Disappointed to not see her all bouncy with joy, I tuck the pot against my chest and go inside my flat.
Looking down at this thing, I consider tossing it. The life of an assassin doesn’t mix well with fragile gifts that need water.
A dead plant would probably upset Fallon. And I don’t want to do that. So, I set Rosemary on my kitchen counter.
It looks ridiculous and lonely sitting in the middle of the bare marble countertop. But when a slice of morning sun shines through the window, the leaves glow.
Something tugs at me. It’s only been a few moments, but already my flat feels a little more like home back in Ireland. And a lot less empty.
The next plant arrives four days later.
A spike of adrenaline hits my chest the second I see it. The pot is the same blue and white ceramic as Rosemary’s. I’m digging the uniformity of it all.
This is Minty. Mint cleanses the air, and the leaves will spice up your morning tea. You’re welcome.
Love, Fallon
I snort, pick up the plant, and line it up on the windowsill next to the rosemary. The mint’s leaves tremble in the draft when the AC kicks on.
“Welcome, Minty. Hope you don’t mind living with guns, bullets, and the smell of bleach,” I mutter, and open a beer to help me sleep.
A week later, a new green flutter ball joins the squad.
This is Little Basil. They’re loud. Sorry.
Love, Fallon
The plant practically radiates. But loud?
As I move it inside, its leaves give off a scent that makes me think of fresh-cut grass. I situate the fragrant cluster on my windowsill next to the others, deciding which one should be in the middle. Little Basil can be the Jan Brady of plants, the chatty middle child who needs to confer with Rosemary and Minty at the same time.
Jaysus fucking Christ. I need to get some real friends.
Yet as days pass, the flat doesn’t echo as much when I walk through it. I catch myself slowing down near the window, just to check on my plants. The way their leaves tilt toward the sun. It’s different every day.
It’s absurd how they mean something to me. I drag dead bodies into my trunk for disposal, and now I’m excited to come home to see the orientation of the leaves on three small potted plants.
Yet, here I am.
But then…nothing.
Two days pass.
Three.
No new plant, no note.
No Fallon.
I tell myself I don’t care.
By day four, disappointment coils low in my gut when I find my doormat empty again.
I listen at her door for sounds in her flat.
“Okay, I’m a stalker now,” I snicker, strutting to my flat and unlocking my door.
The laugh dies in my throat the second I step into the kitchen and find a slim metal plant stand sitting on the windowsill.
