Page 103 of Smoke and Glitter

She looks at the flowers, then at me. "Okay."

And because she's learned something since coming to work with me, she actually leaves.

I sit there for a minute before reaching for the small envelope tucked between the stems.

The card isn't in Sam's handwriting. Somebody at the shop took the words down for him, but I know they're his before I reach the name at the bottom.

I hope the tour is everything you wanted.

I miss you.

We weren't nothing.

Sam

I read the first sentence again. It's kind. That shouldn't matter as much as it does.

He isn't asking whether I'm happy without him or telling me he wishes I'd come home. He hopes the tour is everything I wanted it to be.

The second sentence is harder.

I miss you.

My eyes stay there for a while.

I miss him too. That's never been the problem.

Then I reach the third sentence again.

We weren't nothing.

I lean back in my chair with the card between my fingers.

I read language for a living. Most of my job is figuring out what somebody is trying very hard not to say, and Sam has given me a sentence built entirely around what something wasn't.

He can tell me we weren't nothing.

He still can't tell me what we were.

That bothers me because I've heard him do this before.

It's not that deep.

Now:

We weren't nothing.

Different direction. Same empty space in the middle.

I put the card on my desk and look at the flowers.

They really are beautiful. Hydrangeas, peonies, things I don't know the names of arranged by somebody who knows exactly what they're doing. They probably cost an obscene amount of money.

The first night I met Sam, he put a mezcal in front of me that I hadn't ordered because he'd watched me long enough to know I wanted one. Then he walked away.

That was Sam.

He noticed. He remembered. He gave people things that belonged specifically to them.