Page 82 of Orc'd By My Neighbor
"The Hendersons on Maple filed a complaint about your trumpet vines crossing into their airspace."
"My trumpet vines are providing essential pollinator habitat."
"Your trumpet vines ate their satellite dish."
"Sounds like a them problem."
His mouth twitches. Just barely. The ghost of a grin he still fights every single time, two years in, like admitting I'm funny would crack the foundation of his entire identity.
Rosie's magic surges. The purple-gold static arcs from her fingers into the nearest garden bed, and six sunflower stalks rocket upward, blooming instantly, each dinnerplate sized head, all turning to face her like she's their personal sun.
Flynn stares at the sunflowers.
Stares at his daughter.
Stares at the mailbox crater, the snapping snapdragons, the crooked business sign, the greenhouse bursting at its seams, the wild and beautiful wreck of everything his rigid life was never supposed to become.
"I'll re-pour the mailbox after dinner."
"After dinner works."
He pulls me tighter against his side. Rosie stuffs a broken glasses lens into her mouth. A snapdragon bites the jogger on his second lap. The sunflowers sway.
Perfect.
