Page 10 of Your Love

“Do you like flowers?” I ask with a smile, admiring her innocent curiosity.

Her hands tremble as she quickly places the flowers back on the table, her eyes cast downwards in shame. I can sense her fragility, which makes me want to handle her with the utmost care.

I bend down to meet her in the eye. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” I say gently. “Why don’t you choose this one instead?” With a careful hand, I push my favorite bouquet towards her. She bites her lip and scans the area before shaking her head slowly, her expression filled with uncertainty.

“Okay,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to take them, but I’m going to hold this bunch right here, especially for you.”

She smiles sweetly, her lips curved into a slight dimple. But still, she doesn’t make a move to take the flowers. Just then, I hear a deep, rich voice call out, “Paisley.”

A boy—no, actually a man—makes his way towards us with purposeful strides and a furrowed brow. His eyes are intense as they lock onto her petite figure.

“Pais,” he says sharply. “Don’t walk away from me like that.” His tone is filled with both concern and frustration.

Her expression is one of pure disinterest as she gazes at him and then picks up the delicate flowers, stretching on her toes to hold them against his face.

A warm laugh escapes his lips as the petals brush against his nose. “Ah yes, I see the flowers now. They are beautiful.”

She nods in agreement.

“Do you want them?” he asks, affection laced in his voice.

She nods again, a small smile forming on her lips.

My heart races as he turns to me, his gaze intense and focused. I sense a sudden shift in the atmosphere, and it’s as if all the air has been sucked out of the space between us.

“How much are the flowers?” His charming grin reveals a dimple on his left cheek, making my heart flutter even more.

As I stand in front of him, my mind flashes to the Cinderella fairytale I used to read when I was little. It’s as if this stranger is the prince, and I’m the princess, and I’m waiting for him to slip a glass slipper on my foot.

I loved that story so much that I drove Mama crazy by asking her to read it before I could read it myself. Even at that time, I’d scan the pages and run my fingers over the drawings, dreaming of a day when my fairytale would come true. But then I’m reminded that fantasies and daydreams aren’t real, and my mind snaps back to reality.

“It’s on me. I insist,” I say with a shaky voice, trying to maintain my composure. The man raises a dark eyebrow at me, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Okay, then,” he replies with a small smile.

I glance at the quiet little girl. “Someone as lovely as you deserves to be surrounded by flowers,” I remark.

“I agree,” the stranger says, his voice low and mesmerizing. But as I catch his gaze, I can’t shake off the feeling that the sentence has a deeper meaning.

“Have a nice evening,” I manage as they begin to walk to the next stall.

I watch them for a moment and take in the handsome stranger. He’s tall—taller than anyone else I know and big. He kinda reminds me of a linebacker. His hair is light brown and wavy, just a bit shy of having curls, and his eyes are the color of the cognac Papa drinks when the light hits it through the crystal glass—like warm honey with tones of yellow and orange. And the way he treated that child—there was so much love in those eyes. A girl could get lost in them.

I have no idea who he is. The only thing I know is that I need to forget about him. That boy could be a whole lot of trouble, and that’s the last thing I’m looking for.

Monday morning rolls in the next day, and all of a sudden, transferring at the end of my senior year doesn’t seem like such a good idea. But staying at my old school was not an option. So, I’m going to be myself and make the best of it. It’s only for a few months.

I borrow Papa’s old truck and head to the school I will graduate from—Merrimack High School. This town isn’t much bigger than the one I lived in in Texas. It’s slightly less rural, and I doubt anyone here speaks like I do, but there’s nothing I can do about that. I’m a Texas farm girl transplanted into a small town that doesn’t revolve around football.

How strange can it be?

I arrive in economics class early and grab a spot near the middle of the room. Sliding into my desk, I grab a notebook and a green metallic gel pen that smells like green apple Jolly Ranchers and wait. I tap my pen nervously, and after a moment, a beautiful girl with wavy blonde hair slides into a seat next to mine. She offers me a genuine smile before retrieving her things from her bag as the teacher walks in and begins the lesson. He tells us to turn to page one hundred seventy-eight in our book, but I don’t have a book, so I sit there like a bump on a log.

The girl moves her desk closer to mine and places her book on my desk between us.

“Thanks,” I say with a nod.

“I was also new here not too long ago,” she begins. “I’m Ivy.”