Page 84 of Picking Daisies on Sundays

But I wanted him in a part of my dress.

Both of my index fingers were bleeding by the time I finished, and all of my pink nail polish was chipped.

Right then was when I decided it’d also be a good idea to write one more letter to Levi. I’d be in Paris in three months; I had nothing to lose.

I wrote until my hand cramped up and I swore I was developing arthritis. Then I walked into the cold night air, caught a cab, and took it to Levi’s apartment, telling the driver to wait; I just needed to drop something in the mailbox. And then I stared up at the apartment building that held a room of Levi’s that was a mystery to me.

This was a horrible idea. Write eight years of emotions in a letter and drop it off like it wasn’t a bomb? This was a horrible—

“Dani?”

I turned and found— “Marty?”

“What are you doing out at this time? And in my neighborhood?” he asked.

“I was about to drop something off but, wait, this is your neighborhood?”

“I live in this building,” he pointed up at the complex in front of us. “A friend of mine watches my cat during the day, I just went to pick her up after closing the bakery.” He offered me a concerned look, still confused as to why I was here.

Marty had a cat and lived in the same building as Levi? Oh my gosh…Levi mentioned being attacked by a neighbor’s cat, that neighbor being named Marty. Levi’s Marty wasmyMarty? “I know this looks weird, but you actually may know my friend,

Levi?”

A warm smile appeared on his face. “Levi’s your friend? He’s a great kid, what a small world! I can drop your mail outside his door if you’d like?”

“I…” I exhaled and handed him the letter before I could change my mind. “That would be great, thank you, Marty.”

“I don’t mind. He actually helped catch my cat once running out of the building, and let me tell you, that’s no small feat. For that alone, I hope the kid goes famous one day for his writing.”

I laughed. But I had to ask, “You’ve read his work?”

“Yes, his words are beautiful. That boy’s been through quite

some heartbreak in his life for such a young age though.” He shook his head in sadness. “What’s his book called again?”

“Oh, I’m actually not sure.” I never translated the French title, no matter how long I stared at the book.

“Something wordy with a flower in it…”

“Well, I’m just going to go now. I’m happy you were able to pick—”

“That’s it! That’s it!Picking Daisies on Sundays.”

38

My heart has been broken a million times by the same hand, yet I would let it happen a million times again if it meant it was by you

My heart stopped in my chest. It was frozen the whole ride home and had yet to thaw while I was sleeping. The two halves of my brain went back and forth with thoughts and responses, but all roads led back to the same question:what did this mean?

I tore my room apart before going to bed last night, and again when I woke up this morning, looking for this book. My options were either (1) ask him why the name of his book included my name—which was never happening—or (2) find the book, translate it word by word, and try to dissect its meaning like a new Taylor Swift song.

But I couldn’t find the damn book. My only guess was that it slipped out of my bag before I rushed to Ethan’s office. (Thinking of his name gave me chills that made me nauseous, but you deserve to know where this book could be hiding.)

It consumed so much space in my mind that I almost forgot about the letter I left for Levi last night. I walked around the house in this thick olive-green sweater that tickled my neck and had sleeves that constantly rolled down as I was rolling dough.

Oh yes, I’m making bread right now. Now that my last dress was finished and altered, I had nothing else to take my mind off of the whirlpool that was my mind. Ethan, Levi, Paris, my letter,Picking Daisies on Sundays. Ethan, Levi, Paris, my letter,Picking Daisies on Sundays. Over and over and over.

I kneaded the dough with the palm of my hand, over and over until my wrist was trembling and I had officially come to the conclusion that I wrote way too much in that letter. And while I was leaving in a few months, that didn’t mean I wanted to live in total embarrassment for the rest of my life, even if I never saw Levi again! Imagine if I bumped into him at Marty’s bakery in a year? He’d look at me like I was some lovesick stalker. My written words replayed themselves in my head: