Just as Oakley Ponciano's forehead was about to nudge up against Grace Barron's phone screen, Grace—out of nowhere—stuck out a hand to steer her away. Her timing was a disaster. She misjudged the distance and ended up planting her palm squarely on Oakley's face.
They froze in a ridiculous tableau, like two praying mantises pinned beneath glass in a school display case—limbs caught mid-motion, expressions trapped halfway to embarrassment.
For a beat, Oakley was stunned. For another, so was Grace. People drifting by on the left slowed to watch. People drifting by on the right slowed too. And there they were: two adults locked into an epic, top-to-toe awkwardness.
"You—" Oakley finally managed, speaking from under Grace's hand. "—are you practicing some kind of poison-palms kung fu?"
Grace blinked, horrified at herself. She snatched her hand back, pocketed her phone in a single sleek motion, and said, "Sorry. I didn't mean to."
Her reflexes were usually excellent. They'd just saved her from the worst outcome: Oakley hadn't seen what was on the screen.
Oakley blinked. She looked at Grace's face, then at the pocket where the phone had vanished. "So what was that? Something scandalous? Why can't I see?"
Where there's smoke, there's almost always a kitchen fire. Grace's overreaction only made Oakley's curiosity burn hotter.
"Nothing." Grace shoved both hands into her coat, the picture of calm. A raised chin to seal it. Inside, though, even her hair seemed to be confessing—nerves radiating off her in fine, invisible lines.
"Oh? Really?" Oakley took her in with big, suspicious eyes—one of those internet-cat expressions that announces, I'm not buying it, sweetie. You could almost see her gaze trying to rummage the phone out of Grace's pocket by force of will.
"Mhm. Really." Grace nodded, composed as a jury foreperson reading a verdict.
Arms folded, Oakley narrowed her eyes, then rubbed at her chin, every inch of her saying: I was not born yesterday.
"If it's nothing, why are you so afraid of me seeing it?" Her mind revved, leaping to the worst possible—therefore most dramatic—conclusion. Her eyes went round. "I've got it."
"Huh?" The earnest intensity on Oakley's face put a chill down Grace's back. A casting director for a prestige mystery could hand her a lead role on the spot; she'd take the film to ten festivals and a top-rated list by expression alone.
Oakley pointed a solemn finger at Grace. "Your ex reached out, didn't she? Tell me the truth."
It tracked, in a twisted way: stealthy scrolling, then panic-stashing the phone once Oakley got close. What else would you hide from someone new—except the old?
Exes were a demilitarized zone. Or, more accurately, a minefield.
Grace went still, floored by the sheer creativity of Oakley's brain. That she could sprint to this scenario—impressive, terrifying.
When Grace didn't immediately answer, Oakley's worry spiked. Her brows knit. "What, she regrets it now? Toured the world, found no one like you, and wants you back?"
"No." Grace's voice was flat with certainty. "We haven't spoken since the breakup. Not then. Not now."
Grace's principle was simple: a competent ex should behave as if they no longer existed. And so should you, for them. Two people clap once, let go, and never reach again.
She would never, not ever, conduct some side-door, disrespectful business inside any relationship.
"Then why hide the phone?" Oakley's eyes were blades, sliding right into the pocket where Grace had sealed her secrets.
Grace's hand clamped over that pocket on instinct, as if Oakley might snatch the device and run. "It's nothing. Just… just something you only look at alone."
Which, to be fair, wasn't a lie.
In Grace's mind, it was exactly that—something one views privately or not at all. Their names were printed on it, glaringly, like a confession with a letterhead.
"Oh," Oakley said.
At the phrase "only look at alone," her expression shifted into something terrible and amused, a slow-blooming Oh I see that made Grace's skin prickle.
"Oh what?" Grace asked.
"Oh nothing." Oakley stepped closer, lifted those fine-boned hands, and primly straightened Grace's collar. Her smile was all implication. "I'm not a child. I get it. I won't laugh."
And in her head, a running commentary:Oh, you saint—weren't you the one last week preaching no cuddling, no touching, vows of monkish restraint? As if you were about to take holy orders and float off into the clouds? And now? What, twenty minutes later, you're… sourcing your own entertainment?
Honestly. What a closet flirt.
"Huh?" Grace said, fogged.
"Really, it's fine. We're adults." Oakley even winked. "If you need more… resources, I can send you some."
Ah.
