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“Is it a shock that I still can’t sleep without you?” I asked, disgusted with myself. I’d gotten the best sleep I’d had in years there with him—prior to his nightly disappearing act. “Do you really think the best way to win me over is to sneak out for quickies at odd hours of the fucking night?” The living room brightened in degrees as the sun rose higher and higher. With more light to see by, I could make out how disheveled he looked. “Must have been a great fuck,” I spat acerbically.
“That’s not what this is,” he said, moving closer to the sofa.
“So, what, you expect me to believe you’ve been slinking off to the East River to get some thinking done?”
“It’s not that either,” he said, lowering onto an armchair, nothing but an ottoman separating us.
“I’m leaving here today. I’m leavingnow,” I amended, “And you’re not going to fucking fight me on it.”
“Leland—”
“Or talk me out of it, so save your breath.” I pushed up and hopped over to the stairs.
“Alright,” he said, catching me off guard. I hadn’t expected him to give in so easily. I leaned against the banister, out of breath from my journey there. “I’ll let you go without a fight, but only if you let me take you somewhere first.”
“Fuck you,” I spat. I’d allowed him to take me somewhere last night, and that nostalgic ride on the Ferris wheel had robbed me of my guards and my good fucking sense. I wouldn’t be going anywhere with him again.
Franklin prowled over, an expression I hadn’t seen since our summer on the ocean falling over his face. “You come with me now, or you stay here. Those are your only options, Leland.”
Thirty minutes later our Uber driver came to a stop in front of The Daisy. “What the hell are we doing here?” I asked. Franky didn’t answer. He got the wheelchair from the trunk and dropped the brake as I hobbled over and fell into it.
Next, he unlocked the bar door and held it open, motioning for me to go in and then following behind me.
“Why are we here, Franky?” I tried again, but he simply strode for the door at the back of the bar, flipping through the spare set of keys I distinctly remember giving to Noon out of necessity after the accident. My original set had a daisy keychain on it. Those were with Cole.
“Come on,” he said, waiting until I rolled in to switch the lights on.
The expansive room had been painted white. It had been a dull gray the last time I’d entered it. Art hung on the tall walls.Myart hung on the tall walls. Every piece that Franky had gotten his hands on.
Strategically placed track lighting haloed them and their title plaques. The art work itself had been encased in what appeared to be handcrafted wood frames. I sucked in a sharp breath, raising a trembling hand to trace the hand-carved daisies that had been carefully etched into them before being varnished in bronze.
Wooden folding chairs were situated in a semi-circle in the center of the room, the birchwood seat backs and legs all bore the same deep grooves of daisies as the frames did. The easels in front of them were a thing of beauty, too, their holders containing pine and cedar stemmed paintbrushes bearing daisies of their own. More of them, too many to count, lined the glass supply cabinet in the corner. Round brushes, flat brushes, fan brushes… All intricately lined with the wildflower.
How long had it taken him to do this?
I made my way onto the small stage where I would instruct classes from, settling onto the swivel stool with Franky’s assistance.
My easel was majestic. Larger and grander than the others, so it could be seen by my future crowd of pupils, and to set me apart from everyone else. My brush bristles were made from Kolinsky Sable, which had to have cost him a small fortune.
It was everything I’d wanted. Everything I’d hoped for but knew I would never have, down to every last detail, every last petal. But I’d never told him. I’d always been too chicken-shit to speak this into existence, and I knew if I told Franky, he wouldn’t have rested until it happened, and so I’d made a game out of him finding out, knowing he never would because I’d never be brave enough to tell him. So how…
“How did you—” The sound of something crinkling shut me up. Franky pulled a weathered, taped together sheet of paper from his pocket, unfolding the square carefully before reading its contents out loud.
Thank God I was seated, because I knew exactly what he held, could remember the day I wrote it, the day I cried over it and then ripped it into a million tiny pieces before tossing it in the trash and leaving our summer home alone and broken-hearted. It was the only letter that hadn’t met its death by cremation.
He’d found it and put it together again, the same way he’d been putting me together ever since the accident.
“‘Dear, Franky,’” he started. “‘Fine, you win. I’ll tell you about my imaginary plans for my imaginary art-bar.’” Franky looked up from the letter when I laughed. I wrote that letter many moons ago, but if I closed my eyes, I could still see which paragraph had held my tears and which corner of the page had felt the grip of my desperation.
He went on to describe the white walls and spotlights, and how the most important thing was that there was enough space to not only hang my art but everyone else’s, because no matter who walked through that door, we’d all be in this together.
I laughed again when he got to the part about the chairs.
“‘None of that fancy high-back shit,’” he read. “‘I want to keep it simple. Mostly, I want something easily storable so that the space can be multi-functional. I want them to feel like they’re home.’” Franky paused to gaze up at me, a shy question written on his face.
“Mission accomplished,” I answered around a rush of emotion. The backs of my eyes stung with it.
He nodded and pressed on. “‘I want to work with schools and disenfranchised kids. I want to host charity events there, and I want the community to feel as if they’re a part of it all. And I want daisies, Franky. Daisies everywhere so I’ll never forget to be brave ever again.’”
