This Summer Will Be Different(83)

Bridget and I stay in touch through a constant exchange of emails and calls and texts. She sends me photos of flower arrangements she thinks I’ll like. They’re all hideous, and I love them. I think about what she once said—that no one can be my everything, not her, not a partner—and I begin to reconnect with old friends. We meet in cafés and I apologize for being absent over the past year and a half.

I’m walking home from a coffee with a former colleague from back in my PR days and decide to stop by a small organic seed shop. When I see the packet of forget-me-knots, I know exactly what to do with them. Felix and I haven’t spoken in more than three months, not since the night we decided to put a relationship on hold. My first step toward him is cautious, and just like before, I don’t write a note. I mail the seeds to Prince Edward Island the following day.

The next week, a yellow package arrives to the flower shop. It’s heavier than the ones Felix used to send, but it’s his handwriting on the label. I recognize it from in the margins of his books. I’ve seen it on ten other envelopes. I pull out a copy of The Secret Garden. He hasn’t written a letter, either. I stare at the book, smiling, and then I reach for my phone.


I love it.



I’m not nervous that Felix won’t reply. I’m becoming more certain of myself, and I’m ready for whatever comes next, thumbs-up emojis and all. But not even a minute goes by before his message lights my screen.


Yours doesn’t have to be a secret.



I laugh. I told Bridget about the farm before she left. She was looking at properties online before I finished speaking.


Classic.



I leave the conversation at that, but I’m warm all over. Felix is there—as a friend or more, I’m not sure. But he’s a part of my life now—I won’t let him go.

I go to the seed shop after work. It’s snowing, but the flakes melt on my cheeks. They turn to water on the pavement, impermanent, like winter. I buy dahlias, similar to the ones he first sent me, though these are a different variety. Sweet Nathalies. Felix texts me when they make their way to him.


Felix: The internet tells me they make good cut flowers.


Me: The internet knows all.

Felix: How are you?



I think about it for a minute.


Me: I think I’m good. I miss Bridget terribly.



I don’t tell him that I miss him, too. This time, I’m going slow.


Me: Can you believe you’re going to be an uncle?


Felix: Can you believe you’re going to be an aunt?


Me: Yes! I was born for aunthood.


Felix: You had a good role model.

Me: The best.



It’s only a few days before another book arrives. The Language of Flowers.

Subtle, I write to him. I don’t hear back until I’m at home in the evening.


I like to keep you guessing.



Three dots wriggle on the screen, and then disappear. Then appear again.


Can I call you?



My heart races at a speed only Felix makes it race.

“I’m not really a fan of texting,” he says when I answer.

“Are you a fan of talking on the phone?”

“I’m a fan of listening to your voice.”

I smile. “Can you tell when you’re flirting, or is it so ingrained that you don’t notice?”

His laugh—soft, short—fills my ears, my lungs, my heart. “I’m only telling the truth.”

“I like your voice, too,” I say, rummaging through my fridge.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to figure out how I can turn two apples, a carrot, and a jar of mustard into dinner.”

“Do you have a pork chop?”

“Afraid not.”

“Then I can’t help you.” He pauses. “We should cook dinner together another time. I can walk you through making something.”

“You’d be walking me through burning something,” I say, though I love this idea. “But I’m game if you are.”

I send Felix carrot seeds next, and he sends me back a cookbook of recipes from PEI called Canada’s Food Island.

“I think this might be too advanced for me,” I tell him on the phone that night.

“Nah,” he says. “We’ll start easy. Page thirty-three.”

“Chipotle Mussel Salad does not sound easy.”

“Saturday night,” he says.

On Wednesday, I prepare files for my accountant—I made Bridget go over everything before she left so I can do it myself. On Thursday, I spend hours building a wall of flowers and hanging chandeliers for a holiday party. I notice that my body aches more than it used to. So, for the first time in my life, I decide I should go to the gym. I splurge on six sessions with a trainer. I don’t want to lose weight, I tell her. I want to be strong. I start out on the elliptical on Friday after work and spend my thirty minutes there, dreaming about my make-believe flower farm. It’s grown into three acres of greenhouses and fields and row upon row of flora. I tell Felix all about it Saturday evening as we’re cleaning mussels together.

“What about a vegetable garden?” he asks. I have him on FaceTime, propped on the counter.