Page 135 of Big Dill

All Jami has to do is file it.

If this is what she wants.

If I’m what she wants.

I turn and find Ma watching me, hands on her hips, a knowing smile tugging at her mouth. She insisted on being here when Jami arrived.

“You’ve got nothin’ to worry about, b’y.”

“Thanks, Ma.” I pull her into a hug, grounding myself in her familiar warmth. My family took to Jami like she was already one of us—long before they knew how deep I was in. Okay, that’s not entirely true. Verna clocked it the very first night at the café. Said she could feel the tension across the room.

How the hell did we think we were fooling Jaxon?

Ma lets me go and wanders over to the racks, straightening the clothes Jami designed. Her clothes. Her vision. Still nameless, still waiting for her to decide what success looks like now.

I whisper a prayer she’s ready to choose herself.

My phone pings.

My heart leaps straight into my throat. “They’re parking,” I say, breathless. A nervous laugh escapes me—thinking of all the times I told her to breathe. Now I can barely drag air into my lungs.

I pace again, and when I see them walking down the street, my knees nearly buckle. I’m not sure I’d stay upright without Ma’s hand landing solidly between my shoulders.

“I’ll let her in,” she says gently. “We’ll be ready next door.”

She opens the door wide. “Jami, it’s so nice to see you.”

“What am I?” Jaxon jokes. “A fancy salad?”

“You know I love fancy salads,” Ma says, patting his cheek.

“What are we doing here?” Jami asks.

Ma steps outside, taking Jaxon with her. And then Jami looks up—and sees me.

The world narrows. Everything goes quiet.

I take in the dark circles under her eyes. Her uncombed hair. The way she looks like she hasn’t slept since she left.

I know the feeling.

“Jami,” I say, taking a cautious step toward her, unsure if she’ll flinch or bolt.

She doesn’t.

That gives me hope.

Her gaze drifts past me and lands on the rack—her line, carefully spaced, every piece facing the same direction, waiting like it’s been holding its breath for her.

The sewing machine sits on a sturdy table by the back window, the kind of spot chosen for light, not show. Her fabric is tucked into open cubbies, colours and textures peeking out—linen, knits, soft cottons—organized the way someone does when they plan to come back and keep working. The space smells faintly of clean wood and fresh fabric.

Her breath catches.

“What is this?” she asks.

“Do you remember what you told me that night at the hotel?” I ask, my voice low, shaking with everything I’ve been holding back.

“That my name was Tami,” she says, dropping her voice to match mine.