Page 30 of Bronson

But my favorite is the time she snuck up to Jane’s floor.

After meeting me, she’s taken an interest in Ingrid, the woman I visit weekly.

One day, as I was walking toward Ingrid’s door, I hear Paige’s sweet voice introducing herself. Prints of different plants hung on Ingrid’s walls—I had put them there when she first insisted on moving to the home from the pricey place I had been paying for. Paige asked about the prints and it led to the two of them sitting side by side, their heads bent over a huge, heavy gardening almanac I brought Ingrid the week prior.

Paige told Ingrid of visits to arboretums filled with acres of exotic plants. Traveling hundreds of miles to experience fields of thousands of sunflowers, all blooming at once. Sequoia trees wider than a car. Picking a red, ripe tomato from her mother’s garden, when she was growing up.

I happen to know for a fact, Paige has never been outside the state of New York. And her mother was certainly not the gardening type.

But the way Ingrid’s face lit from within—it’d been a very long time since I’d seen her smile like that—it was thanks to Paige and her stories.

That stolen moment, watching the two of them, I knew, deep within my being, that I was hooked.

Paige had said to Ingrid, I’d like a garden of my own, one day.

Her voice was soft, wistful. Her wish was simple. Within those gentle words rang a deep, deep longing.

I want to give her a garden. I want to take her to arboretums, five-star restaurants, take her swimming.

I want to give her a thousand gardens.

I want to give her everything.

That day, watching them in the shadows, a feeling welled inside me, strengthening to the point I stepped out from my hiding spot.

I had to hear her say my name.

Paige glanced up, surprise written on her face. “Hello there, Bronson. I didn’t see you.” The familiar blush rose in her cheeks—whether it was from my presence, or my discovering her secret visit to Ingrid, I wasn’t sure. I had smiled at her, and she had smiled back.

That was weeks ago.

And I haven’t made a single romantic move toward her.

She comes in, on time, every Saturday, that coat wrapped around her tiny body.

I have begun to live for Saturdays.

And it is scaring the hell out of me.

Paige

I have a date. This Saturday night. With a very kind man named Peter.

Ever since the day Bronson bought me the coat, he’s been very caring toward me. Just as stern as ever—I am very careful to not smudge the glass countertops in his presence—but caring nonetheless.

When I arrive, he is waiting for me. When I leave, he walks me to the door.

Every Saturday morning there is a vanilla soy latte waiting for me.

It’s no problem. I always grab Alice a latte on Saturdays, anyways.

At ten o’clock on the dot, he brings me what he calls a proper breakfast. Two eggs over hard, buttered sourdough toast, and a fruit cup. He eats the cantaloupe for me. I’d never had it growing up and I am suspicious of it. I’ve told him he doesn’t have to do that for me, but the truth is, I’m starving.

I don’t mind. I owe the deli manager a favor. I try to buy a meal there at least once a week. Why not Saturday.

Bronson takes me down to the bank and helps me open an account. He insists I put at least half of my paycheck in savings. I nod and smile, then cash my checks and take them straight to the bakery—no more day-olds for my family—and the rest to Hank. I thank him for going out of his way. I confess I’ve never had a bank account.

Don’t thank me. I just want to be sure your money’s safe.