Chapter 5

But Willa understood. The placement and angle of the flower rack were exactly the layout she'd once declared "optimal for succulents." The living room's floor-to-ceiling windows faced south to catch the sunlight she loved. The kitchen counter was lowered by three centimeters, addressing a complaint she'd once made about the original height.

Every inch of this drawing was filled with her old nagging and little rants.

"Why did you draw this?" she heard herself ask, her voice trembling.

Luke took the sketch back, his movements almost hurried. "I was bored."

There it was again. Always the same. Never direct, never admitting anything, hiding every emotion beneath that icy exterior.

"Luke," Willa said, lifting her head to meet his eyes, "why did you marry me in the first place?"

Luke was clearly caught off guard by her sudden question, pausing for a moment.

"Because you were suitable." The standard answer.

"No." Willa shook her head. "We were never suitable. I love sleeping in; you're up at dawn. I'm scatterbrained; you're meticulously organized. I'm emotional; you're hyper-rational. We're from two different worlds."

Luke listened quietly.

"So why?" Willa pressed. "Don't give me that 'it made sense' line. I don't buy it."

The lakeside breeze lifted her long hair. Luke looked at her for a long moment, so long Willa thought he wouldn't answer.

"Because you saw me," he finally said.

Willa froze.

"Everyone sees Luke Landon—the award-winning architect, the composed partner, the man who never makes a mistake." Luke's voice was soft, almost carried away by the wind. "You were the only one who saw the one who draws crooked lines on blueprints, who burns noodles, who... folds paper birds."

He paused. "And you never thought there was anything wrong with that."

Willa's vision blurred.

"So what about now?" she asked, her voice rough with emotion. "Do you still want me to see the real you?"

Luke didn't answer. His phone rang, and he glanced at it, his brow furrowing. "I have to go. My meeting's about to start."

He turned, took a couple steps, then paused and looked back at her. "Which building are you in?"

"Building Three, Room 203," Willa replied automatically.

Luke nodded and hurried off.

Willa stood there, watching him disappear behind the trees. She could still feel the warmth where he'd held her, and her thoughts were all over the place.

That evening, during the group dinner, Willa had a few glasses of fruit wine. Her coworkers were in high spirits—some singing, some playing games. Dawn sidled up to her. "So I heard you met someone by the lake today?"

"How do you know?"

"Emma saw you." Dawn winked. "Holding hands, were you?"

"No, we didn't hold hands," Willa blurted out. "We just talked, that's all."

"And then?"

"No 'and then'." Willa took another sip of wine. "He said he drew a design with a balcony I'd like, and then he went off to a meeting."

Dawn's eyes went wide. "That's no 'and then'? That's the opening scene of a freaking romance drama!"

"We're a divorced couple, not drama leads." Willa gave a wry smile. "And you know what the most infuriating thing about him is? He only ever says half of what he means, leaving me to guess the rest. Guess right, no reward. Guess wrong, I'm the idiot."

"But you still like him," Dawn said, cutting straight to the point.

Willa didn't deny it.

The dinner party didn't wrap up until ten. Willa went back to her room, took a shower, and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Her phone screen glowed in the dark as she opened her contacts—even though she'd deleted Luke's number, she still remembered it by heart.

Should I send a message?

Ask about the sketch?

Or just straight up ask: What did you mean by what you said earlier?

While she was still torn about what to do, someone knocked on the door.

Startled—who would come this late?—she padded to the door and peered through the peephole.

Luke was standing outside, holding a box in his hands.

Willa opened the door and froze.

He'd clearly just showered; his hair was still damp, and he wore a tracksuit. He extended the box toward her. "For you."

"What is it?"

"Open it."

Willa took the box and lifted the lid. Inside was a small, crudely made ceramic pot containing a succulent—the most common variety, Graptopetalum paraguayense. But it was thriving, its leaves plump and healthy.

"I saw it somewhere and bought it," Luke said. "I've kept it alive for six months."

Willa looked up at him. The hallway light threw shadows across his face, and he looked uneasy, like this was totally out of his comfort zone.

"Why are you giving me this?" she asked.

Luke paused for a few seconds.

"You said," he spoke slowly, "if I could keep a succulent alive, then..."

Then what? Willa suddenly remembered.