Page 51 of Picking Daisies on Sundays

be touched by you

I wish I could’ve had those words etched into my heart and every pillow I owned. Painted them onto ceramic vases, sewed them into corset tops, frosted them onto blueberry cakes, and cut them out of chartreuse construction paper and glued them into my scrapbook.

I wish I could’ve.

If he were another person, maybe. Not someone who wasn’t in love with me.

I couldn’t listen to another charming, romantic word that came out of his mouth, and still remember the fact that he didn’t love me. He found me beautiful and enthralling, but he didn’tlove me. This was why I left in the first place senior year. I couldn’t go through this friendship happy, only to be reminded that I wasn’t beautifulenoughto be loved by him.

The grip I had on the skirt of my dress was quivering as I exited the ballroom and moved down the stairs that I only walked up an hour or so ago.

What was I thinking coming here? What was I thinking doinganyof this? Jia was right; I was an idiot to believe something couldcome from pretending to be with Levi.

I shoved the front door open and inhaled the cool, spring air. Goosebumps formed on my bare arms and back, but it was a needed distraction from the filing cabinet of thoughts and insecurities moving through my mind.

Create a plan, make a next step in order to avoid a full wave of tears. “Taxi, call Jia and Gabe, order a pizza,” I listed out loud to myself in hushed tone, like an athlete tired from a run.

Walking down the steps, a valet approached me, asking if I needed a taxi. I replied and smiled as he moved towards the street to get one’s attention. One quickly pulled up to the sidewalk. The valet held the door open for me as I collected my dress and—

My next step was broken off by a familiar sound shouting behind me.

Levi.

I quickly stepped out of the cab, apologizing to the driver and the valet, meeting Levi halfway up the stairs.

He had these eyes that were so bright, a complete juxtaposition of his dark eyelashes; it was criminal. It made you want to confess all of your sins because his look was so angelic. Maybe he would grant you one glance if you told him your secrets.

He skipped the formalities and urgently asked, “What did I do? Was it something I said? Tell me, and I’ll fix it.” His eyes were urgent in his plea, but I felt defeated.

“There’s nothing you can do. It’s me,” I exhaled, “It’s me.” I turned my head down, needing to look anywhere but his face. But looking down seemed to bring all of my stored away tears to the brims of my eyes.

When did I get so dramatic? It made me feel like I was fifteen all over again. All these emotions I didn’t know existed were bubbling to the surface and fighting for my attention and my only outlet was the tears in my eyes.

When he placed a palm on my jaw, and lifted my face up, it

brought me back to prom night. Where I was drunkenly sobbing in the hallway over not being able to find my date or my phone that had my romantic confession. Levi had come jogging down the hallway, crouching in front of me, tilting my head up, saying—

“Hey, hey, hey, no, no, no, don’t cry. What’d I miss? What’s wrong?” Both of his large hands encapsulated the sides of my face now, catching thin tears.

I couldn’t tell him I loved him, I couldn’t. But he could identify my lies the way I could identify grief in a person. So, I sufficed for a pocketed truth that haunted me every day. That even haunted me tonight when I dressed in the most beautiful of dresses, but still couldn’t help compare myself to all the beautiful women around us.

“I’m not beautiful, Vi,” my voice cracked, causing another tear to fall. It was the first time I had said that aloud in years. I had thought if I stopped saying it, then it would become less true. But all it did was make me lonelier in my insecurities.

His face fell, a storm of emotions passing in his eyes. He lookedbroken. “You don’t think you’re beautiful?” he asked honestly.

I imagined someone from afar painting a picture of this bittersweet moment for a sad, romance film poster. They’d paint roses around us on the border, but my ankles and knees would be pricked by thorns while he remained in the bed of the flowers.The lover and the archer, they’d call it. The girl who kept falling in love,

and the boy who could receive love from whomever he aimed his heart at.

I shrugged my shoulders. “I’m a little funny and have a few good sewing skills, but that’s all,” I tried to joke. But the tears and clotted weight in my voice remained gloomy.

“Are you insane?” he asked, his eyes darting around the spaces of my face for any mistruth.

“Mostly on Sundays but I try to keep it to a minimum during the work week.”

He ignored my humor. “Everywhere we go, people are infatuated by you, looking at you and yearning to talk to you. I,” he paused for a long moment. “I am infatuated by you.”

I craved to tell him that it was because of my flaws that people stared. I shook my head at his nonsense. His thumb wiped a tear from under my eye before it could fall any further.