My vision blurs.
I'm crying before I realize it—hot, angry tears that streak my cheeks and drip onto the table. I swipe at them with the back of my hand, but they keep coming.
Pathetic.
That's what Daniel would say.You're pathetic, Liza. Weak. Dramatic.
The front door opens.
"Liza?"
Reeves' voice cuts through the silence. Heavy boots on hardwood. He rounds the corner into the kitchen and stops cold.
"What the hell happened?"
I can't speak. I just gesture at the roses.
He crosses the room in three strides, picks up the card, reads it. His jaw tightens.
"That motherfucker."
"He won't stop." My voice cracks. "He's never going to stop."
Reeves crumples the card in his fist. "I know exactly what'll make you feel better."
The fire pit crackles in the backyard, flames licking up toward the darkening sky. Reeves tosses the roses in one by one, black petals curling, hissing, turning to ash.
I watch them burn.
Each one feels like a small victory.
When the last rose disappears into the flames, Reeves hands me a beer. I twist off the cap, take a long pull. The cold bite grounds me.
"Thanks," I say, my voice still rough around the edges. "For this. For everything." I gesture toward the fire, where the last remnants of Daniel's twisted gift are being consumed by flames. "The job at the pool hall. Letting me crash here when I had nowhere else to go. For protecting me from him." I pause, taking another pull from my beer, letting the cold liquid soothe my throat.
When I glance at him, the firelight catches the concern etched into his features. "You're a good friend, Reeves. A really good friend."
He shrugs, takes a swig of his beer. "You'd do the same."
We stand there in silence, watching the fire.
Then Reeves speaks. "I'm gonna talk to him."
My stomach drops. "No. Don't."
"He can't keep doing this shit, Liza."
"He's crazy, Reeves. Seriously, he's not right in the head. I mean it." My fingers wrap around his forearm, grip tight enough that I can feel the warmth of his skin through the flannel. "You have no idea what he's actually capable of—what he might do if you provoke him."
"I don't care."
"I do, though. I care." My voice shakes, trembling despite my best efforts to keep it steady. The words come out barely above a whisper, desperate and pleading. "Please. Just—don't. Promise me you won't do anything stupid."
He looks at me, firelight dancing in his eyes. Then he exhales, long and slow.
He doesn't promise a thing.
I lean against him, my head pressed against his bulky arm, and we watch the roses turn to nothing.
