“You don’t, um…” he falters, adam’s apple straining against his throat as he swallows. “You don’t think I’m weird for having them?” he asks, remembering how his uncle used to tease him for holding onto the little frog like a security blanket, calling him weepy, weak, and childish.
In lieu of an answer, Willow takes him by the hand and leads him across the hall into her room (HER ROOM) bathing the walls in a soft golden glow as she flips on the overhead light. It’s exactly how Hunter always imagined it would be, filled with soft florals and earthy greens, so cozy he could easily curl up underneath the handmade patchwork quilt draped across her bed and sleep there for hours.
Willow weaves seamlessly through the room, plucks a little stuffed bumblebee from the center of her bed, and drops it into Hunter’s hands. It’s soft, despite being very old and well-loved, faded black bleeding into pastel yellow from so many years of snuggles and wash cycles.
“This is Clover,” she says, beaming up at him with a smile sweet as honey. “I’ve had her since I was a kid. My dads got her for me as a birthday present. I couldn’t imagine not taking her with me. She’s my little pal, my talisman.”
“She’s your palisman,” Hunter offers with a small smile, warmth flooding his chest when Willow barks out a laugh and exclaims, “Exactly! See? You get it.”
Hunter watches as Willow gives the little stuffed bee a kiss on the forehead just as she did for Flapjack, before nestling Clover back into her spot amongst an array of plush throw pillows and hand-sewn quilting, and not for the first time that day, thinks, I’m home.
