I have no idea what to say. Her words are full of lies and I hardly recognize the woman in front of me. But it’s not worth arguing about.
“Come on, Crystal,” she orders my sister who is very quick to stand up and follow behind mother like a puppy. “You’ll simply love Paris on Valentine’s Day. The city of love on the day of love,” she gushes. When she looks at me, malice flashes in her eyes. Or maybe it’s resentment. “I’ll have the travel agent fax over our itinerary.”
Then she’s striding out of the room with her heels clicking and the cloud of her floral perfume lingering. “You know, you should have your beau fly over for Valentine’s Day. It would be so romantic, and it’ll prove that he’s really invested in taking you off the market. You’re not getting any younger.”
Her words fade, thankfully. Crystal is 23; still plenty young. The need to protect my sister tries to rise up, but I push it down. I’ve tried to step in for her over the years and show her that she could make a different choice. If it’s not the path she wants, I can’t force her.
As much as I wish it weren’t true, my mother’s words sting. An ache starts in my chest, and I find myself rubbing the spot where my heart beats. It’s not like I was holding my breath and thinking my mother and sister would show up for my birthday this year.
Honestly, I gave up thinking they were going to show up a while ago. Still, it would have been nice to hold onto the illusion just a little bit longer.
As long as I get a letter from my Sunflower, I’ll be fine.
When I think of her, my head snaps up and I look at the ridiculously ostentatious clock on the oversized mantle. I shoot up to my feet and am out the door before I fully realize where I’m going. By the time I reach the mailbox, I’m huffing out breaths and my palms are sweaty.
I adjust my cowboy hat about twenty times, trying not to appear too eager, even though no one is watching, before I wipe my hands on my jeans and open the mailbox. My heart starts to pound when I see the familiar yellow envelope. I rip it open and pour over my Sunflower’s words.
She talks about the history of Valentine’s Day. For my Sunflower, showing up once a year isn’t going to be enough. I get it, I always thought the holiday was overblown.
But I was also a little bitter about sharing my birthday.
I’ve always escaped into books and into my own head, where it’s safe. I think if I lived out on Sagebrush, I would escape in the land.
I hope the sunset is beautiful for you today and I hope you enjoy it. Go take a ride for me.
As I look down at the end of her letter and the sunflower sticker right below the last line, I marvel at the timing. My mother’s harsh words aren’t so jagged. My sister’s indifference doesn’t hit me right in the chest with the same intensity.
My Sunflower has no idea what her letters mean to me. I’ve fallen in love with the woman who writes me letters. I’m not sure if I’ll ever get the chance to make her fall in love with me too, but I can hope she’ll be revealed to me one day.
CHAPTER 4
ARDEN
Every time I leave the town limits and find myself at Watts Ranch, I can’t help but look down the road with longing. Sagebrush is close, too close. I can feel this tug toward Ford, one that begs me to close the distance and give in.
I never do, though. I can’t.
It’s not like I would know what to say if I showed up at Ford’s door with my hat in hands, so to speak, and confessions on my lips.
What would he do if he found out I’m the one who has been sending letters for almost a year? Would he be disgusted? Would he be disappointed? Would he tell me to stop?
I’m not ready to face the answers to those questions. Honestly, I can’t imagine a time or situation where I would beready to face those answers.
When I started writing the letters, it was just something I had to do. I had been thinking about it for a while, but as his 25thbirthday approached, the need to do it couldn’t be ignored anymore. None of it makes sense, not really.
Which is why I’ve never told anyone, not even Eliza, about writing to him. I have no idea what my best friend would say if I told her.
At this point, considering she’s loved up and blissfully happy, she’d tell me to march my little self on down to Sagebrush and confess my hidden identity. But then it wouldn’t be hidden.
Not signing my name, only sticking a sunflower sticker to the paper at the bottom because they’re my favorite flower, allows me to just write to him. There aren’t any expectations. Nothing holds me back.
I can let the words flow and I can show him what is written on my heart, and let him in on the way my soul loves to dream. I’ve been best friends with Eliza since basically the moment we showed up in Seneca Falls, but I’ve written thoughts and feelings to Ford, anonymously and safely, which I haven’t shared with her.
There’s beauty in not having to put a face to the words. There is freedom in him not knowing, even if it means I continue to watch him from afar.
What if he meets someone and builds a life? What will you do then?
My stomach knots and I push those questions down and lock them away. Those are the type of wonderings with the power tokeep me up at night and freeze my hands when I sit with a piece of blank paper in front of me.
