This Summer Will Be Different(70)

I look at the flowers again. “Thank you for this.”

Felix brushes my hair to the side and kisses my neck. “You’re welcome.

“I’m making bacon and French toast,” he says.

“Of course you are.”

He smiles. “Meaning?”

“Meaning French toast is my favorite.”

“I know.”

“Meaning you’re perfect.”

“I’m really not.”

I begin to pull my hair back so I can get it out of my face, but Felix tells me to turn around. I face the cupboards, giving him my back. His fingers skim my spine as he gathers my hair in his hands. I feel a gentle tugging.

“What are you doing?”

“Helping.” More tugging. He’s braiding my hair.

“How do you know how to do that?”

“Barbies.”

“Barbies?”

“Mmhmm. I grew up with a very bossy older sister.”

There’s one final tug, and then his fingers are at my wrist, slipping off the hair elastic I’ve stored there.

“That’s better,” he says, kissing my cheek. He nods at the flowers. “Now get to work.”

As Felix makes me coffee, I trim the stems. As he begins to cook, I fill the vase. But Felix has brought me so many flowers, I hunt for more of the milk glass vessels Christine keeps in the hutch. I arrange half a dozen before breakfast is ready. I love how the shears feel in my hand, how satisfying it is to clip each stalk at just the right length using only my eye, balancing the arrangements so that they look precisely as I want them to. Wild and flowing, tumbling over the lip of the vase as if there’s no way to contain them. But I am. I am containing them. They are my pastels, and I am the illustrator. They are my clay, and I am the sculptor.

I’m here and nowhere else. It’s me and my hands and these flowers that Felix picked for me. There’s no bride I’m worried about pleasing. No client I’m trying to impress. I’m not rushing to get it done before the delivery van pulls up.

This is what I love. Creating. Shaping. Building.

For the first time in so very long, I lose myself in imagining a cutting garden of my own, the way I used to, riding the streetcar to and from work, doodling in my sketchbook.

When I’m done, I set the arrangements on the table, with the biggest in the middle, the rest surrounding it. It’s nowhere near my most elaborate grouping of arrangements, but it might be the most beautiful. I look at Felix, who’s standing over a pan of sizzling bacon, and think, More. Felix.

“What time does your flight land on Friday?” I wrap my arms around his middle as he’s at the stove and bury my face against his spine. I breathe him in deeply.

“Eleven something,” he says. “Are you okay back there?”

“I don’t think I can exist without this smell.”

“Lucy.” He turns his face to kiss my temple. “The things that come out of your mouth.”

“The things that go into my mouth.” I clamp my teeth around his earlobe.

He laughs, but it turns into a groan. “Shush,” he says. “I’m trying to feed you.”

I trail my hand down his torso.

“Lucy.” He turns his head, looks at me over his shoulder. My hand dips lower.

He shuts off the stove. Turns around, his grip firm on my waist, bringing me snug against him. I plait my arms around him.

“I’ve imagined this,” he says, palms skimming up my back. “You and me, in the kitchen together.”

I push a wayward lock of hair off his forehead. “Cooking?”

“Cooking. Kissing. Fucking on the table.”

“I like these sexy stories you tell,” I said. “Is it an East Coast thing—like a sea shanty?”

“Of course. Every islander has an erotic shanty up their sleeve.” He puts his lips to my ear. “Although in my version, we’re not in my parents’ kitchen.”

“Fair. Get back to breakfast, then.”

We eat on the deck, plates on our laps. He’s in his armchair and I’m in my sofa nook. The maple syrup is the good kind. The French toast tastes better when Felix makes it. There’s a square of Cows cultured butter melting over the thick slice of bread. The sun is so bright, it puts Felix’s profile in shadow. I can only make out the glorious shape of him. I can’t see what his eyes are saying. But now I don’t need to. Now I know.

It’s a gorgeous day. Sky blue sky. Green, green grass. Red cliffs. Birds. Breeze. There’s a fox slinking across the grass, unbothered by our presence.

This is the place I love.

I spoke to Farah earlier this morning to make sure all went well at the flower auction and texted Bridget to ask when we can expect her and Miles today, but she hasn’t replied. I’m nervous to tell her about Felix, more so now that there’s a possibility of an us. I want there to be an us. But I also feel like I’ve been carrying a heavy parcel for five years, and I want to set it down. I want to talk to my best friend about the guy I like.

“How is this going to work?” I ask when we’re done. My guess is that Bridget will freak. My hope is that she won’t disown me. If that’s the case, she’ll want to know our plan.

Felix arches a brow.

“You and me,” I clarify.