This Summer Will Be Different(56)

“It’s not like that,” I say now.

“You don’t sound like you’ve been relaxing,” Farah says. “You sound like a sewer rat.”

“I don’t know what that means, but it was a late night. I’m tired.”

“You know you’re a walking tire fire when you don’t get enough sleep,” Farah says.

“How’s Sylvia? I miss her.” Asking about Farah’s dog is the best way to change the subject.

“She’s a goddess,” Farah says, and then puts Sylvia on the phone so I can say hello.

After I hang up, I call Lillian. I’ve already texted to say that I need to reschedule yet again, but I want to get a read on where we stand.

“I’m sorry,” I say, freezing at the sight of a skunk waddling across the lawn and into the shrubs. “You’re probably beginning to question whether I’m reliable, but I promise you I am.”

“It’s fine, Lucy. I understand,” Lillian says, though I can hear that she doesn’t really. “We all have personal lives.”

An “urgent personal matter” was how I characterized my sudden trip.

“Yes, well, I’d be on a plane to Toronto right now if I could. This is the last place I want to be.”

“Why don’t you let me know when you are back, and we can make plans then?”

“Sure,” I tell her, stomach wrenching. When I first met Lillian, she was so enthusiastic about working together, but I can hear her confidence in me slipping. “Again, I’m so sorry, Lillian. You’ll have my undivided attention when I’m back. Work is my only priority.” But the truth of it leaves me feeling a little hollow.

“Perfect,” she says. “We’ll talk soon.”

I hang up, and I turn around, surprised to find Felix standing in the doorway. Blue jeans. White T-shirt. Bed head. Fresh shave. What was he doing, kissing my fingers like that last night? Holding my hand? I don’t think he was purposefully trying to confuse me, but he did. I’m angry with myself, but I’m angry with him, too.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Hi.” I look at a spot on his shoulder.

“Are you feeling okay? Hungover?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine,” he says. “You musn’t have slept well. I can tell you’re tired by the look on your face.”

“Why does everyone have a problem with my face this morning?”

“Lucy.” He tips his head. “What’s wrong?”

I meet his eyes then. Dangerous, gorgeous man. “Nothing,” I tell him.

“Come on. Something’s bothering you,” he says, stepping closer. “Want to talk about it? Maybe I can help.”

“No.” I lift my chin. “You really can’t.”





26





Summer, One Year Ago





My life fell apart in a series of three events. I arrived at In Bloom one morning to find the front window shattered. Inside, the store had been ransacked. Flowers dumped in the cooler, water pooling everywhere. The shelf of vases, toppled. Shards of glass and porcelain littered the floor. My office was torn apart. I sobbed when I saw my aunt’s crystal wineglasses lying broken on the floor. The police suspected it was just kids wreaking havoc, but it felt like a personal attack, a violation of what I’d devoted my life to.

The next morning, Carter broke up with me. He said I hadn’t shown him half as much devotion as I did the shop.

“I know you don’t love me as much as your business, but do you even like me?”

His words cut. It wasn’t that I’d been dumped, but why.

I didn’t love Carter. I didn’t need him. And I’d treated him like a lounge chair—a soft place to land, part of the decor of my life, entirely replaceable. I hadn’t noticed, but he had.

Three days later, I got the call from my aunt. She was already in the hospital. Her cancer was quick.

“At least I’m going out while I’m still young and beautiful,” she said as I applied her lipstick with a thin brush, the way she’d taught me. I swept blush over her cheeks generously—her skin had gone dull, gray. Farah covered for me at the shop, and I spent visiting hours at my aunt’s bedside, holding a can of ginger ale while she sipped from a straw, too weak to lift the drink herself.

A week after Stacy was admitted to the hospital, I was surprised to hear my mom’s hoot of a laugh and my aunt’s responding honk coming from her room. They never laughed much together. I stood outside the door, listening to Stacy telling Mom a story about the last man she’d been seeing, how he’d stand at the fridge, squirting sriracha and hoisin onto a spoon as a midnight snack. The next morning Stacy would find orange and brown splatters all over the floor “like bad abstract art.” “Good in bed, though,” she added.

I heard my mom sigh. “It sounds fun. You’ve had so much fun.”

“I have.” There was a shuffling of sheets, and then I heard my aunt say softly, “Don’t cry, Cheryl. I’m the one dying.”

There was a long silence. “You were right, you know,” my mom said.

“I know.”

A chair scraped over the floor, and I peeked around the corner. My mom was leaning over Stacy’s bed, hugging her sister. My aunt had tears on her cheeks.