Page 66 of Picking Daisies on Sundays

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Am I a ghost in your story?

It took only a few more minutes until the student found whatever she was looking for and left. Levi and I were then free to exit the closet and go to Sarah’s last fitting. We only arrived five minutes late since Levi had ended his lecture early.

Sarah looked beautiful in her dress; it had these grand Juliet sleeves that had the volume of freshly baked cream puffs. She sparkled, and it wasn’t just because the dress was covered in crystals.

She asked for my input numerous times; if the length should be shorter, if the sleeves were too much, if her boobs looked smooshed—her words, not mine. It felt nice to have my opinion matter so much, but my answer was no to all of her questions because the dress was perfect. I also didn’t want to explain that she didn’t need my opinion because 1) I wasn’t a professional and 2) a professional seamstress had altered the dress already.

Levi was there to reassure her when more doubts arrived, ultimately leading her to conclude that nothing was wrong. She was allowed to take her dress home tonight.

After pointless arguing, he drove me home, despite it being in the opposite direction of his apartment.

“It’ll only take a quick second,” is what he tried telling me.

“Quick second my ass,”is what I said back.He laughed, tugging on a strand of my hair like a kid. It was a small moment, but it warmed an empty place in my heart.Maybewe cango back to how we were in high school.

Not after that kiss,a dark whisper alerted me.

“Are you teaching tomorrow?” I asked, brushing away my worried thoughts. The sun was only just beginning to set despite how long the day had felt. It was my favorite part about May in New York. The sun tried to stay up late with you at night, whereas it was too tired to even try during the winter.

“No, thank god. I need some time to process my new fame asHot Mr. Coldwell,”he said with sarcasm, laughing.

“I’ve ruined you!” I shouted back in sarcastic agony, laughing. “Oliver seemed nice though. He mustreally loveJane Austen.”

He laughed, knowing what I meant. “He signed up for the class the day I told him I would be TA’ing. Thought he could get by with automatic extra help—which he has because I have a hard time saying no. But he didn’t expect all the women, which lets you know that he’s never heard of Jane Austen.”

“Well hopefully that doesn’t make him a bad roommate. I would subtract points though, personally.”

“Points have been subtracted,” he confirmed. “And he’s a pretty great roommate.”

I wasn’t sure if he was finished but we pulled up to the townhouse, ending our conversation.

“Thank you for driving me,again,” I rolled my eyes in a joking manner. For a man who had trouble saying no, he was a hard person to say no to.

“You’re welcome,” he said, returning my eyeroll.

In high school, I would’ve reached my hand over and squeezed his palm as a thank you, but that felt too intimate after this weekend. Too soon. So I reached for the door and pushed—

“Wait,” he stopped me. I turned back around. He was reaching into the backseat into his bag, pulling out a book.

“I owe you this,” he said, handing me the book,hisbook. I had never seen it, but the French on the cover was enough of a hint.

I didn’t know what to say. So I sufficed for, “Thank you. I’ll see you this weekend.” I tried to smile, but I had too many questions elapsing. “Good night.”

Closing the car door behind me, I ran up the steps and into the house without turning around. I stashed the book away into my bag like a poor report card and got ready for bed.

Its presence followed me like a camera as I left the room and returned, watching my moves as I unfolded the bed sheets and tugged them over my body. It’s as if it knew how badly I wanted to read it.

But you know that part in the romance movies when the main character does something that they obviously shouldn’t have done, and the audience is practically screaming at them not to do it, and then they go and do it anyways? This felt like one of those moments. But I was trying to do theright thing.

I know he gave me the book, I’m well aware. But it felt like his hand was forced because Oliver had said something—didn’t it? If he truly wanted to give it to me, wouldn’t he have done it sooner? I didn’t want to read something he hadn’t originally shared with me, despite how desperately I wanted to read it. But my fingers and focus were itching to open it. I had practically seared a holeinto the cover from staring at it so hard.

Opening that book would be opening a can of worms. I didn’t know what Oliver meant when he said I could learn a few things from it, but I’m not sure I wanted to know, because my mind was going to worse case scenarios.All Levi’s Past Flingswas a billboard appearing in my head with blinding lights. The poems were all in French, even the title. And weren’t the French all about romantic rendezvous? It would make perfect sense for this to be a book about Levi’s relationships.

I was saving myself more heartbreak by avoiding this entire situation.

I let the shape of the book from my bag sketch a tattoo in my brain as I fell asleep.