Page 19

I only have to wait mere moments before a response comes through.

Is that an offer?

This man has no sense of self-preservation. Now that I know what he sounds like, I hear the mocking lilt of his voice in my head as I read his texts.

Turn the bloody brightness on your phone down.

It’s like looking at one of those camp counselors telling a ghost story. Though I have to admit I enjoy seeing how much I affect you.

Come on out, and I’ll show you the effect you have on me.

Cute. But no.

Coward.

Has anyone told you, that you’re simply adorable?

You’re a prick.

You have no idea.

I would like to get this over with, so I can go to sleep at a decent hour.

You really are crazy if you think I’m going anywhere.

Have it your way, darling. I’ll be here.

I don’t bother responding nor do I bother trying to find him. He’s somewhere out here. Dropping my ass in the dirt, I lean against a tree for comfort and wait. And wait. And wait some more.

When the sky becomes iridescent with the first signs of daylight, I stand and dust myself off. Soon, this whole area will have morning-run joggers. No sane individual would bother messing with my flower now. Not that he’s sane.

I groan, muscles flexing. A final look at my display and I know it was worth it.

My feet sluggishly follow my body, tripping several times before reaching the end of the trail. I don’t know what my toes are complaining about. They got to rest most of the night. Throwing my bag onto the passenger seat, I slide into the car and throw my head back in exhaustion.

The screen of my phone lights up.

A simple two-word message greets me as I peer at the screen: Good morning.

How original. A good morning text. Honestly, the male sex never varies. I scroll through my playlist and throw on some emo-rock to blast during my ride home.

Singing along to my playlist as I wind down the twists and turns of the road. Fog drifts through the trees, faint sunlight piercing the branches. I’m not a morning person by any means. However, I have to admit if all mornings could look like this, I could be. The road descends around the hills, coming to a stop where it merges with the highway. I stop to open Maps on my phone. A little grey circle appears across the screen. One of the few times I truly need technology and the fucking thing takes forever to load. Fucking electronic bullshit.

Ethan’s name flashes across the bottom of the screen. Another message. I should ignore it. Thoughts of my display being destroyed play in my mind like some kind of self-inflicted torture reminiscent of A Clockwork Orange.

This is just going to bother me the whole way back. I open the message and my eyes lose focus. My skin erupts in heat, and my body begins to shake. My phone takes the brunt of my rage as I throw it into the passenger side door. Gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white and the joints pop, I throw my head back and scream.

8

This was surprisingly more difficult than I thought it would be. This woman is quite contentious. The notification under the photograph turns from ‘Sent’ to ‘Read’. A painfully wide smile pulls at my lips. Tenacious can’t touch the dedication Patience has to her work. Admittedly, I had planned for her to be a bit cleverer about it. I keep jogging, my mind replaying the events of last night. Events that might be a tad misleading, when the core of my memory consists of Patience’s beautiful face.

I waited nearly two hours before she arrived at the bridge last night, taking my post about twenty feet up in a tree on the opposite side of the bridge for a full view. If only she had looked up…

Observing her work was indescribable. She created something so stunning, using the most foul and disgusting material ever to have walked the earth. Yet she made it beautiful.

Her focus with each stroke of the scalpel. The meticulous pins. I wouldn’t have had half as much patience with those. The image of her struggling with a petal that kept sticking to her finger brings a chuckle to my lips. A gruesome display touched with the innocence of her stomping in the dirt like a child. Adorable.

She didn’t sing her little tune this time. That same tune I can’t seem to get out of my head. I know I’m to blame for that. Once she left, I was able to see the flower in all its glory. A hyacinth. A spectacularly gruesome representation of sadness. My mouth pulls into a tight line. I don’t like the feeling of guilt accompanying that thought.