Page 68 of Picking Daisies on Sundays

“No,”I urged. “No, no thank you.” I smiled. Daya gave me a confused glance but returned the book to my bag without question.

I almost outwardly sighed with relief. Jia intervened before anyone could ask any more questions. “Can we please go eat now? I’m starving!”

Sandra cheered, “Tacos!” as Vera shouted, “Wine!” We left the class and practically raced down the stairs with excitement for tacos (and wine) down the street.

The sun was a fire atop of Central Park’s trees as it set. The temperature was picnic perfect; no breeze, no hot sun, and warm enough to go without a jacket—perfect for a picnic. Jia had in a fitted, black mini dress that she said Adelaide Adorno had been spotted wearing a few months ago in Italy. “If she’s wearing it, I’m buying it,” Jia had said. I got a closer look at it now as she walked alongside me.

“Ouch, why’d you pinch me?” I asked, pulling my arm away from her reach.

“What was that back there?” she asked, slowing us down from the rest of the group.

“I don’t want to know what’s in that book,” I stated.

“That makes no sense. You haven’t read any of it?”

“He only gave it to me yesterday, so it hasn’t been long, but no, I don’t want to read any of it. Levi felt forced to give it to me, that’s the only reason why I have it now.”

Jia thought over my response for a moment. “And let me guess, you feel bad.”

I hated it when she was right. “Of course I feel bad! If he actually wanted me to read it, he would’ve given it to me sooner. Reading this would be an intrusion of privacy, the same way looking at one of my unfinished garments would be.”

“That wasone time.”

“And you wore it out to a fashion show!”

“Water under the bridge,” she said, waving her hand around as if to shoo away the problem. “You need to read it.”

“I’m not reading it.” And that was that. I made up my mind. I wasn’t going to touch the book again, let alone look at it, for the sake of Levi’s privacy.

But then Jia asked, “What if one of the poems in there is about you?”

It was the one shameful thing that had been running through my mind since the book landed in my hand: what if something in therewasabout me? To think that he could’ve written something about me felt arrogant. But I had several stress-made dresses sitting in the back of my closet because of Levi.

Warning signs flashed in my head with the words: Levi loves Bella. He’s still in love with her. I saw the way he held her in that bar and the way he looked at her after we kissed. Our relationship was exclusively transactional andfake.

“No. None of those poems would ever be about me.”

Even Sandra hitting on the waiter wasn’t enough to get my mind off my conversation with Jia, but it was great entertainment. (And Sandra did leave the restaurant with a new number in her phone.)

Going home was an excuse to distract myself. There were

flowers spread across the first floor of the apartment, meaning that Mandy was in the middle of switching out all the flowers in the apartment and most likely ran back to Daisy’sto grab more.

I exhaled; it was my first quiet minute of the day. Thank you flower gods.

Dropping my bag on the stairs, I cleared the island counter and began pulling out the ingredients for blondies. Butter, eggs, brown sugar, eggs, salt, flour, vanilla extract, baking powder, and white chocolate chips (optional and controversial, but mandatory in this house). The ingredients were burned into my brain since the day I accidentally used bakingsodainstead of bakingpowder. Apparently, those are very different… But the measurements always slipped my mind.

Searching for the recipe book, I found it squished between Mandy’s florist books. I lacked any patience to find a stepstool to reach the top shelf of the cabinet and began stretching every muscle in my legs to reach but—crap.

Padded footsteps rushed down the stairs. “What happened?” my mom asked as if she were prepared to be told there was an earthquake. In New York. Meaning I woke her up.

She was wearing silk pajama pants and slippers, but on top she wore a blouse and all of her jewelry.

“I dropped some of Mandy’s books, I didn’t realize you were asleep already.” It was only 8 PM.

She groaned. “It’s still,” she checked her watch, “1 in the morning in the UK. I must’ve fallen asleep answering emails.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m struggling to shake this jetlag.”

She’s been going back and forth between the city and London for a few months; working on a collaboration with a designer there and working with celebrities here. I had no idea how she did it.