Chapter Six | The Shape of Thursdays

It began with scones.
Now it was something else.

She didn’t mark it on a calendar.
Didn’t circle the day with red ink or set reminders.
But each Thursday morning, she found herself choosing a sweater a little more carefully.
Brushing her hair with a steadier hand.
Pausing, just slightly, before stepping out the door.

The walk to town had always been a joy.
But now, it was also a maybe.

Maybe he’d be there.
Maybe they’d sit inside this time, across from each other, and speak in full sentences instead of fragments.
Maybe he’d tell her more about his writing.
Maybe she’d let him read a little of hers.

Maybe.

They hadn’t exchanged numbers.
They hadn’t made plans.
But every Thursday, the blue coat appeared beneath the bakery awning—sometimes before her, sometimes after—and they’d step inside like two puzzle pieces that didn’t rush to fit, but somehow did.

He asked about her favorite books.
She asked what kind of pencil he used.
(He said he preferred ones that dulled quickly. It made him slow down.)
They talked about the wind, about why trees creaked at night, about how winter in Stowe felt quieter than silence itself.

One day, he brought her a pressed maple leaf tucked into a notebook.
She traced the edges and smiled without words.
Another day, she brought him a small jar of homemade granola with a label that said Thursday Fuel.

There were pauses between them—but none of them awkward.

It was as if the stillness between their words was part of the conversation.

One afternoon, the barista gave them matching mugs without asking.
Just slid them across the counter and said, “Your usual?”

It startled her, for a moment—this idea that something could become usual again.

When they parted ways that day, he touched the brim of his hat in farewell, then paused and said,
“You know… I don’t actually like scones.”

She laughed. “You liar.”

He shrugged, but smiled. “I like Thursdays.”

So did she.