Grace covered her face with a hand for a second. Of course Oakley would leap there. Of all the possible misunderstandings, Oakley had chosen the most operatic.
Grace considered arguing, then did the math. Let the misunderstanding stand, she decided. If she told the truth, Oakley would question her from now till dawn.
Oakley's smile, mid-tease, dipped as her eyes landed on the cart. "You bought a lot of strawberries."
In their neat, square boxes, the berries sat like rows of glossy rubies—plump, lacquer-bright, absurdly cute. Looking at them made your mouth remember sweetness.
"Mm." Grace nodded. "Saw them. Picked them up."
"What a coincidence. I came for strawberries." This season always unspooled Oakley's craving; she couldn't go a week without.
"Perfect. Then you don't have to get any." Grace tugged at her collar again, not that it needed it. Calm on the surface, but heat still licked under her skin from that near-disaster. A fine sheen of sweat had found her; she wanted air, a small breeze, anything.
Oakley's gaze circled the cart and drifted back to Grace. She hesitated, then asked, softer: "But… you don't love strawberries. Are these for me?"
Last time, at the movie, Oakley had washed a mountain of them. Grace had barely touched any; she'd eaten melon instead.
Grace tilted her head. "They are. Why?"
"No reason." Dimples appeared like secret doors in Oakley's cheeks as she folded her hands behind her back and admired the berries. "I didn't know a person could achieve strawberry freedom without buying them herself. Marriage is wonderful. I'm delighted."
Grace rubbed her brow with the back of her hand. "Depends who you marry."
"So," Oakley's eyes sparkled, "you mean it isn't that marriage is good. It's that you're good."
"Isn't it?" Grace lifted her gaze.
Those eyes, dark and bright at once, held something like weather in them—soft rain behind long lashes—turning clarity into a kind of haze.
Damn it. Oakley still couldn't tell whether this was accidental or a practiced art. How could a simple look pin her so effectively, every time?
"Please." Oakley clicked her tongue and glanced away, twirling a strand of hair. "I refuse to dignify that with a response."
Grace laughed under her breath and rolled the cart forward. "Come on. Let's check the spice aisle."
"Coming," Oakley said, and—because joy was running on a steady drip from last night into tonight—hummed her way after her. She touched this, peered at that, radiating a generous, fizzy energy.
Trailing her, Grace kept thinking: a child, in the best sense. All light. All trust. And something in her wanted, fiercely, to keep that safe.
They paid, arms soon looped with bags, and carried everything to the car.
Skylark at night was a tangle of neon crossing and re-crossing, weaving a bright tapestry that the ink-dark sky softened into velvet. The city looked like a music box in a shop window, wound just so—glittering, dreamy, a little unreal.
Driving, Grace let the soft music fill the cabin. Streetlights streamed past like comets, and now and then she glanced sideways at Oakley, at the unguarded curve of her mouth. A simple thought lifted inside her, clear as a glass of water: it's good to be alive.
It was late by the time they got home.
Grace ordered dinner in with a few quick taps.
"Shower first," she said, turning to Oakley. "I'll be right back."
"Okay." Oakley waved from the couch. "See you in a bit."
Grace climbed the stairs to her room. She pulled a set of pajamas from the wardrobe—and then remembered the chart she hadn't finished reading.
She tossed the pajamas onto the bed, sat, and opened the app.
There was a lot. Boil it down and it said: you're very different. You approach problems from opposite angles. Communication snafus likely. But difference can be bridged, and if you lean into complementing one another, you'll grow.
Also: When Oakley faced Grace, she would feel a familiarity, a sense of homecoming. A romantic magnetism pulsed between them; not just mutual respect, but—well—the word was right there.
True love.
Grace's brows lifted despite herself. Really?
True love. She stared at the syllables for a long time, a soft smile shading her features. She knew better than to treat the heavens like a user manual. Two strangers could type in their birthdays and be served the same confession. And yet. And yet she was smiling anyway.
The last note, almost an afterthought: Oakley, in general, would find Grace… very cute.
Very. Cute?
Grace's heart did something uncooperative in her chest. She exhaled, and listened—to the rush of her own breath, embarrassingly loud in the quiet room, as if the chart had said it out loud and not in text at all. She pressed a hand lightly to her left cheek—yes, the "pretty" side—and laughed once, helplessly, at herself, at the app, at the ridiculous, radiant fact of it all.