She shakes her head. “If you want, next time we go to Knoxville, we could visit Jamie. Bring him flowers or…popcorn?” I stare at her, taking in everything she is. The sun shines right out of her. Her heart is pure and bright in ways most people don’t even dream of.
“Yeah?”
She nods, then signs, “It’s time you introduced me to them.” I kiss her temple.
“I haven’t been there in a long time.”
“I know,” she signs. “Maybe we can make a tradition out of it. A new one. Each time we go there.”
“I don’t wanna bore you, sweetheart. Talking to tombstones isn’t exactly a fun outing.”
“We do what we can with what we have. One day, we’ll have to explain it to our kids, too. So they know where they come from.” I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Is that what’s bothering you? Your roots?”
“I don’t know. I mean…I know where I come from. Not everyone has that, but…” she pauses, thinking, “I read a poem, I can't remember where but it was about…about being grateful for the thorns, grateful for the roses.” I wait as her hands move. “I guess…I guess it's time for me to be grateful for the thorns, because without them I wouldn’t have had roses.”
“Am I roses?” I raise a brow.
“Kinda,” she chuckles, then rests her head on my chest, “I made you macaroni and cheese for lunch.”
“Thanks, babe. I could’ve cooked. You know that, right? I don’t expect you to do it on weekends.”
“I know, but I wanted to. It reminds me of the first time you cooked for me.”
“I don’t know if opening a pack of Oreos qualifies as cooking…”
She smiles against my chest. “You were the first person to cook for me. I’ll always remember.”
“You know what I remember most?” She frowns as I lift her, both of us standing. Her feet rest on top of my boots as I sway us side to side, her hands locked behind my neck. “Dancing with you, angel. That’s tattooed in my brain forever.” I sway us slowly, loving the weight of her body against mine. She giggles silently, her chest shaking with small bursts of joy. I need to make her dance more often. Her smile is my favorite drug. After a while, we get back on the bike to head home for lunch. She sits safely behind me, tapping my shoulder now and then to show me little things she notices. A tree. An old couple holding hands. A bakeryshe hasn’t tried yet. Rose keeps discovering pieces of the world one by one.
And I hope she keeps doing that.
Noticing life.
And wanting me to notice it with her.
Chapter 3
Rose
This weekend wasa cup of joy poured over an already blissful life. A siren wails somewhere behind me, the sound blurry and distant. A woman in a navy suit strides past, phone pressed to her ear, her heels clicking against the sidewalk in a quick, impatient rhythm. On the other side of the street, a line of kindergartners in yellow safety vests shuffles along, all of them connected by the same bright rope their teacher holds. I’m swept up in the rich scent of freshly ground coffee as a café unlocks its doors. A cool breeze snakes between the buildings, lifting the hem of my skirt and brushing my legs. I’m wearing a mid-length navy skirt, boots, and a buttery soft beige sweater. My hair falls over my shoulders and down my back, wild and free. I never braid it anymore. I know Vox loves threading his rough fingers through it. When anxiety claws at me at night, he runs his hand through my hair, and the nightmares loosen their grip.
The flower shop where I work is only two blocks from our home. It’s small and quaint, like it stepped out of an old cartoon.The windows are fogged around the edges from the warmth inside, and bunches of dried lavender hang above the door.
The bell chimes as I push the door open, and I’m greeted by the soft recorded song of birds. Olga’s favorite CD. It plays all day on a small old radio behind the counter, the faint crackle blending with the rustle of leaves outside.
“There she is,” she says with a smile, straightening her green apron. Olga is in her sixties, beautifully timeless. Her mid-length gray hair is twisted into an updo and magically held in place by a simple pen. Today she wears a thick white Irish sweater and a black-and-pink floral maxi skirt. Elegant and practical. Gold earrings gleam at her ears. She told me once that her husband gave her a new pair every anniversary.
I smile at her, lift my hand in a small wave, and mouth, “Hello.” She never makes a fuss about my mutism. I think half the time she forgets about it and loses herself in custom orders and color schemes. I love watching her pace the shop, solving little crises with flowers. I open the small Dutch door that separates the counter from the back room and step through to the lockers. The air smells like damp soil and roses, with a faint bite of eucalyptus. I shrug on my green apron and put my phone on silent. A smile tugs at my lips when I see his text.
Vox
Have a good day, angel. I’ll pick you up at five.
He still tracks my phone, even this new one. I’m the one who asked him to. Knowing he can always find me if something happens is like having my own guardian angel in my pocket. I’m still getting used to the outside world. The harsh sounds, the rush of people, the way strangers brush past me on the sidewalk. Before, my whole life existed between the church, my house, andthe Institute. The real world was only a shadow at the edge of my understanding.
It took a month before I dared go out alone without Vox. I felt exposed, like my skin was too thin, ready to snap at any moment. Once, a jogger brushed my shoulder from behind. He apologized and kept running, but in the space of that heartbeat, I saw my whole life flash before my eyes. I imagined him grabbing me, dragging me back to the Faithful Lambs, punishment waiting for my betrayal. So I froze on the sidewalk. Vox saw me on his tracker and ran from the house. It was only my second time out alone. I was supposed to buy eggs from the small grocery shop at the end of our street. Instead, he found me trembling on the corner and brought me home. There were a lot of moments like that, back and forth, until now.
