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And she picks up on the sudden mood shift.
Shelly wraps her arms around her middle and looks in the direction of where our cars are parked. “Sure.”
No doubt, she probably wishes we didn’t have to walk back together. Not after my abrupt coldness.
But shutting her out like this is the only way. The best way. All I know. She may not be grateful now, but she will eventually thank me. When she moves on and finds someone worthy of her smile and warmth and heart. Someone who won’t love only the idea of her.
All too soon, we arrive back in the lot. The lukewarm goodbye we exchange is pathetic. Friends give better farewells than this. Usually asee you soongets said at some point. But not with us. Not today. And I hate that I did this. Put a damper on ourfriendship. Ruined a perfect day.
But it has to be this way.
Not a complete asshole, I wait until her car starts before walking to my own. Behind the protection of tinted windows, I stare, stare, stare at Shelly’s red Beetle. Watch for any sign of dismay; a look of disgust toward my car. But nothing comes. So I wait impatiently for her to drive away. And maybe flip me off. But she sits idle a moment, and I wonder if something is wrong with her car.
I narrow my eyes and look through her windshield. With the blinding sun, it is difficult to see her. See what she is doing. If she needs help.
Maybe she is waiting for me to leave. Wants me gone before she drives away. Just as I give the thought merit, her car rolls forward and exits the lot. No slow down to smile or wave. She just… leaves.
My knuckles pale as I grip the steering wheel tighter. I close my eyes, bang my forehead on the leather, and berate myself. Mentally slap myself upside the head.
“Did you really need to do that? Did you really need to fuck up something good?” I ask myself aloud.
Yes, I did. Because although I keep telling myself Shelly is just a friend, my thoughts continue to step over the invisible boundary. The boundary dividing friends and lovers. A boundary I dare not cross. A path I refuse to travel down. Not again.
If Shelly and I don’t cross the boundary, if we remain strictly friends, neither of us will get hurt. Defining the line today was for the best. For me and her and our friendship.
Did I need to be so cold when defining said line? No. But I don’t know how else to set the tone for our relationship. Our friendship. And the definition of us definitely needs to be precise. Black and white. No gray. No color.
Lifting my head from the wheel, I take a deep breath and attempt to clear my cluttered thoughts. I put the car in gear, exit the lot, and drive home in a fog. I speed down the road faster than responsible. Faster than safe. And in no time, with no memory of the trip, I park in the driveway. Amble out of the car. Unlock the front door. Kick off my shoes. Wander through the house and take the stairs two at a time. Step into my studio.
And breathe.
I close my eyes and inhale. Find comfort in my safe space. In my solitude. In my art.
Then I pick up a blank canvas, park it on the easel, sit on my stool, and paint. A woman in full spectrum with wonder and delight and amazement in her twilight eyes. A woman, no matter how hard I try, I can’t erase from my mind. A woman I will apologize to sooner rather than later.
Because there is not a chance in hell I won’t be seeing her again.
Even if it hurts.
Even if it breaks me.
Even if I should walk away.
NINE
SHELLY
“Ouch!”I bring my thumb to my lips and suck on it.
When was the last time a thorn stabbed me? Years ago. Probably not since the first or second year I worked at Petal and Vine.
Yet, here I am. Getting stabbed by flowers with a vendetta. Really, they have no discord with me. But picturing a flower with revenge in its veins gives me a reason to laugh. Imagining every thorn prick brings the flower joy is the only humorous way to deal with the sting.
Why do some of the smallest wounds hurt the most? Thorn pricks, paper cuts, the slip of a needle tip while you sew.
I step back from the arrangement table and study the full vase of blooms. Contemplate adding more filler or flowers. Maybe a little of both. Anything to keep my hands and mind busy. To distract me from what I have been waiting to hear. What we all are waiting to hear.
Baby Clara is on her way.
