“I am.”
She pulls back, her hands resting briefly on my arms, her eyes searching my face like she’s confirming it for herself.
Then she turns slightly toward Phil.
“This is Phil,” I say. “Phil, this is Charlotte. She owns the gallery.”
He nods.
“Hi.”
Charlotte studies him for a moment, not unkindly. Just fully present.
“I’m glad you’re okay too,” she says simply.
“Thanks,” he answers.
She nods once, accepting it.
She doesn’t ask for details. She doesn’t offer sympathy he hasn’t requested. She allows him the dignity of his own experience.
Her attention shifts back to the box.
“I brought the new batch,” she says, lifting one of the vases. “I thought these might do well here.”
Emma reappears immediately, drawn by the familiar negotiation.
“They always do.”
Charlotte smiles faintly and sets it down.
She glances at me once more, something protective still present in her expression, then allows the moment to settle back into ordinary life.
“I’ll leave you to it,” she waves goodbye. The bell rings softly behind her.
Phil exhales beside me.
“I like her.”
“So do I,” I agree.
The shop settles again, the familiar quiet returning like it had never been interrupted. Emma carries the vases tothe display window, already considering placement and light and which customers will be drawn to which shapes. Outside, someone passes by with a dog that pauses briefly to inspect the doorway before being tugged gently onward.
Life continues.
Phil’s hand is still in mine.
Not tight.
Not uncertain.
Just there.
He looks down at our hands briefly, like he’s aware of the choice now in a way he wasn’t before. Like he understands what it means to do this here, in daylight, without hesitation.
“I didn’t realise how fast news travels,” he says.
“It doesn’t travel,” I reply. “It settles.”