Page 60 of The Lies I Told
“It’s a work in progress.” Daisies clutched in my hand, I followed.
“How long have you been here?”
“A few months. I lived in Northern Virginia for a while but then decided it was time for a change. Back to Richmond and my roots.” None of that was true, but it sounded better than the truth.
“I don’t hear an accent.”
“The Richmond accent fades north of Fredericksburg. But I’m picking up a drawl again. I hear it in the vowels.”
You took off your jacket, and I noticed your breasts immediately. So beautiful.
Clearing my throat, I turned toward the galley-style kitchen. “Let me put these in water. There’s a hook in the entry hallway for your jacket.”
“Great.” As I searched the cabinet for something to put the flowers in, I was so aware of your movements. The place felt full, right with you here. You were the missing link that I’d been searching for.
I finally found a mason jar, filled it with water, and crammed the daisies inside. They were too tall, and several of them flopped over.
“Do you have scissors?” you asked.
I fished a pair out of the drawer as you came around, stood close to me, and removed the stems from the mason jar. You carefully clipped the ends. Your hair slid forward in a crimson curtain. “I should have brought a potted plant.”
You were tall for a woman, but you were still an inch shorter than me. It was hard not to lean in and brush the hair back from your face as you cut the ends of each stem. It was an intimate gesture shared between lovers.
With care, you retucked the flowers in the vase, and they looked perfect in a wild sort of way. “There you go.”
“I never could’ve done that,” I said truthfully.
“My mother loved to arrange flowers. When I was little, she would show my sisters and me how to make arrangements.”
“She did a good job.”
A silence settled, and it was full of unspoken emotions. Mother, sisters, family. What triggered the shift? You gathered up the stems. “Trash?”
I opened a closet door, and you moved past me (so, so close) and dropped the stems in the stainless can. “Even your trash can closet is organized.”
“Hazard of the job. Left-brain guys have a tendency to micromanage.”
The crimson curtain fell away as she stared up at me. “I’m the opposite. Especially when I’m working.”
Your eyes were bright and your lips generous. “Speaking of work, would you like to see a photograph I just bought?”
“Sure.”
You followed me into the living room, and I held up my hands toward the black-and-white portrait of the river. “What do you think? I just bought it.”
You stood back and stared. A slight frown furrowed your brow, and I sensed you were critiquing the work.
“Does it send you any vibe?” I asked.
“It’s sad,” you said. “Life goes on despite tragedy. Nothing stops the river, which is why I love it so much.”
That coaxed a smile. “I’m glad. Should I hang it somewhere else?”
“It’s really perfect here.”
“Let me know when you have your first showing. I’ll be your number-one fan.”
“Thank you.”
