“You look . . . beautiful,” he said. His voice was almost a whisper.
She smiled at him and blushed. “Thanks,” she said quietly.
“No, you don’t look beautiful. You look amazing,” he continued, taking a step closer to her.
“You look amazing too,” she said. Her eyes swept over his body.
“We should go.” He extended his arm for her.
“Wait,” she said quickly. “I have to water my plants.”
“Can’t you water them later?” He looked at his watch and realized they were almost running late.
“No!” she said. Her voice was fast and desperate-sounding.
He looked at her. This seemed very important to her. This looked like something that she needed to do. “Okay.” He nodded.
She walked to the kitchen area and fetched a small watering can. He looked around her apartment again; they would be here all night if she watered them all. He started counting but gave up when he reached sixty.
“Let me help you,” he offered.
“Uh, that’s kind of you. But this is usually something I like to do alone. It’s sort of a—” she shrugged, and suddenly looked like the saddest person in the world. He felt his heart break.
“They were my mom’s,” she said in a voice so small it was almost inaudible. “My mom was a florist. They’re all I really have left of her.”
He gave her a reassuring smile and sat back down on the bed. “I’ll wait for you. Take as long as you need.”
“Thanks,” she said.
He watched as she moved from plant to plant, gently filling each one with just the right amount of water. As she went, she ran her hands over their leaves, dusting them or just touching them, almost with affection. Almost as if she knew each and every one of them, and was greeting them all. He watched, fascinated by the way she moved, the way she did it all with such care and thought and he no longer cared if they were going to be late. She bent down to smell one of the flowers and then stopped, turned around and smiled at him. Her auburn hair tumbled across her face and settled onto her shoulder.
“There’s another watering can in the cupboard,” she said softly.
He shot off the bed. She was letting him into her world and he liked the feeling. “Sure.” He raced over to the cupboard and fetched the can. He filled it up with water and raced back to her.
“Just a little bit,” she said. “Just so the soil looks moist. You can drown them, if you’re not careful.”
He nodded and tipped the can gently; he wanted to do this right. He wanted to do this perfectly, because this was important to her and, for that reason, it felt very important to him too. He started with the plants on her windowsill. He carefully splashed one, taking great care to give it just the right amount. There were so many that he had to walk back to the kitchen to fill the can again. Strangely, the simple repetition of the task felt somewhat soothing and relaxing. He felt content and, when it was over, enjoyed a small sense of accomplishment. They stood side-by-side looking at the room.
“Thanks,” she said, nudging him with her shoulder playfully.
“Pleasure.” He nudged her back, but instead of moving his arm away from hers, he kept it there, gently pressed against hers. They stood there for a while, looking out over the plants together, shoulders touching, and he felt something he hadn’t felt in a while:happiness.But this sense of happiness was suddenly shattered when he heard a familiar sound. He spun around and looked behind him.
“Where the hell did he come from?” He looked down at the pigeon, who seemed to have appeared out of thin air.
“Oh, he does that sometimes, it’s very strange,” she admitted. “That’s why I’ve named him Houdini.”
He laughed. “Houdini the pigeon!”
“I contemplated naming him after you actually, since you saved his life.” She smiled at him, and he found himself completely transfixed once again.
“I’m very glad you didn’t name him after me,” he said, extending his arm for her to take.
This time she took it and they walked out together.
CHAPTERSIXTY-SIX
Poppy
