Earl eyes me curiously. “How nice.”
His knowing stare makes me uneasy. Maybe he’s got some old-person sixth-sense stuff going on and knows I don’t belong here.
Penn starts trimming the flower stems at an angle, and I wonder where he learned to do that. I wonder what else I don’t know about him. Not just in this world, but in reality, too.
“And how do you two know each other?” I ask.
Penn sets the flowers into mason jars. “We’re friends.”
Another question dodged.
“Good friends,” Earl agrees. “But only if Penn keeps bringing lilies. Those were her favorite.”
“Whose?” I ask.
Penn inhales sharply, and I’m afraid I’ve made a misstep. But Earl’s glowing.
“My wife, Martha,” he says. “Didn’t Penn tell you? She kept fresh flowers around the house and baked bread all the time, so I like this place to feel how it would if she were still here.” Noddingat Penn, he adds, “This young man helps it feel like home. Like she’s still around.”
I glance at Penn, who remains focused on the flowers. “That’s really sweet.”
“Martha showed her love,” Earl says. “She didn’t say it, but you always knew.”
Almost imperceptibly, Penn mutters, “Acts of service.”
“What?” I ask.
“It’s a love language,” he says. “Acts of service. Doing things for other people.” When he catches my eye, a blush crawls up his neck. “You’re telling me you’ve gone thirty-five years without learning the love languages?”
“I’m just surprised you consider yourself fluent in any languages at all.”
Earl laughs, and Penn purses his lips, smugly satisfied he’s gotten me to bite. He points to the toaster. “Could you toss in some sourdough?”
I do as I’m told, struck by the familiarity between them. Penn moves around Earl’s place the same way he used to move around our house, and how he already moves around the mansion: unselfconsciously, like it’s his, too. Meanwhile, I’m literally tiptoeing across the tile, and I can barely open Earl’s fridge without feeling like a criminal.
I’ve never understood how Penn could make himself fit in anywhere. In the past, it’s annoyed me, too, how he steps up and takes charge. But it’s also brave. And here, where he’s doing what Earl can’t, it’s deeply kind.
I study him, curious. I still have so many questions.
They talk baseball, and while Earl monologues about visiting Wrigley Field as a kid, Penn and I work side by side. At one point,he grabs a pink flower—a dahlia—and bops it on my nose. I make a face at him, and he grins back. It’s contagious.
I don’t know what’s happening to me. Am I actually enjoying spending time with Penn?
Maybe it’s the scent of all these flowers sending dopamine to my brain. Martha must’ve been onto something.
When the bread pops out of the toaster, Penn whispers, “However much butter you think you should put on that thing, triple it.”
He sets the jars full of flowers throughout the room while I bring Earl his toast—which, considering the ratio at play, is more like bread on butter.
“Nothing better,” Earl raves. He closes his eyes and inhales, a satisfied smile on his face. Then he sets down the plate.
A second goes by. A few more.
I hesitate, unsure if I’ve messed up. “Do you need a fork or something?”
Earl squints up at me. “Do you eat toast with a fork?”
“Um, no.” I stumble over my words. “I wasn’t sure if…”
