More importantly, thank you for showing me that I needed to stop living my life for other people's expectations. That I could choose what I wanted instead of what I thought I should want. That loving someone means letting them be exactly who they are, not trying to fit them into some predetermined mold.
Which brings me to my point, because I do have one, even if I'm burying it under excessive sentiment and purple prose.
Stop making decisions based on what you think other people need. Stop being so bloody noble and self-sacrificing and convinced that you're not good enough. Stop deciding that you know what's best for everyone else without actually asking them what they want.
Make choices for yourself, Sash. Selfish ones. The kind that make you happy instead of making everyone else comfortable.
That's what I've learned these past two weeks, and I thought you should know it too.
All my love,
Ambrose
P.S. The purple ones are called lisianthus. Lukas chose them. Apparently they mean appreciation and lifelong bonds, which seemed appropriate given that you're stuck with me forever now, whether you like it or not.
Sasha read it twice, then a third time, trying to process the words through the crushing weight of disappointment that it wasn't Victoria mixed with genuine affection for her ridiculous best friend.
The relief that it wasn't Victoria saying goodbye warred with the disappointment that it wasn't Victoria saying anything at all. She'd been braced for closure, for some final word that would let her move on cleanly. Instead, she had Ambrose's typically perceptive observations and absolutely no idea what Victoria was thinking.
She sank into a kitchen chair, still clutching the note, and let herself have exactly thirty seconds of feeling sorry for herself. Thirty seconds of wanting Victoria with an intensity that made her chest ache. Thirty seconds of wishing things could be different, whilst knowing that they couldn’t be.
The flat seemed even emptier now. She could hear the upstairs neighbor's television through the ceiling, the distant sound of traffic from the street, all the small sounds that made up a life, none of them hers.
She'd lived here for ages but hadn't left much of a mark. Her room was still mostly boxes she hadn't unpacked, temporary accommodations for a temporary life. Even her clothes werewrinkled from being shoved into a suitcase rather than properly hung, like she was always ready to flee at a moment's notice.
Maybe that was the problem. Maybe she'd spent so long being temporary that she'd forgotten how to be permanent. How to commit to something, anything, long enough to make it matter.
The flowers looked expensive and out of place on Ambrose's kitchen counter. She touched one of the roses gently, feeling the velvet softness of the petals.
In twenty-eight years, no one had ever sent her flowers before.
Then she stood up, put the flowers in water, and opened her laptop.
If Ambrose was right about making selfish choices, and annoyingly, he usually was, then she needed to start somewhere. And if she couldn't have Victoria, at least she could have purpose.
The first horticulture course website she found was intimidatingly professional. Twelve-month intensive program, comprehensive botanical training, hands-on experience, and a price tag that made her wince. She bookmarked it anyway.
The second was more reasonable but required relocation to Edinburgh. The third was online but looked slightly dodgy, all stock photos and vague promises.
By the time she'd looked at ten different programs, the sun had set and her stomach was reminding her that train station sandwiches weren't actually food. But she'd found three courses that looked legitimate, achievable, and only mildly financially catastrophic.
She could do this. Wait tables or something during the day, study at night, build something real instead of drifting from oneterrible job to another. It wouldn't be easy, but at least she'd finally know what she was working toward.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Ambrose:Did the flowers arrive? Are you weeping with gratitude? Have you started your new life yet?
- Flowers are lovely. You're a sap. And yes, I'm looking at courses now. Happy?
- Ecstatic. Though you're still avoiding the real issue.
- Which is?
- You know which. But fine, I'll drop it. For now. Love you, you disaster.
- Love you too, you meddling nightmare.
She closed her laptop and looked around the empty flat. Tomorrow she'd start calling garden centers about jobs. Tonight she'd heat up something freezer-burned and pretend she wasn't constantly thinking about dark hair on white pillows and the way Victoria's mouth curved when she smiled.
Making choices for herself. Right. She could do that.
