Any time there’s no answer — or in the case of Johanna, who is rushing out the door, and can’t talk — we leave the bouquet propped up against their door.
“Shouldn’t we leave a note?” Lincoln asks, prompting me to shoot him a teasing glare.
“If Armando hasn’t already emailed half the building, I’ll faint from shock.” His gossip goes harder than TMZ.
Lincoln hasn’t said it, but I think he was a little disappointed that I wanted to give them away. His eyes had slipped away from mine when I loaded him up with the first few bouquets. It’s not that I’m not grateful, but watching five hundred roses die slowly in my apartment isn’t my idea of a good time.
But really, watching as people’s eyes light up when we hand them over is amazing.
“Do you think everyone feels like work is a dead end at some point?” We’re three-quarters of the way through the building, and my knuckles are getting sore from knocking. “Maybe my midlife crisis is hitting early.”
Lincoln taps politely on Mrs. Gilpin’s door, then sets the roses down on her welcome mat when she doesn’t answer. “I hope for both our sakes that you live long enough that this could barely count as a quarter of your life, but in answer to your question, I suspect a lot of people feel exactly as you do.”
I chew on that for a while. Ciara used to joke that words flowed through me as easy as water, but every once in a while, a point needs time to thaw out before I can digest it. If only I could take my time more, maybe I wouldn’t get in so many messes. No wonder Mom is worried about me being left to my own devices.
I tuck the two bouquets I’m carrying into my other arm. The cellophane wrapping sticks briefly. All these deliveries are hard work. I slow to a stop in the hallway, resting on the wall. Lincoln mirrors me with a soft smile.
“The first time I got on a stage, the coat they stuck me in was so scratchy I wanted to tear it off for the entire performance. I only had two lines, squashed between storming onstage and slamming a door, but right in the middle, I had to pause, and in those ten seconds, I felt the world stop. Hundreds of eyes glued to me, the burning heat of the spotlight, the lingering smell of fresh paint from the set background.”
It was like nothing I’d ever felt before. Tectonic plates shifting beneath my feet, the little click of something unknown slotting into place. “As soon as I was offstage, I was dying to go back on. Even watching the performance from backstage, the frantic energy of what’s happening behind the curtain, got me jazzed up.”
The way he watches me gives me that same buzz. It’s intense. Electric. I want so much more.
“Why didn’t you pursue it?”
“Just because I love it doesn’t mean I’m good at it,” I joke. “Plus, it was kind of drilled into me to get a proper degree. I kept up acting for a while, some improv classes here, a little local theater there, but when things got busy, I moved on.” I push off the wall, and Lincoln follows a step behind. The memories of us making a very similar walk not that long ago cause a shiver to roll through me, one I’m glad he can’t see from back there.
“Do you miss it?” he asks.
I step up to Dorothy’s door and smile at the trans flag she’s stuck up before knocking. “Being up there? No, it was terrifying. The good kind of terrifying, but I definitely prefer being in the audience. I do really miss playing dress-up, though, and uh,” I flush at the memory, “being someone else for the night.”
“You do it well,” he says, setting the flowers down.
There’s really nothing safe or appropriate about where my thoughts have gone, so I swallow back whatever filthy words my brain wants to blurt out before they have the chance to ruin the moment.
As he stands, the door opens. Dorothy is the same age as my mom, with the same short frame and frantic brown hair too.
“Oh,” she says when she spots the roses. Sighs, really, in this soft, surprised way that curls around my heart and squeezes.
“It’s a gift,” I tell her as she picks them up, and gesture to Lincoln. “From our new landlord.”
The smile she directs at him is wide and pure. “I haven’t gotten flowers in years. Thank you.” It’s thick with gratitude, for so much more than the roses in her hands. We’ve barely talked in the time I’ve lived here, but I’ve heard enough in passing to understand. We all have our reasons.
He nods in a stilted movement that is unlike him, and it hits me that he’s speechless. It’s about time he saw just how much his generosity has meant to us.
What must seem small to him hasn’t been small for us, and it’s nice to be the one blowing his mind for a change.
Excellent timing, Dot. I could kiss you.
CHAPTER23
AN ACT OF KINDNESS
LINCOLN
“You’re joking.Blackoutis not your favorite album.”
Ivy stops dead in the hallway, her hip cocked to one side. The overhead light highlights the flyaway hairs that have been escaping her bun since she stormed into my apartment. There’s a sheen of sweat along the back of her neck and pink dusting the roundness of her cheeks.
