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Stacey is away in San Diego on a two-day intensive retreat for hair stylists and makeup artists. She’s been texting me sporadically to rave about how much she’s learning and what a great time she’s having. I’m so happy for her. And even if she were here, she couldn’t help me with this. She’s not the one I can talk to about my current dilemma.
Move to LA to see where things go with Brennon? Or stay at home where it’s safe?
For the first time in my memory, I can’t spend hours and days hashing the problem out with my bestie Stacey, and that hurts too.
On a whim, and because I can’t stand the serene, almost mockingly peaceful world around me anymore, I call Brennon’s mom.
“Hey, sweetie,” Hazel answers. “How have you been?”
“Oh, all good, thank you,” I say. “I was wondering . . . do you need any help in the garden? I remember my mom used to always prune the roses this time of year, and I know you have all those gorgeous rose bushes out back.”
“You know what? I was just thinking I need to get to those,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Why don’t you come on over now? If you have time?”
“I do,” I say, already getting up and rushing into the shed to find my gardening gloves, galoshes, and shears. I’m sure Hazel has plenty of equipment for me to use, but I’d really love to use my own—the stuff I used when I pruned roses with my mom.
I’m out of the house and driving toward Hazel’s mountaintop chalet within five minutes of making plans. It’s Saturday, so the roads are empty. And as I exit the town and hit the wooded area at the edge of town, that would usually be a good thing. But not today. The road is narrow here, and the trees come up so close to it that it’s perpetually shady, even at noon on a summer’s day.
A black car with tinted windows suddenly appears on the road behind me. I’m sure it’ll try to overtake me, so I slow down. I don’t like driving fast along this winding road, and I know a lot of guys from around here do. But the car comes no closer. If anything, it slows down, too, drifting in and out of view in my mirrors.
When I speed up, it speeds up. When I slow down, it slows down. Over and over again, that happens.
The car is too far back for me to see the driver. But my panicked, suspicious, fearful mind has no trouble imagining—no, actually seeing—Kevin behind the wheel.
Never mind that he’s still locked up. Never mind that I know seeing him everywhere is just a product of my PTSD. Never mind that I was doing really well about all that for the last week or so and for a year before that. This fear is just as strong as the one I lived with while he hounded me. And trying to shake it is just as hard as it was back then.
I speed up, and this time the car doesn’t do the same.
I don’t see him again before I reach the turnoff for Hazel’s estate, and by the time I park by the house, I feel really foolish for giving into my panic again.
“I’m back here,” Hazel calls from behind the house.
I grab my stuff from the trunk and join her by a large old rose bush that’s taller than her and about six feet wide. It has huge white flowers with lilac edges, but now most of them are starting to wilt.
“I thought we’d start with this one,” Hazel says. “It’s my favorite.”
“It is gorgeous,” I say as I put on my gloves. “And it smelled so divine the night of your anniversary party. Like jasmine and honey rolled into one.”
It smells very nice now too, but not as strongly.
Hazel laughs. “We can tackle the jasmine next. I swear, there’s never an end to yard work. As soon as you’re done with one thing, five more pop up. Thanks for offering to help.”
“My mom used to say the same thing about yard work,” I say and clip away the first of the wilted flowers, careful of the thorns, which are huge and hooked and look vicious. “But she loved it.”
Hazel laughs again. “I do too.”
“Ouch,” I say as one of those thorns hooks me and draws blood.
“You okay?” Hazel asks. “Go run it under some cold water.”
I shake my head and wipe the tiny drop of blood on my shirt. “I’m fine. Roses are such interesting flowers . . . so beautiful yet so dangerous at the same time. That’s what my mom used to always say. She loved roses.”
Hazel looks at me with a mixture of concern, pity, and sadness in her eyes. “You miss your mom very much, don’t you? I do too.”
I shrug and prune off another wilted flower. “Some days are worse than others. I spent the whole morning thinking about how the bad memories of living in Julian are starting to outnumber the good ones.”
I can’t believe that came out of my mouth. But it’s not a lie. And not really an exaggeration either. I had a charmed childhood here, it was a great place to grow up, but now that it’s just me in my family home, all those memories are shrouded in a veil of sadness and slowly withering away behind it. Just like the roses we’re pruning.
“You thinking of moving somewhere else?” Hazel asks. “Maybe you should. Julian is a town for old people and families. Not for a young woman just starting to live her life.”
