Where We Left Off (16 page)

People sent flowers for bizarre reasons.

One was in sympathy
for
a friend whose ferret had died. Another to a teacher as an apology for a child who puked in class. And another written to someone who the sender,
H,
affectionately referred to only as
Not Ana
.

There were the traditional congratulatory well wishes for newborn babies and new employees, but it was these odd ones that stuck out to me. They also made me realize that maybe working wasn’t going to be as daunting as I’d originally thought. This could be my most entertaining occupation yet.

Lucas headed to school just as I finished up with the cards and his mother, Vickie, was eager to train me in the art of arranging. Over the course of our morning together, I’d discovered she was the sort of woman who enjoyed sharing her talents with others—a true teacher. She was encouraging and engaging, a person you felt instantly comfortable with. In a way, she fit right into the shop so seamlessly, so refreshingly. The fact that she looked like she could grace the pages of an Anthropologie
catalog
was just the icing on the cake. She was so well put together, with even her outfit arranged like one of her stunning bouquets.

I knew it would be a while before anything I created would make it into the hands of a customer, but Vickie let me choose flowers for several the pieces and showed me how to she would arrange them. It was a beautiful talent and I was so thankful for the mentorship.

As we worked on the bouquet for
Not Ana,
I couldn’t keep quiet my laughter. I wondered if this woman would take offense that the sender hadn’t addressed her by name, just by a name that happened to be someone else’s. It wasn’t as impersonal as a
To Whom it May Concern
, but right up there.

“So strange.”

“Oh, Mallory.” Vickie wiped her palms on her green apron and blew her dark bangs from her eyes with a light huff. “I’ve seen it all. Sometimes I even like to make up stories based on the limited information I have from these often cryptic messages.”

“That’s a fantastic idea!” I handed her a sprig of baby’s breath and she slipped it into the vase. “How fun is that?”

“Incredibly.” She winked at me. “But not as fun as
H’s
night last night, I’m guessing.”

“Or maybe his night was just the opposite, hence the reason for the flowers.”

Vickie shrugged her shoulders. “I like to think people send flowers more often out of love than from regret. It might be a naïve wish of mine, but I’m
old-fashioned
that way.”

“I really like the way you think.”

“You’ll find that working here changes your outlook on things. Sure, there’s sadness, but I find the main intent in sending flowers is to brighten someone’s day. It’s become impossible for my days not to become just a little brighter as a result. It’s like magic.”

For the first time in a long, long while, I noticed that glimmer of hope bloom in my chest, and I almost laughed out loud at the thought that a literal flower shop made it so.

It had been more years than I could count since I’d been able to witness magic created on a daily basis. I thought I’d have to move back to Kentucky for that, but maybe there was a bit of magic everywhere.

Heath

Not Ana
seemed like a nice girl.

A nice girl who I owed a very large apology.

Dating sucked. I knew our night at the bar and what I had planned for when we left it didn’t constitute as actual dating, but still, it
sucked
big time.

Being married wasn’t much better. The first few years with Kayla were good, filled with marital bliss. It wasn’t like I could lie and say our relationship was doomed from the start, the dire outcome written on the wall. It wasn’t like that, not entirely, at least.

We were in college, both majoring in English. The lecture hall was packed deep with other first years hoping to one day teach or publish or write. That was my guess. I didn’t really care about any of the rest of them and their future plans, though. I had my eyes on someone else.

It was two minutes before our professor would take to the podium when I caught her attention. Her catlike, amber-hued eyes collided with mine, tucked under a fringe of dark lashes. She smiled at me with them, so innocently. They were not the eyes of someone who would later throw away our marriage for a romp in another man’s bed. They were the eyes of a young girl, new to campus and new to the game of flirtation and all that it entailed. On the cusp of womanhood, and it was incredibly sexy.

I’d winked at her. Mallory was the only other girl I’d ever winked at and that was all shy and sloppy. With Kayla, it was intentional. College was my stage for a new chapter, one where I had newfound confidence and charisma. I’d been with enough girls between Mallory and Kayla to know that for some reason, they found me attractive. An educated guess could be the dimples, another the hair. Whatever it was, there was an exchange between us in that auditorium that day.

One day we were sitting side-by-side, drawing in each other’s notebooks while Professor Metcalf droned on about
sixteenth-century
literature, the next we were rolling around in one another’s beds, kissing away sunlight into
dark
. Days turned into years and we were signing our marriage license, then everything turned upside down and she served me with divorce papers.

Life changed quickly.

Feelings moved fast.

Like last night. When I’d pulled into my apartment complex, things were still looking in my favor. The girl from the bar and I managed to make our way up the stairs, lips connected, hands roving and insistent. I felt like those alpha males in movies as I pushed her roughly up against the door and opened it with my free hand, swinging us into the entryway with a chorus of growls and giggles. We stumbled through the family room, collapsing onto the leather couch, bodies pressed together, legs entwined. Her fingers gripped my cotton shirt and forced it up and over my head. I was contemplating doing the same to hers when it all came to a disappointing and screeching halt.

