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“But you knew better?” I asked.
“I usually hid the satisfaction I got from working with my hands really well. Maybe he saw me smiling one too many times after being with Gloria and her family. Who knows. But my father had plans for my future, and he eventually saw them as a distraction to those plans.”
“What did your mother have to say about that?”
“I lost my mother at a young age, but she never had much interest in me. She was a socialite through and through. I used to pretend things would’ve ended up differently had she still been alive. Pretending eased the pain for a while. She’d hand-picked Gloria herself, though. I suppose I owe her for that.”
I wanted to apologize, but I hated receiving apologies from those not at fault. They never felt genuine. How could they be when the issuer had nothing to be sorry for? And since Franky hadn’t done that to me on the roof that night, I wouldn’t do it to him now.
“Do you ever think about looking them up?” I asked.
“I’d planned to keep in touch with her eldest son, but they ended up moving and changing their numbers. I’m sure my father had something to do with that. He and I were from two different worlds, anyway.” He shrugged. “It wouldn’t have worked. Not at that time.”
“We’re from two different worlds,” I pointed out, having thought the same thing not too long ago.
“That doesn’t matter to me. It never did. The loss of my friendship with Theo was out of my control. We were young, and neither of us had the power then to change the outcome.” Franky unhooked a frying pan from the pot rack hanging above the island and placed it on the stove.
Theo.He’d said the name like it pained him too. I thought about my friendship with Noon, and how it was slipping away from me. I understood Franky’s pain completely.
“Looks like you’ll make it out of here alive, after all,” he said, handing me a pack of sausages from the fridge.
“Yeah,” I replied wryly. “Funny how this all worked out.”
“I’ll make it up to you with lunch,” he promised, but if he couldn’t get eggs right, what would be in store for us with lunch?
“Give me a few minutes to shower. Then we can eat before going over the mural.”
“Sounds good,” I said, turning the burner on under the pan as he exited the kitchen.
With breakfast cooked, and nowhere to sit and wait for Franky, I wandered into the living room, tilting my head curiously at the wall surrounding the fireplace. I peered out over the ocean before returning my gaze to the wall, instinctively knowing that Franky wanted me to paint a mural of the ocean, and that he wanted it done here.
The surface was smooth under my fingertips, and a rush of excitement coursed through me at the prospect of creating something so grand—which was strange considering I didn’t believe I had the talent to pull off something this big. I’d need a ladder to get it done. The only painting I’d ever done on a ladder was when I’d slapped primer over the brown water stain on my kitchen ceiling.
Painting had started as an outlet for my anger. A school counselor had suggested it, and I kept at it because it worked, not because I thought I had what it took to be the next Picasso. But if Franky believed he could furnish this whole house with items he created with his bare hands, then maybe I could believe I had what it took to do this.
Noon had an enviable understanding of who he was and where he was going in life. Always had. So I found it hard to trust his praise because he couldn’t comprehend what it meant to be conflicted. To be afraid of anything.
It was easier with Franky because he seemed as lost as me. And sometimes, it was nice to have a little company as you found your way.
“I’ve been staring at that a lot since I bought it,” Franky said, coming to stand beside me. I’d been so caught up in my thoughts, I hadn’t realized I’d inched over to the mantel where my painting rested. “I’m curious about what you were trying to convey.”
I pursed my lips, working out how to simplify the explanation of something so personally complex. “Did you know the daisy is one of the strongest flowers? They spread like wildfire and are hard to keep at bay.”
“No,” he said, eyes expanding below hiked brows.
“I kind of went down a daisy rabbit hole once. My elderly neighbor had once given me a single daisy as thanks for helping her upstairs with her groceries. She told me to change the water every few days and to enjoy it for the week or two that it would last. I used an empty beer bottle as a vase, and she ended up lasting a whole month.”
“She?”he asked.
“Yeah, she gave off feminine energy. I named her too.”
“Let me guess,” he said. “Daisy?”
I smiled, and he shook his head with amusement. “The highlight of my day was racing home from my shitty temp job to see if she’d beat the odds again. She did every time. Well, until the last time. Still, Daisy was resilient. She wasn’t supposed to last that long outside of her environment, but she thrived despite the odds stacked against her.”
I paused, digging deeper, to that place inside me often left ignored and untouched, then got back to the meaning behind the painting. “This daisy has hope,” I said, pointing at the vibrant, floating wildflower. “It’s taking a chance on the unknown, while the rest of the meadow opts for the familiar, even if it will possibly kill them. They go through the winter cycle. They go dormant. A consequence of fear.” My explanation sounded childish and stupid to my own ears, and I braced for Franky’s laughter and judgment.
“And which one are you?” he asked, turning his body toward me. “The daisy, or the winter meadow?”
