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Emma was laughing so hard she was practically folded in half. The sound rang out across the lawn, bright and unrestrained, drawing amused looks from the villagers gathered around the perimeter. She was wearing a thick blindfold over her eyes, her free hand waving dangerously over a bucket of violently purple thistles instead of the bucket of white peonies Victoria was desperately trying to steer them toward.

The silk ribbon binding their inner wrists dug into Victoria's skin as Emma dragged their joined arms in the completely opposite direction.

"I can't see anything!" Emma gasped out, stumbling against Victoria’s hip as she tried to blindly grasp a stem. "You have to tell me where the bucket is!"

"I am telling you!" Victoria yelled, abandoning her dignity as she used her only free hand to block Emma from grabbing a handful of thorns. "I said left! Your other left, Emma! We are supposed to be building a monochromatic white bouquet and you are currently holding a fistful of pink carnations!"

"Pink is festive!"

"Pink is a disqualification!" Victoria snapped, though the exasperation in her voice was ruined by the smile fighting its way onto her mouth.

They were surrounded by chaos. Ten other couples were tethered together on the grass, frantically clipping stems and dropping foliage under the afternoon sun. The theme for the final round was a flawless white summer arrangement. Victoria had approached the table with a clear strategy, mapping out the exact ratio of white roses to baby’s breath before the timer even started. She had communicated the plan to Emma with absolute precision.

Emma had immediately ignored the plan the second the blindfold went on, operating solely on chaotic instinct.

"Just trust me," Emma wheezed, blindly shoving a sprig of greenery into the glass vase Victoria was trying to hold steady. "It adds texture."

"It is a weed," Victoria informed her, staring in horror at the lopsided, brightly colored disaster forming in their vase. "You have literally given me a weed from the grass."

The whistle blew sharply across the lawn.

"Time!" Lucy shouted from the gazebo steps, holding a stopwatch in the air. "Step away from the tables!"

Victoria dropped her hand, letting out a long breath as she surveyed the damage. Their vase looked like it had been assembled in the dark by a panicked bird. Beside them, the woman who ran the jam stall was standing proudly next to a flawlessly arranged dome of white lilies, her bound partner looking equally smug.

When Lucy walked down the line to judge the final entries, she paused in front of Victoria and Emma’s table. She looked at the pink carnations, the purple thistle, and the single weed drooping over the edge of the glass.

Lucy stopped dead, staring into their vase with genuine, morbid fascination. She looked at Emma, then at Victoria’s stone-faced glare. "I see what you were going for. Post-apocalyptic meadow? A passionate cry for help? Either way, I'm deducting two points for the weed and another three because I'm fairly certain that carnation was stolen from the memorial bench."

Emma pulled the blindfold down around her neck, blinking against the sunlight before looking at their creation. She burst into a fresh fit of laughter, leaning her full weight against Victoria’s shoulder because she could no longer stand upright.

The jam lady was awarded the blue ribbon a moment later. Victoria watched the woman accept the prize with a gloating smile that instantly ignited a fierce spark of competitive rage in her chest. She opened her mouth to point out that the woman had clearly started stripping leaves before the whistle blew.

But then she felt Emma slump against her side, still giggling helplessly as she tried to untie the ribbon around their wrists with clumsy fingers. Victoria looked down. Emma’s face was flushed from the heat, her eyes shining with tears of mirth, looking happier than Victoria had ever seen her.

The anger evaporated, leaving a strange, hollow ache in its wake. Victoria reached over with her free hand, gently taking the ribbon from Emma’s fingers and untying the knot herself. She realized, with a terrifying sense of clarity, that she did not care about the loss at all. She would gladly lose a hundred ridiculous village games if it meant she got to keep that sound ringing in her ears.

✽✽✽

The festival grounds had finally begun to empty out by late afternoon. The stallholders were packing away their tents, loading unsold wares into the back of battered vans. Victoria escaped the noise by retreating to the secluded patio behind the kitchen, collapsing into a wicker chair with a sigh that felt like it carried the weight of the entire weekend.

She stared out at the treeline, listening to the crunch of gravel as someone approached. Chloe rounded the corner a moment later, carrying two glasses of white wine.

"You look like you survived a war," Chloe noted, handing a sweating glass to her sister before dropping into the opposite chair.

"I sold pastries to the general public for eight hours and participated in a blindfolded craft competition," Victoria replied, taking a generous swallow of the wine. "War would have been less psychologically taxing."

Chloe smirked, kicking her legs up onto the low wooden table between them. "You loved it. Don't lie to me. I saw you laughing out there when Emma made that hideous flower arrangement. I haven't seen you genuinely laugh like that since… high school maybe?"

Victoria traced the base of her glass, keeping her tone flat. "She shoved an actual weed into the vase and told me it added character. It was hard to keep a straight face."

"You were happy," Chloe pressed, dropping the teasing tone for something quieter. "I saw you out there, Victoria. I don't think I've seen you look that unguarded in... well, maybe ever. Not even with me. Certainly not with our father."

Victoria stiffened at that. As if summoned by the mere mention, the phone resting on the table buzzed. The screen lit up, displaying a preview of a message from Harrison. It was a simple text asking if she had booked her return flight yet, casually reminding her of a dinner reservation they had on Thursday.

The words on the screen felt like cold water thrown directly into her face.

She stared at the phone. The patio suddenly felt incredibly quiet. The reality of her life—the actual life she had built across the ocean—came rushing back in, uninvited.