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“In a way.” I offered a gentle smile, my appearance still unintentionally hidden with a pair of shades and a ball cap. I couldn’t tell if she knew who I was or not, and I preferred to keep it that way. “My mother was a field worker. I helped her pick fruit and vegetables growing up.”
“And now?” she asked.
“More or less. I work with agave, but it’s less forgiving.” I massaged my hands, their bruised, red hue still in the midst of healing.
She looked at them and pouted, “You should try flowers then; they’re less painful.”
“Not really my thing.”
“Somehow I doubt that. I can tell you’re a flower fan.”
“How?”
“You looked stressed on the porch, but not so much anymore.”
“Maybe it was just my cigarette,” I pushed back the bridge of my sunglasses.
“Maybe you just need some convincing.” She laughed so sweetly, so tenderly, her giggle similar to Alma’s with a rasp. I never wanted her to stop talking.
“What flower do you recommend?” I took a step closer. “Asking as a beginner looking to be convinced.”
She took a moment to survey the space, taking my question to heart. She ran her hands around their assorted colors, plucking a single stem of tiny white flowers.
“It might not be what you were looking for. But maybe it’s what you need,” she answered, handing me the flower. She reached out, extending her arm in a way that allowed me to observe the scarred lines that ran the inside of her elbow. She was an addict, her track marks healing like long, pink constellations. If she was here, then it was for a reason that already disturbed me. What the fuck had she been through, and who the hell had been there for her? My stomach burned again with an ache that I could never get rid of, her sentiment sticking in my head.It might not be what I was looking for, but what I need.
“And what is this?” I raised it to my nose.
“Sweet Alyssum.” She looked down towards my boots, her shyness more contagious than I expected.
“What does it mean?”
“Calm energies… or at least, that’s what the book says.”
Calm energies;it was such a contrast to my intrusive thoughts. I knew I could end the conversation here, I could turn and walk away and forget this moment. But that opportunity passed as soon as I realized it, my mind made up, dedicated to the possibility that I could be redeemed. It felt wrong, it felt deceitful, but this woman, this face, felt like a second chance at saving Alma. I wanted to hug her, to tell her how sorry I was, that I wasn’t big or strong enough to help before, but now I was.
“Calm energies are just what I need.”
“Have I convinced you?”
“You have.” I smiled.
She squinted from the bright sun, her face creased, and her brow glistened with sweat.
“It’s not safe to be in the sun unprotected,” I said, lifting my hand to remove my Dodgers cap.
She flinched.
Her face instantly caught in the sudden terror of my raised hand. Fuck. Clearly, I triggered something in her, some lifesaving reaction to block me. This wasn’t a coincidence, this was her life, something she had grown used to. Someone had hurt her, and that made me want to kill whoever was responsible.
“I’m sorry… I—” I stammered, my words both apologetic, and upset at what I’d done.
“No, I’m sorry. I overreacted.” She shook her head when she didn’t need to. I twisted the cap in my hand, staring down at it in a moment of brief thought.
“May I?” I asked, slowly lifting the cap up. She lowered her head as I placed it on her, securing a shadow that protected her from the sun. “Please know you don’t have to apologize. It’s not an overreaction… it’s not something to be ashamed about. It’s up to me to be careful, not for you to excuse my actions.”
“Thanks…” she squeezed the brim of the cap, testing its sturdiness. It was far too big for her head, but it helped, and her fear soon turned into a smile. “I can’t just accept this, you know.”
“Sure you can. I insist.”
