Page 83 of Picking Daisies on Sundays

I explained my on-the-whim decision, and then further explained the entire façade of my relationship with Levi. How it happened, why it happened, and what’s happened since.

“It was really all pretend?” she asked in disbelief.

I nodded my head.

“I saw the daisies on your desk. Should I assume those were pretend then too?”

“He was just being nice,” I shook my head.

“What about the day he called to ask me for my strawberry shortcake recipe?”

My head shot up. No, no, no. I could feel those holes in my hearts stitching themselves up with hope.No. I wouldn’t mistake his care for romantic love again. “That’s who he is, you know that. He always does for everyone else and never for himself. That has nothing to do with me.”

She held up her hands in surrender giving up. A second later, “He wasn’t happy about Paris?”

It was like recounting the plot of a film as I recited how he looked. “He was taken aback. It felt like I was dropping this huge decision on him, and he had no idea it was even an option. We didn’t speak after that.”

“It sounds like Levi doesn’t want to see you go,” she said slowly. “Maybe being together this past month has made him realize how much he misses you. And to hear that you’ll be leaving again is probably not easy to process.” She was right, of course she was right. But it also solidified my concern for what happened next.

But what scared me most was that “I love him,” I told her, trying to hold the pieces of my heart together with the strength of

my voice.

“Oh, Daisy. You’ve always loved him, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I don’t think he loves me back, and even if he somehow did, I’m going to Paris now. I wouldn’t see him for a year. So much can happen in a year,” I said, echoing Levi’s concern.

She mulled over my words and said that she wanted to make a phone call to the school first before it got too late. I listened to her shout at the first person who answered, but when she asked for another administrator’s number, the man on the phone reassured her that a young man had already chewed his ear off about having Ethan reported and fired, interrupting him during a fundraising dinner.

“Who called?” my mom urged.

“He said his name was Mr. Coldwell.”

My mom looked taken aback. I felt just as surprised when I heard it through the phone. She demanded the number anyways and said she’d be making another call in the morning, and then hung up.

“Doesn’t love you, huh?” she said.

If classes weren’t already over for the semester, I would’ve skipped today. However, I did spend the whole day finishing my last dress. I thought it would’ve helped get the image of Levi’s hurt face out of my head, along with the idea of moving to Paris. Instead, Ethan’s voice lingered over and over in my head like a recording.We both know you need the help. Your designs are fine, nothing special; not using your mother’s name because you don’t want to be compared to her; never

designing clothes that fit you because you don’t think your body is good enough.

That last line was burning itself into my brain like a branding. Not only because it was so cruel that it gave me whiplash, but because it was true. I never created designs for myself, because I never envisioned myself as the one to be looked at. And itwasbecause I didn’t think my body was good enough. It hurt to know someone could see through me so easily.

When the dress was completed in the middle of the night, it felt like it was taunting me. So I chopped off five inches of the bottom of the dress and took in the bust so that it’d fit me.

Screw men.

I’d wear whatever I want.

Two more hours and it fit as good as a pair of skinny jeans from 2009. It rested at the middle of my calf and hugged my chest. The drop waist of the silhouette fell in exactly the right place, showcasing where my waist started and curved out to my hip. I also ripped the pearls off; they looked too preppy. And then I took a breath and titled my head back to shake my hair out of my face.

The daisies in my windowsill still stood tall in their vase. Flowers like that never lasted this long, especially after being in a stifling car. Was it a sign that everything was going to be fine? Or was I grabbing at strands to make myself feel better?

But then I thought of Levi as he walked into the restaurant and handed them to me like I deserved them.

I reached for my plethora of thread under my bed. White thread for the petals of the daisies, magnolia gold for the center, and an ivy green for the stems. I collected the coordinating beads too; beading was an excruciatingly long process because you had to thread individual beads onto string and then sew them into the

right shape onto the dress.