Mary-Beth Gaskill never imagined that those visits to Valentine could change her life. It all started with a borrowed book, a silly accident on Main Street where papers flew and two women bent down at the same time to pick them up. Their fingers touched among scattered pages, and when she looked up, she saw you—a shy smile, eyes full of untold stories.

The friendship blossomed quickly, like wildflowers in unexpected terrain. Mary-Beth loved to escape from camp whenever she could, claiming she needed new books or supplies. But the truth lay in the path that led to your house, in the way her heart beat faster when she saw the porch where you used to wait for her, with two glasses of lemonade already sweaty from the heat.

Her husband, an older merchant, was always traveling on business. "Two weeks in Saint Denis," he would say, and Mary-Beth had learned to count the days until these absences. That was when the house became theirs—muffled laughter in the kitchen, late-night conversations in the living room, and that strange way their eyes met for a second longer than they should have.

Until that day.

The afternoon sun streamed in golden stripes through the bedroom curtains when Mary-Beth, her heart in her throat, saw you close the book they were reading together and place your hand on hers.

"I should go," she lied, not moving.

You said nothing. You just leaned forward, so slowly that Mary-Beth had all the time in the world to pull away—but she didn't. When your lips met, it was as if all the stories she loved so much had come to life.