Tears clouded my vision. “You were the best friend anyone could ever ask for.” My chin trembled with the words. “Her place is pretty clean now. I just have to do a few more things, but I’d rather do it alone. I feel like I have to.”
“I get it; I do.” She stepped away and put her cup in the sink, brushing off her hands. “So then, if I’m not helping you there, how about I go food shopping and make a really great lunch…” she looked down at her watch and laughed. “Or dinner for us?”
“Okay,” I said smiling, wiping the stupid tears from my cheeks. “That sounds great.”
We ended up walking out together after dressing and trying our best to look presentable to the outside world. I helped her cover up her black eye with some amazing foundation she had at the bottom of her make-up bag.
“Sometimes, I bruise easily. This is the best stuff for covering it up,” she explained as I watched her dab it into her skin with a thick brush. Within seconds the bruise faded under the thick cosmetic. I assumed that was a cop thing—walking around with cuts and bruises you had to hide from everyone. I wondered what Dean had under his clothes. Was he full of bruises and…? I needed to stop my thoughts from wandering to him at every opportunity—especially when the conversations or situations had nothing to do with him.
For instance, there was a beautiful bouquet of flowers on the porch outside. I knew it was for Brooke. I knew it would be from her ex, who still had no name to me. But, for a split second, I imagined they were left for me from Dean.
I’ve turned into one of those stereotypical, desperate love-struck girls. “Punch me in the vagina,” I mumbled.
“What?” Brooke asked, stepping around the beautiful flowers.
“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. You know you’re screwed when your thoughts are being said out loud because your emotions have high-jacked your mouth, and it tells all your secrets. “That’s kind of sweet. He left you flowers.”
But she didn’t look like someone who thought it was sweet. Brooke’s eyes scanned the front yard with a quizzical brow.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she sighed, picking up the sweet-smelling gift. “I’m just surprised that’s all. We didn’t end our conversation on a good note last night.”
“Seems like he really wants you to reconsider him,” I said, thoughtfully.
“Yeah,” she whispered, walking down the steps and tossing the flowers into the garbage. “Flowers aren’t going to make that happen.”
My mouth dropped open as I watched her climb into her car and drive away.Maybe Brooke caught him with someone else?I turned my head and eyed the ominous flower arrangement. I haven’t gotten flowers in…ever. No man had ever bought me flowers. My heart ached.
Well, that realization made me feelspecial.
Frowning, I stomped across the snowy grass and onto my mother’s porch. I didn’t need a man to get me flowers. I threw open the front door and furiously grabbed at the dozens of bags of garbage I needed to drag out to the curb.
If I wanted flowers, I’d just buy myself flowers.
Hell, there was a whole garden box hanging from one of the windows in my apartment back in Vermont. I could plant my own damn flowers.
I hauled all the bags out and piled them high. How embarrassing, it looked like an episode ofHoarderswas filmed there;The Drunk Years.
And if I wanted my flowers to last forever, I’d do exactly what my mother did and buy a fake-ass vase of them and keep them as a centerpiece on my dining room table for twenty years.
Storming back into the house, I slammed the door behind me. I ignored the slight smell of bleach that still lingered in the air and ran into the kitchen. The place didn’t look half bad. There were just a few things left to do, like go through that wretched pile of papers I jammed in the corner of the counter the other day.
I snatched the mess of papers, slapped them onto the coffee table in the living room, and flung my ass into the clean-smelling couch cushions.
Barflyers. Off course there would be flyers for bars.
Ladies’ Nightadvertisements.
Happy Hourcirculars.
Each one crumpled and crushed in my fists.These were the papers she didn’t want anyone to touch? These were the things that were important to her?
Some of the papers were filthy, sticky with God-only-knew-what, so I shook the remaining papers out and wiped my hands across the fabric of my pants. I’d do a wash later.
As I did that, one page of the chaos in front of me stood out against all the others. It was a handwritten letter tucked inside a creamy yellow envelope addressed to my motherand me.
A sense of uneasiness tightened low in my stomach. I quickly slipped the letter and envelope out from the pile and unfolded it in my lap.
