Page 72 of The Christmas Arrangement

“I did. Thanks for the invitation.” I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.” The lie is so obvious it hurts. “You?”

“Great. Totally great.” Another lie. We’re both terrible at this.

She secures the cellophane with a ribbon. “I just need to load these into the car. There are three more arrangements in the cooler.”

“I’ll get them.”

We work in silence, carrying the flowers out to her ancient station wagon. The photographers get their shots—me opening the back hatch, Ivy handing me arrangements, both of us moving with the practiced ease of people who’ve done this dozens of times.

When the last arrangement is secure, Ivy turns to close the hatch and I’m standing too close. For a moment, neither of us moves.

Then she reaches up and cups my cheek with her cold hand.

The touch is torture. I want to lean into it, to pull her against me, to tell her we’re being idiots and we should fix this. Instead, I place my hand over hers on my face for just a second before she pulls away.

“Ready?” Her voice is rough.

“Yeah.”

The photographers get this shot, too.

The drive to the valley takes forty minutes. We make small talk for the first ten—the weather, the success of Santa Paws, whether Dancer the cat has been adopted yet. Safe topics that don’t require us to acknowledge the enormous thing sitting between us in the car.

Then a song comes on the radio. Acoustic guitar, a raspy voice, lyrics about home and longing and not knowing where you belong.

Daniel Lovelace.

Ivy’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. She shifts in her seat, glances at the radio, then at me, then back at the road.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Fine. I’m fine.” She’s not fine. She’s agitated, restless, like she wants to climb out of her own skin.

“Ivy—”

“Actually.” She cuts me off, her voice too bright. “Would you mind handling the hospital visit yourself?”

I blink. “What?”

“There’s something I need to do. It just occurred to me. But the kids—they’ll be so excited to see you. You don’t need me there. I’m just the flower lady.”

“I thought we were doing this together.”

“We were. We are.” She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. “There’s something I need to take care of. It’s important. Can you handle this on your own? Please?”

The song plays on, filling the silence while I try to figure out what’s happening. She’s lying. Or not lying, exactly, but not telling me the whole truth.

“Sure,” I finally say. “I can handle it.”

“Thank you.” The relief in her voice is palpable. “The hospital staff is expecting us. Well, me. Just tell them you’re with Blooms. They’ll help you unload everything.”

She careens into the hospital parking lot, navigates to the main entrance, and puts the car in park but leaves it running.

“You’re not even coming inside?” I ask.

“I really need to go. I’m sorry. I’ll text you when I’m done and then I’ll be back to pick you up.”