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“Were they mean to you?”
“Daisy, Poppy, and Lily were younger than me. I told them they could dress me up any way they wanted. That made them happy, and when I grew my hair they practiced hairstyles on me. They all loved me straightaway. My name until I was almost thirteen was . . .” He stops himself and laughs. “Why do I tell you everything?”
I have a lump in my throat. I need him to tell me everything, forever. “Please tell me that nickname. I can keep a secret, remember.”
He stands, grasps the bottom of his T-shirt, and stretches it up. He’s searching on himself like he’s scratching through the kitchen junk drawer for a pair of scissors. “Fine. Here.” He turns
to the side, and as I try to focus on the art and not the body (difficult), I spot what he’s showing me. Another flower tattoo hidden in the mix.
“Your nickname was Sunflower? That suits you.” Now that I’ve dutifully admired his art, I can now give myself a second to look at his body as he pulls the T-shirt back down. How ribs and muscles can coexist together so closely, I have no idea.
He drops back heavily onto the stool. “But Rose was my age. Actually, we’re less than six months apart. How Dad managed to juggle two newborns at once . . . well, scratch that. He didn’t juggle much. Mom says he only dropped in twice a week, disguised as a gym visit.”
“But he and your mom were in love,” I venture. “They got married in the end, right?” I know there won’t be a happy ending.
“That’s what’s so bad about it. They were married for eighteen months. Turns out, Mom liked having a rich-guy secret boyfriend who dropped in twice a week with some cash. She’s due to trade in her current husband any day now. I worry all the time that I’m like that. I have been like that,” he clarifies in the quietest voice.
“I think you can be any way you want to be.”
He’s doing tiny touches of the pen now on my arm, and I sense that it’s almost over.
“Rose is furious, twenty years later, that I ever walked into that living room. You were completely right when you said Rose is the only girl I’ve never been able to charm. And I’m telling you this because I am not going to be able to save Providence from her. Me being there is making it more dangerous by the day.”
“Does she know you have a tattoo for her? I’ve seen it on the back of your arm. It’s so beautiful.”
“They all have one,” he says lightly, like it means nothing to walk around with tributes to each. “But that rose hurt worse than all of them put together.”
“Let her know that she’s important to you, and you’d like a chance to make a fresh impression. I think the next time you walk into a room that she’s in, it’ll be different.”
“There’s no point in trying,” he explains patiently. “I just accept things like this. It hurts too much otherwise. Thanks for being such a good listener, Ruthie Midona. I hope you like your temporary tattoo.”
He gets up to go check in with Renata, and I am left sitting behind, stunned at the creation on my arm. It’s an angel, around five inches tall. She’s got flowing robes—or is it a cardigan?—wrapping a neat, curvy frame, tiny pointed bare toes and wings out, she’s reaching up to the heavens. And in her hands, smaller than half a fingernail in size, is the unmistakable outline of a tortoise.
I don’t like it. I love it.
I can see what we could be, in another reality where his dream wasn’t too far away and I hadn’t made a lifelong commitment to Providence. I’m probably going to have to take his advice and just accept it. It hurts too much otherwise.
“Come on, I want to give you the rest of the tour,” Teddy says from the hallway. “Want to see my new bedroom?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
I’m too quiet on the drive home. The Parlonis aren’t; they’re collapsed sideways onto each other, openmouthed snoring. “Are you tired?” Teddy asks me. “Are you hungry? I can stop somewhere.”
“I’m fine.” I hate how bland I sound. I need to do better. “It’s all just feeling pretty real, seeing your studio and your apartment.”
“It’s nice, huh.” Teddy’s smiling and wrapped up in the glow of his new future. “My commute time will be even shorter than at Providence. I can fall down those stairs in about twenty seconds. What did you think of the bathroom?” This is the second time he’s asked me. “I lay in the tub to check that it’s comfortable.”
Let the record reflect that I was really, really supportive as he took me upstairs to parade me around his new apartment. With his lovely warm give-take hands cupped on my shoulders, I was walked around and dutifully admired:
The bathroom (“Wow, it’s brand-new—I love those tiles!”)
The kitchen (“You could fit a turkey in this oven, Teddy!”)
The living room (“Please don’t find a couch on the side of the road.”)
The view (“I bet that tree is pretty when the leaves change.”)
The more I gave him, the happier and more excited he became. I couldn’t say anything about the bedroom, because I’ll never be in it. But it was lovely, too. I have a full-body shiver just thinking of how he walked me in and massaged my shoulders while detailing the apartment’s heating system to me. It’s superior, naturally.
