Just thinking of sitting out back made me wonder what Lior was up to. But I quickly pushed her from my mind. The entire way to the vet’s office to get Brontë’s ashes I’d wondered if I’d been stupid to take her up on her offer to stay in her guest room. It had been lovely. She had been warm and kind and gave me space, but was also available when I needed to be distracted.
And then that last night happened. I still didn’t understand why I’d stood there staring at her. It was as if for a moment all the sadness I’d been feeling had cleared, making way for a yearning I couldn’t tamp down.
Have me, she’d said, repeating my own words back to me and lighting my body on fire. And I’d had her. Repeatedly. Until we were both exhausted and draped over one another.
But though it had been incredible, it had left me feeling even more conflicted about us and our situation. I’d been adamant that more than friendship couldn’t work with Lior. Her line of work coupled with her level of fame seemed an automatic no-go for me. But we’d hung out together loads of times now and, other than a couple of doubletakes by women at the coffee shop, she hadn’t once been stopped for a photo op or an autograph. Unlike Nadia, she didn’t invite it. She made a concerted effort to be invisible by wearing hats, sunglasses, no makeup, and more stained tops I’d ever seen on any one person.
Had I been wrong? Had my assumptions been based more in my fears than her facts? Was it possible being more than friends could actually be… possible?
But even as I thought it, my brain began to reject it.
Lior Flynn, the woman who had taken me into her home for two weeks without hesitation, was still Lior Flynn. And while the bubble she’d been able to create, most likely for my comfort, had been nice, it wasn’t sustainable. She could hide from the press, but she couldn’t escape them forever. They would turn up, just like they had when we’d been in Seattle with Marley. Sneaky, intrusive, and unwanted. And while I got my own bit of press here and there when a new book of mine came out, once the excitement had passed, I was left alone again. Lior would never be left alone. Not only because of who she was, but because of who her mother was as well. And I could just imagine the scrutiny I'd get by being connected to her. Who was this guy and why had she chosen him? I’d gone through it once with Nadia. With Lior… it would be ten times worse.
I sighed. As much as I’d love for it to happen, we were not to be. And part of me must’ve known that when I let her leave the other day. As much as I’d have liked her to stay, I couldn’t hang onto her. We could be friends, but we had been treading in dangerous territory by my staying for so long. One of us had to keep things on track. I hated that it was me.
The next day the bag from Joe’s contained a large piece of coffee cake. The day after, a brown sugar pecan brioche. I was going to need to start running again if she kept this up.
I picked up my phone.
“Good morning, Neighborhood Porch Fairy,” I typed. “Thank you for the coffee and treats. But if you continue on this path, I will not be able to do much more than roll down any given path, as I will have turned into a cinnamon roll. Though, even as I typed that, I think I’ve decided there are worse things. Anyways. Thank you. You are very sweet.”
I hit send and then immediately wished I could take the latter part of the text back.
You are very sweet? Come on, man. Do better.
I was embarrassed for myself, but also… I didn’t have much more to say than that at the moment. I was grieving and I could only hope she’d understand.
I placed the bun on a plate and sat at the kitchen table, my laptop open in front of me. My agent had asked if I needed to extend my deadline, understanding the trauma of losing Brontë. But the book was the only thing getting me out of bed in the morning, and so every day I got up, drank and ate the treats left for me by Lior, and got to work. I didn’t set a timer. I just put my head down, my fingers on the keys, and got to it. I was now at the final chapter.
The cursor blinked at me, waiting. I knew what was going to happen. What I wanted to say. What I wanted to leave the reader with. But I wasn’t ready to let go of this story just yet. It was the last book I’d written while Brontë was alive, and it was a story of resilience, kindness to oneself, and realization. It was, in a way, my story. And while I knew how it would end, I was still torturing myself over how my own story would go forth after the book was done. I was considering taking a break. Maybe even a vacation.
My text alert went off and I opened the message from Lior, smiling at the litany of pastry emojis, followed by a bandaged heart and a simple, “Thinking of you.”
I set the phone back down, shut the laptop, and took my coffee and pastry out onto the back patio and sat in one of the stupid, clear plastic chairs Nadia had purchased and put my feet up on the edge of the copper fire pit, a small, charred remnant of the shirt I’d watched burn stuck to the inside of the drum. Maybe I’d have another fire tonight. I’d found a pink ankle sock with an avocado print “buried” in my office chair last night.
Taking a long sip of coffee, my eyes fell on the red rubber ball B had once liked to gnaw on and nose around the house before picking it up and dropping it at my feet in a slobbery mess. Sadness bloomed in my chest, but instead of my eyes welling like they had so often this past couple of weeks, I just smiled, got out of my seat, and retrieved the ball, tossing it up in the air and catching it, and then laughing as it squeaked, startling me as it always had.
I set the ball on the mantle inside the circle of B’s collar, and then went upstairs to work out.
The following day, after the morning knock on the door, I opened it to find Joe standing on my porch with a coffee and paper bag and gave him a confused smile.
“I’m here on assignment,” he said, holding out the cup and bag. “Lior had to leave for a job. For the next three days I’ll be your porch fairy.”
I was positive the man blushed as he struggled to get the last two words out. I laughed at his obvious discomfort.
“Thank you,” I said, taking the food and drink. “You really don’t have to. Though you do make a very cute fairy.”
“She threatened me,” he said.
“Lior threatened you?” I grinned, trying to imagine this.
“Said she’d spread rumors that I secretly put edibles in all my pastries and that’s why people thought they were so good and couldn’t stop coming back for more.”
“Hm,” I said. “It’s not a bad idea.”
“The rumor or me actually doing it?”
“Both?”
