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I knelt down, and my heart melted when I realized what these flowers actually were.
“Oh, my gosh.” I sucked in a breath. “Lucas, these are wildflowers. They’re gorgeous.”
“And probably illegal, but the florist didn’t ask questions.”
I picked them up and let myself into the cabin, which suddenly felt extremely isolating and cold.
I turned on the light and set the flowers on the kitchen counter, which opened up into the rest of the living space. A bedroom loft overlooked the small cabin. It was perfect for one person, or maybe half a person.
All I knew was that I had a very quiet Lucas on the other end of the phone.
“I’m putting you on speakerphone.”
“No problem,” he said flatly.
“Ethan is —”
“I didn’t ask,” he interrupted.
“But you want to.”
“I don’t know that I do.”
I breathed in worry and closed my eyes. “He’s a kid. They’re all kids. I feel like some grandparent, teaching them the way of imagery.”
“I didn’t say a word.”
“Exactly. You haven’t said a word since you heard Ethan on the phone.”
“I just wanted to make sure you got the flowers.”
“They are gorgeous and so thoughtful.” I sat on the couch and propped my head on the pillow. “I’m so lucky to have you.”
“You mean that?”
“More than you know.” I let out a deep breath. “But I’m absolutely exhausted. They never stop. And I’m still expected to give lectures, workshop poems, attend lectures, and then meet them for coffee, hang at lunch, go out for dinner.”
“More than you bargained for?” Lucas’s tone loosened up a bit.
“A lot, but did I tell you what happened to me on the plane?”
“This is our first real conversation since you got there,” Lucas said softly, and I suddenly realized he was right.
I’d been here for eight days, and this was the first time I’d actually been able to talk with Lucas. Every other time, I was either at a reading, or busy scouring poems and crossing out lines.
I. Was. A. Horrible. Girlfriend.
“Lucas, I’m so sorry. This wasn’t how I envisioned it.”
He laughed and let out a deep breath. “Me neither. So, what happened on the plane?”
“I happened to be seated next to a literary agent, and she saw one of my poems.”
“Yeah?”
“And she loved it. She gave me her card, and I’ve since emailed her some of my work and a proposal for a story about Grandma Cecilia.”
“You’re kidding.”
