Page 31 of Picking Daisies on Sundays

He walked into my conjoined bathroom to change as I collected what I needed for the adjustments: a small ruler, several safety pins, tape measure, and pencil. They weren’t difficult to find seeing as my room was so spotless that I could host a dinner party on the floor.

I made sure to clean this morning, knowing that he was coming. I tried hiding some of my childish trinkets, like bracelets with glass daisies on them and frames I made out of guitar picks. I almost considered cleaning the walls—my mom said that everyone should clean their walls at least once a month—but since half of my room was covered in green and white baby’s breath wallpaper (horrendously applied because it was left over from our old home), I think I got a pass. But once I started shoving my strawberry lamp under my bed, I realized there was no point in hiding everything.

Just because I enjoyed colorful décor didn’t mean I wasn’t an adult. At least that’s what I told myself.

But I did hide the vase that’s in the shape of a fairy with flowers protruding from its head.

The flowers were currently resting in the neighbor’s bushes outside.

“Don’t laugh.” I instantly turned to find him standing in the doorway in his suit. I fully expected to laugh, but no such thing happened because he looked incredible.

Yes, the suit could fit better in a few places, but the dark navy on his skin did him wonders. The jacket of the suit looked about an inch too big on each side of his torso, along with the length of the pants.

“Well don’t look at me like that! Is it that bad?” he asked.

My eyes darted to his face after being glued to his body. My cheeks were warmer than the chocolate croissants I ordered from Marty. “Oh—no, no.” Clearing my throat. “I’ve seen much worse actually.”

His eyebrows arched, making me panic for a moment, but it was swiftly paired with a friendly scoff. “And what would that be?”

I put on my most serious face as I said, “What you were planning to wear to Junior Prom.”

His face was riddled with complete surprise, but a moment later, he was hunched over laughing. In moments, I was hunched over with him.

“It wasn’t that bad!” he insisted, choking on a laugh that only made me laugh harder.

“It justreallywas,” I insisted, thinking of the hideous floral pattern in the interior of the jacket as I wiped a tear. The smile on my face was making my cheeks sore.

As our laughter came to an end, his face grew melancholic.

“Why did we stop talking, Dani?” The question was like a slap in the face. Any form of a smile on my lips was erased.

How was I supposed to answer that? Where would I start? I couldn’t just say,I was in love with you, and you weren’t in love with me.Did he not already understand that? Did I simply imagine everything that happened senior year? Because the night of prom when he was kissing Cora Messing like she was supplying him air was melted into my brain since the day I saw it.

I know I didn’t imagine it.

The day I saw that happen was the day I realized I needed to cut myself off. If I wasn’t allowed to love him, then I shouldn’t be allowed to be his friend and torture myself any longer.

Unable to muster up the courage to speak up for myself or talk to him the next day, I had shut down. There wasn’t a bone in my body that was confident enough to approach him.

As much as I wanted to believe that I was no longer that insecure, eighteen-year-old girl in high school, I couldn’t even muster up the courage now in front of him.

“I—I don’t know,” I shook my head, looking down at the ground to keep the truth from appearing in my eyes. I watched as his feet moved closer to mine on the hardwood floor, his suit pants dragging. Swallowing, I said, “I’m going to take your measurements.”

He said nothing as I stood in front of him, eye level with his chin. His breath grazed my forehead as I measured his torso. Pinching an inch on each side of the jacket at his waist, I asked, “How does that feel?”

“Much better.” I nodded at his response.

Leaning backwards to my desk, I grabbed two safety pins, opening them, and placing them between my lips carefully.

I was fully aware that it wasn’t the safest method to hold something with a sharp edge, but it was the most efficient way. Turning back around, I pulled the fabric at one side to measure it and confirm it was an inch, but suddenly, the fabric was pulled from my grasp as he raised his arm. His fingertips brushed my bottom lip in what felt like slow motion. Glass could have fallen from my bedside table, and I wouldn’t have heard it for another 2 minutes.

As his fingertips left my lips, he took my safety pins with him. When I looked up, I received a glare.

“I can hold them,” he said, his voice sounding husky.

I couldn’t form a response because my lips were burning from the shadow of a touch his fingers left. I was almost tempted to grab new safety pins, just so he would do it again.

I shook my head in disbelief as if I had found that as an annoying remark, rather than a turn on.