“What am I going to do with you, flower girl?”
For my eyes, a bifurcated road splits. I see it clearly.
One would take me straight to him, consequences be damned. The other would mean the end. The end of our friendship and all the what-ifs.
I feel the heartbreak spreading like an incurable sickness, killing my insides slowly.
I force my tears back. “Ian. We need a break.”
He rakes a hand through his hair. “We haven’t even started dating and you want to break things off?”
I whisper, “We can’t keep lying to ourselves.”
His jaw sets in a hard line. “Is this because of your father?”
I nod even though I keep to myself the biggest reason is that my dad’s words prompted me to gain clarity. Those pics showed me our love could overrule common sense.
We would fight like every couple does, and then I’d have to watch him do things that jeopardized his image and his career. My dad always played worse when my parents got into an argument. Why did I let myself forget that?
In three strides, he erases the distance between us. He tugs me to his chest, and I close my eyes, wishing he would seal me to him.
“Let me talk to your dad. We deserve to see where this progresses. Don’t give up on me because I behaved like a sulking idiot.”
I smile against his chest, placing a tender kiss. “You’re amazing, Ian. One day, you’re going to make a fortunate woman even luckier.”
“I want that woman to be you.” His voice rises, and I peel myself from his hold. I must go before I lose the fight with my emotions.
I take an unsteady step back, away from him. With every step, my heart beats slower, protesting my decision.
I am at the door, gripping the handle, when Ian stops me by saying, “I thought you were brave. A woman who goes after what she wants.”
“I am,” I whisper.
“I guess, then, I am the one who’s not worth the fight.”
I leave before I say more, like I love you. You’re worth everything. But I am not the woman who’ll hold you back. I refuse to do and be that.
With blurry eyes, I stumble through my apartment door.
I no longer like this space. He’s not here. It doesn’t feel familiar; it seems temporary and not home.
I throw myself on the bed, curling myself in a fetal position. Ugly sobs rip out of my chest. I cry until my lids grow heavy, repeating to myself it’s for the best. It must be.
No amountof concealer can hide the bags under my eyes. Still, I try because I am a grown-up who has to function even brokenhearted. My fault, again.
Opening my door, I discover another lily. I place it on his doorstep, hoping he will understand the message. He must stop.
All we did was lie that our friendship was platonic. Even when we started, with him sipping juice drinks and me holding flowers, we craved more, paving the way for more.
We just fooled ourselves into believing it was just a friendship. Our vacation proved that desire was there, rippling just below the surface, along with feelings so mighty they could alter the course of our lives.
In my car, I pull up a playlist for the broken-hearted, singing off-key while tears cascade down my cheeks. Good for me, I expected my breakdown, so I brought a small bag of makeup with me.
Parking in the back of the shop, I wipe at my eyelids, dabbing at the mascara running down my face. I look like a damn wet raccoon.
I am about to apply a fresh coat of concealer when my phone vibrates. His message is like a fist wrapping around my tender heart, suffocating yet pumping it back to life. The dichotomy is nothing new.
Thank you for the flower.
