This Summer Will Be Different(84)

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“It might be nice to grow your own food. I know where you can get some carrot seeds.”

Nothing gets burned, and we eat our dinner with beer and tortilla chips. Even though it’s not a date, it’s the best date of my life.



* * *



? ? ?

I travel to St. Catharines to spend Christmas Day with my family, and when my parents suggest that I sell the flower shop while business is good, I tell them to back down. I tell them I know what I’m doing. They say nothing more on the subject. Lyle bumps my hip when we’re clearing the table and whispers, “That was awesome.”

I visit Stacy’s grave on New Year’s Eve—it was her favorite holiday—and then hit the bars with Lyle and Nathan, who I convinced to come to the city and crash at my place for the night. We down toxic-looking green shots and can’t get a cab home, so the three of us amble, arm linked in arm linked in arm, to my apartment. It’s the most fun I’ve had with my brother.

One morning in early January, Bridget FaceTimes me to tell me she’s having a girl. I cry with happiness. I cry because she’s so far. I want to hold my best friend’s baby in my arms.

“What did Wolf send you last?” Bridget asks when I’ve regained my composure.

“Another cookbook,” I tell her.

“And you sent him?”

“Rose seeds.” A buttery yellow variety for friendship.

With every envelope I send to Prince Edward Island, my dream flower farm has become more detailed. I draw diagrams of garden plots and plantings. I sow the seeds Felix sent me years ago in imaginary earth, and they become rows of dahlias and zinnias and snap dragons. Sometimes I arrange the flowers in bunches right out in the field, but on hot days, I take them into the shade of the barn and work at an old harvest table. There’s a dog on my farm, running between the plants, and a swimming hole with reedy banks and a deep center. I want to be near a body of water, even a small one.

“How long do you think you’ll keep this up?” Bridget asks for the gazillionth time.

I tell her I don’t know. I’ve been doing well on my own, thriving in a way I wouldn’t have thought possible. Though sometimes I miss Felix with such force, I need to place a hand on the wall to keep steady. It sneaks up on me in the dairy aisle of the grocery store when I’m picking out butter. It slams into me when I’m making coffee, knocks me about when I’m braiding my hair before bed. But I take strange comfort in these waves of heartache. They’re like annotations in a book, a note in the margin that reads, This is important.

“I have news for you,” Bridget says. “Joy is engaged.”

My stomach drops. My reaction an irrational knee-jerk. “To Felix?”

Bridget looks at me as if I’ve spoken in Latin. “No, you potato. To Colin Campbell. I think you met him at Zach’s party years ago. Big guy. Red hair. Red beard. Smiley.”

It takes me a minute to drum up the memory of Colin in Zach’s kitchen. “Wow,” I say. “That’s great.”

Bridget smirks. “Mmm. They’ve been together for over a year. I’m thrilled for her. Word is that Colin Campbell eats pussy like a champion.”

I spit out my coffee. “Bridget.”

She rolls her eyes, smug smile firmly in place.

“What?”

“I have more news.”

“I hope it doesn’t involve the sex lives of islanders.”

“Liar,” she says. “But no. There’s a piece of land for sale I thought you might like. A few acres out Point Prim way,” she goes on. “Zach sent me the listing. It’s near the lighthouse. Gorgeous spot. Goes right to the water.”

“You have Zach scoping out property for me? In PEI?”

“I have, and it’s a good one.”

I look at the listing Bridget sends me. Every few days, I check it again to see whether it’s still for sale. It’s a strip of green land, a stand of trees at its farthest edge, the ocean beyond. It’s just a field, but it could be a farm.



* * *



? ? ?

Books come and seeds go.

Sunflowers. Salvia. Cosmos.

To the Lighthouse. Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow. A collection of Maya Angelou’s poetry.

“I didn’t know you liked poetry,” I say to Felix one Saturday evening in late January.

“I like poetry.”

We’re making chicken and couscous from the Seven Spoons cookbook he gave me. I wanted to learn how to roast a whole bird, and Tara O’Brady promises that this is a “mostly hands-off dinner.”

“I’ll have to report this development to Farah,” I tell him while I set the chicken in the oven.

We drink wine while we cook, chat while we wait, and eat together when it’s ready. We spend countless nights like this. Not just Saturdays.

I like this little world we’ve built. But I exist outside of its comfort. I exist outside of work, too. I go to galleries and movies and restaurants with friends. But in February, I decide to spend my thirtieth birthday alone. I buy a bottle of champagne and order my favorite spicy noodles and watch a wonderfully mediocre rom-com with a clay mask on my face. And even without Bridget next to me on the sofa, I have a great night. I’m evolving.