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At his side, I step back out onto the now-empty terrace, following his lead to the very rear of the garden. There, far behind the willow, high hedges form a sheltered, lawned square, with a wooden pavilion in one corner, bursting with all of the toys that Lyndsey probably shoved there in a hurry, before the party. The children form an orderly line in front of the man that I now know to be Rowan, who stands beside a board, painted with a fairly rudimentary donkey.
Ben would’ve painted one so realistic, you’d think it was about to buck off the board. No one tells you, when you lose someone, that once the initial, soul-shattering slam of grief has subsided, it’ll be the tiniest things that catch you right in the throat. A lump forms in mine, just thinking about what he’s missing. All the birthdays he’ll miss, all the anniversaries, all the Christmases, and all the everyday, mundane little things that he won’t be here for. We had the whirlwind, but we never got to find out what we were in the calm after the storm. We never got to be boring, and while that might sound like a lucky thing, it doesn’t stop me wanting it.
Get out of your head,I chide myself, waving to Lyndsey who is off to one side, taking a well-earned breather.
Meanwhile, the other parents and miscellaneous adults mill about on the lawn, looking like they wish they were back on the terrace, enjoying the party on their own terms.
“Setting an example, huh?” Oscar nudges me toward the back of the line, where I stand awkwardly, not knowing what to do with my hands now that I don’t have a drink to hold. Grace is further up the line, so I can’t even talk to her.
Gradually, more of the adults join, as the children laugh and try to peek out from underneath their blindfolds, stretching out zombie hands to try and pin the tail in the right place. So far, there’s been a tail on the donkey’s back, neck, head, nose, and more than a few that didn’t come close to the wonky painting at all. Still, Grace is smiling and giggling, eager for her turn.
You should give her cash,my mind whispers.Don’t give her what you brought. Say you left it at home, by accident.
I’m almost at the front, when Grace appears, wielding a blindfold: an old red and white bandana that I swear I’ve seen before.
“Can I tie it on you?” she asks eagerly.
I crouch down. “Of course you can. You’re the birthday girl; you can do whatever you want.”
Giggling until I start to feel a little self-conscious, Grace ties the bandana around my eyes, fastening it a bit too tight at the back of my head. I’m fairly sure she’s caught some of my hair in the knot, but I’m not going to say anything.
“How do I look?” I say, standing up.
“You can’t!” Grace replies, delighted. “You’re blindfolded.”
A real belly laugh bubbles up my throat and spills out, and though I can’t see Grace, I feel her hand in mine. Weirdly, it’s the calmest I’ve felt since arriving, despite losing one sense. But it’s no surprise; from the day we first met, holding her hand has always put me at ease.
“Uncle Rowan, this is Auntie Summer,” Grace makes the introduction, and I know I must be close to him.
“Hi,” I say quietly, completely disoriented. I hear laughter behind me and the clink of glasses off to my left, but the rest is a mystery. I can smell the privacy hedges, sweet and musky, their perfume enriched by the heat of the afternoon. There’s an undernote of magnolia coming from somewhere in the garden, too, both sugary and citrussy, like the lemon tart from my favorite coffee shop.
Guided forward a step, a different aroma hits me: a spicy, complex perfume, with a base note of something like cedar, a milder note of peppercorn, while the top notes sweep me away in a delicious wave of bergamot and lavender. It’s masculine. I can appreciate a nice cologne, but the best scent I know doesn’t belong in a bottle: leather, sea salt, and soap. I haven’t smelled it in over a year, when the scent faded from Ben’s clothes, wishing someonehadbottled it, just for me.
“The board is just in front of you,” a deep voice grumbles.
Cheating a little, to try and orient myself, I peer down to see what I can peek through the blindfold. There’s a thin gap where the bridge of my nose pulls the fabric away from my face, letting in some light. I see the carpet of lush, emerald-green grass beneath my bare feet, and tilt my head ever so slightly, until shoes come into view. They’re silver sneakers, expensive but comfy looking, and on the respective tongues are two words: ‘Live’ on his right shoe, ‘Big’ on his left.
Good motto,I muse, oddly charmed by the message. It’s not what I was expecting from Rowan, unless I’m looking at someone else’s shoes, which is a very real possibility. Maybe, he lied and I’m not right in front of the board. A game within a party game, to make me look like a fool, or to make Grace laugh. I’m all for the latter.
Rowan—I assume—hands me the tail and I shuffle forward, feeling for the board. I breathe a sigh of relief when my fingertips touch it, my skin attuned to the faint ridge of brushstrokes. Following what I think might be the donkey’s back, I wait until I sense a curve that could be the rump, and press the tail down.
“How did I do?” I pull up my blindfold. My breath catches.
I’m off to the right of the board, and Rowan is just a couple of inches away from me. I don’t even notice where I pinned the tail—all I can see are golden brown eyes, the color of fresh honey, and a lopsided smile. Previously, between the shade and the bandana and the fact that he didn’t seem to appreciate my presence, I couldn’t get a good look at him. Now, I’m practically in his face… andwhata face.
He's not immediately handsome in the classical sense, but more like an impressionist painting: the separate parts don’t inspire much when viewed individually, but all together, it’s a masterpiece. And the more I look, the more I can’t look away. He’s good-looking in a brooding stranger on a Mediterranean beach kind of way, with short brown hair, tinged with the same golden honey shade as his eyes, and his high sloping nose ought to be too big for his face, but, somehow, it’s exactly right. His lips are full and almost feminine, with freckles dotting defined cheekbones, and a pronounced brow. There are a lot of angles to him that seem too sharp, and features that are too soft, but with the warmth of his tanned skin, and that shine in his eyes, it all works.
“You’ve done this before,” he says, almost accusatory. But that crooked smile is still there, like he might be impressed.
I glance at the board. The tail just half an inch shy of perfect placement. “Or it’s beginner’s luck,” I tell him, finding my voice.
Rowan takes a small, round sticker off a sheet and writes ‘SD.’ My initials. Clearly, he remembers me… and that worries me. If he knows me, and he was glaring at me like that, what the hell did I say to him the last time we met?
There’s no time to find out, as I’m muscled out of the way by one of the moms in line behind me. I don’t see the glint of a wedding ring on her finger while she squeals and shrieks when Rowan blindfolds her, batting his chest like she’s learned how to flirt from kindergarteners. There’s something territorial about her behavior, like she’s sending me a possessive warning that Rowan belongs to her.
No need to worry there,I mutter inwardly, stalking off in search of wine. Finding someone new is the very last thing on my mind. I glance back at my sticker on the board and smile bitterly. After all, how can you improve on perfection?
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