My mom went to the grocery store, and she let me wait for her at the park.
There was this field of wildflowers there, and I stopped to pick some.
I didn’t know it was weird for boys to pick flowers. That’s all my dad did for the hotel and its guests.
I feel the prick of tears behind my eyes, knowing what’s coming.
I remember that day. These two boys from my middle school—they were loud, obnoxious jerks. I avoided them and they mostly left me alone. I was quiet and bookish, but my dad employed theirs down on the docks, where he owned a shipping business.
I saw the boy when I first arrived. He was already tall then, but gangly. He looked so happy, so content to admire the beautiful flowers I sometimes liked to read in.
I watched him that day, from a bench on the other side of the park, too shy to go over and sit near him.
But those boys—they weren’t shy. They saw what he was doing and started laughing at him. Calling him slurs. Homophobic ones at first, for picking flowers. And when he wouldn’t respond, ableist ones.
Then one of them pushed him over.
Mostly, I’m a quiet person. But when I see things happen that shouldn’t, I get angry. I always have. My mom says it’s my father’s working-class blood.
“I remember,” I whisper now. I remember it so clearly. I stormed over there and pushed the one who’d shoved him.
I wasn’t very strong, but he hadn’t seen me coming. So he fell over. Clint rolled out of the way to avoid getting fallen on, then jumped to his feet.
“I yelled at them to leave you alone, I think,” I say. I can’t quite remember.
You did,Clint writes.Then you said ‘the world would be a better place if more people loved flowers like he does.’
I laugh softly. “Good memory.”
He pinkens slightly.How could I forget those words? They validated my existence. Plus…He smiles.You were wearing this flower thing on your head. There were roses on it. That’s the last thing I saw before I ran away.
I laugh. “My rose headband. I loved that thing. I might still have it in a box somewhere.”
Clint hesitates, then writes something quickly, shoving the book to me as if he needs me to see it before he changes his mind.
I thought you were the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.
I grin. “You hadn’t seen many, if you hardly ever came to town.”
I have now, and it’s still true.
My skin prickles all over, warmth spreading across my chest.
I never thought I needed compliments. Jeff definitely didn’t give them. But being admired, especially so earnestly, and for so long?
Good God.
Clint scratches the back of his neck, and I get a view of the stretch of his bicep through his sleeve.
I turn away, looking over at the roses. I don’t want him to feel uncomfortable with this reaction.
But I can’t help it. I feel like I’ve swallowed something shiny and beautiful. My skin is on fire in the best possible way.
It’s his kindness, that’s all. And a shared moment in our past.
But I never felt this physical reaction when I was with Jeff. Not even once. Not even when he first asked me out.
Clint must sense my inner turmoil, because he pulls the book back and gently rips out the page, crumpling it in his hand. His expression is apologetic.
