Page 9 of Sparks Fly

I was sanding one of the curved edges when my phone buzzed against the bench.

An Instagram notification lit up my screen. I wiped my palms on a rag before leaning over to check it.

@addisonhartrealtor liked your post.

It was a photo I’d taken on my ride earlier as I’d just pulled up to breakfast. My flannel hung open, the thin tank underneath catching the morning light. I hadn’t expected her to see it so quickly, but the small thrill that ran through me was hard to ignore.

Another notification appeared before I could look away. Addison commented on the photo.

@addisonhartrealtor: Okay, but you could’ve warned me this was going to be your Saturday look.

I stared at the screen for a second, the corner of my mouth tugging upward despite myself. My fingers moved before my brain had the chance to talk me out of it.

Me: You want a warning next time, Sunshine?

I could send one in advance next time. Maybe a photo?

A few seconds later the reply came through.

Addison: No need. I’ll just brace myself every time I open Instagram now.

I laughed quietly under my breath because she was quick, really quick. And I liked that.

Me: Careful. Sounds like you’re stalking me again.

Addison: Don’t flatter yourself. I was never stalking. It was a casual scroll… a 36-week deep casual scroll.

I double-tapped the message before I could even pretend I was cool about it. She was charming, and she knew it. I stared at the screen a moment longer before typing the thing I’d been thinking about since last night, since she’d walked up to me like she didn’t mind being seen.

Me: I’ve got a welding job tomorrow. But after that I’m free. Want to hang out in person instead of casually stalking?

I looked over at the sculpture sitting on the table in front of me. The burn marks and curves held tension in the space between the two reaching hands, steel pulled close but not quite touching.

I wasn’t the type to chase a polished girl in heels, not seriously and not in the kind of way that let someone step fully into your life. It never worked out that way for me. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Addison Hart, and for the moment that felt like reason enough to see where this went.

* * *

4

Addison

It was Sunday morning, my alarm still went off at 6:30 a.m.

Routine was non-negotiable for me even on a Sunday. During my childhood, my mother didn’t let us sleep in, we woke and did chores on the weekend before heading to activities.

To this day I wasn’t the type to waste the start of the day. I couldn’t sleep in or scroll Instagram in bed, and idle time made me restless. Like I was already behind before anything had even begun.

I slid out of bed, pulled on a matching athletic set, tied my hair back into a high ponytail, and moved through the motions without thinking: water bottle, pre-workout, running shoes. Then the day began as I headed for the gym.

It was an hour later when my pace finally slowed. I felt flushed and hollowed out in the best way. I liked the quiet afterward, the kind that echoed inside my chest like space clearing, like I had outrun the noise for a while.

I showered at the gym, changed into a navy blouse tucked into high-waisted jeans, added gold hoops and a soft swipe of mascara, and headed to brunch.

It was a ritual I didn’t particularly love but didn’t know how to quit either, muscle memory and habit wrapped up together, proof that pretending still came easier than stopping.

I met Lilly, Eloise, and Harper at a trendy café in the South End, one of those airy, curated places that smelled faintly of eucalyptus and ambition. White subway tile gleamed under soft midday light, blush velvet cushions lined the seating, and gold rimmed glassware sparkled across every table. The room was filled with women who looked like they belonged in skincare commercials, and the whole place carried the polished confidence of somewhere that charged eighteen dollars for a mimosa while convincing you it was a bargain.

A year or two ago this would have felt completely normal to me, fun even, but sitting there now, it felt slightly like stepping into a life I knew how to perform but didn’t fully recognize anymore.