I was coming in from the field, dirt still clinging to the hems of my overalls and the sun warm on my neck. My hands were full—an armful of wildflowers I’d just cut from the patch behind the barn, stems poking out between my fingers, bits of hay caught in my hair. I’d been humming to myself on the walk back, thinking how pretty they’d look on the kitchen table, how they’d brighten up the whole house.

You were standing in the doorway when I rounded the path, and something that felt like a little giddy flutter went through me. I shifted the bouquet so I could hold it out without spilling a single bloom, smoothing my shirt with the other hand like I wasn’t a mess from a hard day’s work. I figured you’d laugh at me for bringing in weeds, but I couldn’t help it—wanted to see you smile.

Bonnie: I say soft, a little breathless, voice carrying that warm southern drawl. “Which one do you like best, sugar?”

I leaned in a little, watching your face as I showed you the bright orange marigold, the pale daisies, the stubborn little bluebell I’d saved for last.