no humor. "I was afraid of not being good enough for you, afraid of holding you back from opportunities, afraid of my own feelings and what they meant for my future plans."

The honesty in his response caught her off guard.

The Cypress she remembered was confident, self-assured in the way that youth and privilege could create.

To learn that he'd been struggling with his own insecurities during their relationship added another layer of complexity to her understanding of what happened between them.

"You were never holding me back," she told him, meaning it completely. "If anything, you encouraged me to take risks, to pursue opportunities I might have been too scared to consider on my own."

"I know that now," he said softly. "But at the time, I was so focused on my own inadequacies that I couldn't see what I was doing to you by pulling away."

The conversation had taken on an intensity that filled the kitchen with emotional electricity.

Marigold was aware of Meadow, Flint, and Gus as observers to this long-overdue discussion, but their presence felt supportive rather than intrusive.

There was something to be said for having witnesses to difficult truths, for the way an audience could hold space for honesty that might be too raw for private consumption.

"For what it's worth," she said, her voice steadying as she found her footing in this emotional minefield, "I spent a long time thinking I'd done something wrong, that I'd pushed too hard or expected too much. It would have been easier to deal with if I'd known you were struggling too."

"I'm sorry," Cypress said, and the weight in those two words carried years of regret and recognition. "I'm so sorry, Marigold. You deserved to know what was going on in my head instead of being left to wonder what you'd done wrong."

The apology settled something in her chest that she didn't realize was still wounded. It didn't erase the pain or undo the damage, but it provided context that made healing possible in a way it wasn't before. Understanding, even years late, had its own kind of power.

"Thank you," she told him, meaning it with a depth that surprised her. "That... helps. More than you might realize."

The smile he gave her was gentle and sad and hopeful all at once, the expression of someone who'd carried guilt for years and finally found a way to set it down. It was a moment of closure she never expected to have, a gift neither of them saw coming when this day began.

"Not to interrupt what sounds like an important conversation," Gus said gently, "but should we move to the living room? I made dessert, and I'm pretty sure everyone could use some chocolate right about now."

The suggestion broke the emotional tension without dismissing it, offering a natural transition from heavy conversation to lighter pleasures.

Marigold was grateful for his intuition, for the way he'd managed to honor the significance of what just happened while also creating space for the evening to continue.

"Chocolate sounds perfect," she agreed, realizing that she was, in fact, craving something sweet and comforting after the emotional rollercoaster of the past few hours.

As they cleared the dinner dishes and migrated to the living room, she caught Meadow's eye and found him watching her with an expression of quiet concern and something else—admiration, perhaps, for the way she'd handled an unexpectedly difficult situation.

"How are you doing?" he asked quietly as they followed the others into the next room.

"Better than I expected," she answered honestly. "It's strange how much difference understanding can make, even years after the fact."

"Closure is powerful," he agreed. "Though it doesn't always come when we expect it."

The living room was even more welcoming than the kitchen, with overstuffed furniture arranged around a stone fireplace that promised warmth during the colder months ahead.

Flint had lit a fire despite the mild evening temperature, and the dancing flames cast flickering shadows that transformed the space into something magical and intimate.

Gus disappeared briefly into the kitchen and returned with what could only be described as a chocolate masterpiece—a rich, dark cake layered with what appeared to be salted caramel and topped with a ganache so glossy it reflected the firelight.

The sight of it drew appreciative murmurs from everyone present.

"Did you make this?" Marigold asked, genuinely impressed by the professional quality of the dessert.

"Baking is my stress relief," Gus admitted with a slightly embarrassed shrug. "When I've had a particularly difficult day at the clinic, I come home and make elaborate desserts. It's probably the only reason these guys put up with me."

"We put up with you because you're irreplaceable," Flint corrected with the easy affection that characterized their friendship. "The baking is just a bonus."

As Gus cut generous slices of cake and distributed them on mismatched plates that somehow worked perfectly together, Cypress positioned himself near the window with his camera, capturing the domestic scene with the artist's eye Marigold remembered so well.