Page 34 of The Time It Takes
When I step into the laundry room and reach for the spot where a key usually hangs, nothing is there. I can feel the frown on my face as I open the door to enter the garage. It’s vacant. His car isn’t here. I start to panic, my heart racing as I stare at where a red Camaro used to sit.
Did they sell it?
Saving that anger for another time, I call a Lyft and wait for it to arrive. I would have gotten a rental if I’d known I wouldn’t have access to a car. Not that I planned on going to many places. I honestly don't know why I bothered getting my license at twenty-two. I didn't have much use for a car in the city.
About an hour later, I was on my way back from the liquor store when I saw something that caught my eye. I told the driver to stop, and his tires screeched as he did. I apologized and gave him a thirty-dollar tip and a five-star review. That seemed to satisfy him.
Now I’m standing in front of a building, but not just any building. It’s a floral shop, calledPheeb’s Florals. I look through the window and see her standing at the front counter, talking with a customer.
I wait for someone to exit and sneak past them and it feels ridiculous. The bells on the door ding as it closes behind me and I wince. I automatically go in the direction she’s not as I wonder if she’d turn me away.
I veer through the aisles of bittersweet-smelling flowers. My hands are shaky as I trace them over the petals of a sunflower and then a bouquet of daffodils. Purple lilies capture my attention and I grab as many of them as I can hold. I saunter over to the counter and as soon as I set the flowers down, I’m staring at a round belly—Phoebe’s very round, very pregnant belly.
“Did you find everythi—” Phoebe’s words get caught in her throat the moment she realizes who’s standing in front of her. Her strawberry blond hair is still chopped just under her chin.
“Hi.” My voice comes out smaller and weaker than I intend.
Her face becomes unreadable as she stares at me, likereallystares at me. I try my hardest not to shrink under her steady gaze. After a long minute, she swipes the flowers off the counter and begins to press buttons on her cash register aggressively.
“You own a floral shop,” I observe out loud.
She doesn’t look up, but her response is a quick, “Mhm.”
I look down and remember that I’m holding a bottle of liquor wrapped in a brown paper bag. All I can think to say is, “Good for you.”
Her jaw is clenched as she finishes ringing up the lilies. “Are these going to be a gift?”
“No.”
She gives me a curt nod before gathering the flowers and setting them down on the table behind her.
“How far along are you?” I ask.
A hand goes to her belly, and she smiles softly to herself. “Too far,” she says before finally looking at me. “It feels like it anyway.”
“Boy or girl?”
“Girl,” she responds, and without seeming to be able to stop it, her smile grows even bigger. I try to smile too.
As if she remembers to be mad at me, her face goes back to being unreadable and she makes herself busy. She starts to cut ribbons and tie them into bows around the bouquet arrangement.
I want to ask her about names and what she got at her baby shower. I want to ask about her marriage to Dean and when they kissed for the first time. When did they say I love you? Who said it first? I want every detail that I don’t deserve.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
I watch her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. She keeps her back turned to me as she asks, “Yeah?” When I don’t respond as fast as she wants me to, she whips her entire body around to face me. My eyes zone in on the scissors in her hand. “For what, Willow? What in the hell are you sorry for?”
It doesn’t help that she talks with her hands either. I try not to focus on the sharp object too much.
I fumble for an answer, not sure what it is she wants me to say to that. What am I sorry for? Colleen said I have nothing to be sorry about but that’s not entirely true. She was being too easy on me.
“Do you have a break soon? I was hoping we could talk." I wave the bottle-shaped bag in the air. “You can watch me drink this,” I taunt playfully.
She doesn’t take the bait, instead, she crosses her arms in defiance. “You have five minutes to explain yourself now and then maybe,maybeI’ll think about forgiving you.”
“I was going to New York for school anyways,” I remind her.
“Yeah, but that doesn’t explain the nonexistent goodbye or excuse you for not keeping in touch. I was worried sick. It was like you died.” As soon as she says the word, her face pales.