“Good for you, Cliffy!” Paul’s meaty hand slapped against my bare back and I bonked foreheads with the woman I’d brought home. “
So
much hotter than Kayla.”

Nothing like a drunk peanut gallery to squelch the mood. The blonde from the bar shimmied backward on the couch cushions, tucking herself into the corner, her dress hiked up her toned legs. “Excuse me?” she demanded. Her drinks had worn off, that cloudy fog of alcohol lifted. She was no nonsense and gruff.

“I said you’re
way
hotter than his ex-wife,” Paul called out over his shoulder as he headed to the kitchen and pulled on the refrigerator door handle. Light from the fridge blasted into the dark space. “And she wasn’t bad to look at. Her boobs were a little on the small side, but Cliffy’s more of a butt girl anyway and yours seems to be right up his alley.”

My date dipped her head and whispered, “Can we do this somewhere else?” Her gaze scanned the apartment, landing on my open bedroom door at the end of the hall. “Please?”

I didn’t acknowledge Paul, at least not then. I had serious plans to throttle him the next day, but that would have to wait.

Standing, I took her hand in mine and led her to my room. The sound the door made as it softly clicked closed made my palms sweat. It felt taboo, to bring a woman home when I didn’t even know her name. I had no intention of asking for it, and as far as I could tell, she had no plans to offer it. There was no question we were both using one another for some other, unspoken purpose. Hers could be anything, but it didn’t matter to me. She needed me to fill some void, and the
expanse
I needed her to fill within me was so deep that I knew she wouldn’t even come close to making a mark. A drop of water in an ocean of pain. That was fine. I just needed
someone
, and someone who didn’t ask any questions seemed like the perfect someone.

It didn’t take long before we were on the bed. It had been unmade, my sheets peeled back from the mattress and pillows everywhere, but we were everywhere and the fabric just tangled around us in a way that was invigorating and wild. Our breaths were hard and short. She was an incredible kisser. The way her plump lips would slip from my mouth to my ear to suck on my earlobe made my stomach weightless. She was great with her hands, fantastic with her body, the rhythm of a dancer. On paper, our night together should have equated to something unforgettable. Something so enjoyable and passionate that it all other nights would forever compare.

But when I woke up this morning, the pillow next to me was cold and empty, and I felt exactly that. Cold. Empty.

Alone.

I figured she didn’t want a relationship. I didn’t really, either. I thought I could find solace in knowing that she was using me just as much as I was using her, but it was so hollow. Impersonal. As much as I liked to think I was capable of a casual one-night stand, for me, there was nothing casual in being that intimate, when you shed your clothes, your reservations, your fears.

I was not that guy.

I didn’t want to be, and deep down, I doubted she wanted me to be him, either.

She had mentioned during our car ride that she worked at a day spa downtown as a receptionist. She’d said she spent all last week preparing for the grand opening, so after a little Internet searching, I was able to narrow it down to
Refresh Salon and Spa,
which had opened on the fifth of this month
.
I reassured myself that it wouldn’t be creepy to send flowers. I really didn’t have to do too much investigating, just the right amount to show her I was interested, and not a genuine stalker.

That thought made me laugh. What I’d gone through to show up on Mallory’s door back when I was seventeen was
so
in the realm of stalker status. But we were kids and flattery was the first response, not fear. It was so much easier back then because second guesses rarely happened. Now it seemed like I second-guessed everything I did. I supposed having your spouse walk out would do that to you.

But I didn’t want to be
that
guy, either, the one who wallowed. Wallowers were total downers.

God, I didn’t even know what guy I
wanted
to be, just a bunch that I didn’t want to be. Maybe that was how life worked, though. You made enough mistakes and had enough things happen to you and it chipped off all that you didn’t like until you were left with a person you did like underneath. I hoped I was getting closer to finding that guy.

Sending flowers was a predictable attempt at repairing whatever damage I might’ve caused last night, but I did it anyway. I found a shop online, just down the street from her spa and the prices were decent and the arrangements pretty. Plus, they handwrote the notecards, which wasn’t as common as you would think. Most florists printed them out, and to me, that was canned and impersonal. Even though it wasn’t my handwriting, it was someone’s, and that carried with it the bit of emotion I hoped for.

Just as I got into the truck to drive to school, my phone rang. I knew better than to test my luck after being pulled over once this week, so I let it go to voicemail. When I arrived at Whitney, I punched in my code on the security screen and lifted the cell up to my ear to hear the missed message. High school kids bumped into me and jostled against my messenger bag that swung at my side as I threaded my way through the congested hallway, nodding toward students that shouted various takes on “good morning.” I had my phone pressed between my shoulder and my ear and my free hand giving high fives and fist pounds. Nothing beat this feeling—having these kids in my life, greeting me every day.

The message was long and I made it all the way to my classroom at the other side of the campus by the time it finished. It was Hattie. Apparently Mom filled her in on Operation Rebound and she was calling for the details. How the two most important women in my life were now involved in my love life was beyond me. I couldn’t say I was incredibly thrilled about it, but I admit it was nice to have some support in my corner.