Home. Because I have a home here, in the quaint Ohio City district of downtown Cleveland, with my best friend in the whole wide world.
HERO.
bows
Be home in 30… see you soon!
Tucking my phone into my bag, I grin at the cloud-dappled sky. So this is what normal feels like. I’d nearly forgotten. I’ve started a new job at one of the top firms in town like a normal twentysomething—it might not be the permanent job I’d hoped for but it’s a job nonetheless. And nobody stared at me with pity or asked how I’m doing in hushed tones of sympathy. Plus? I haven’t had a single Devin episode today. It’s official: after a year of painstaking recovery, my luck is finally turning around. Heck, maybe I’ll even meet someone new this summer—someone real this time.
I snort. Okay, that might be a stretch. “Big law” life, working for a large, high-revenue law firm, doesn’t exactly leave a lot of room for socializing. But, hey, you never know what the future has in store, right? And after a day like today, I’m feeling just about ready for anything.
I take the long way back to my neighborhood along the Cuyahoga River, soaking in the fresh air and sunshine. A quick Google search reveals that Dave’s Markets is the closest purveyor of champagne, so I walk the extra few blocks to the store, splurge on a twenty dollar bottle of champagne and several bags of M&M’s—because every good celebration needs chocolate—and stash my purchases in my tote bag. Outside, I take a deep breath through my nose, preparing to head home, but freeze.
I know that scent. I inhale deeply again to confirm the delicately floral yet achingly familiar smell. Lilies.
My favorite flower. And not just because I thought make-believe Devin bought me a bouquet of lush white lilies on our first date. I’ve loved them since I was a kid—their silken, oversized petals and a scent that transports you to sun-soaked gardens full of mystery and beauty.
I glance around automatically for the source and spot a dusky purple Victorian house tucked along the nearest side street, sandwiched between a squat brick building and a historic home, both with Foreclosure signs out front. Blooms & Baubles is printed in large letters above the Victorian’s front door and a sign in the window proclaims Open in red block letters. A flower shop. That certainly explains the lilies. Shifting my weight, I run my tongue along the edge of my teeth.
That’s it, I’m doing it. I’m going to buy myself some flowers. Because I have another success to celebrate: I did not have a Devin episode just now. I thought of him, sure. But I didn’t drown in a whirlpool of fake flashbacks. Yesterday might have involved a minor setback, but my “struggles,” as Mom likes to put it, are well on their way to existing solely in the past. And I’m going to prove it—if not to her, at least to myself.
The crisp scent of flowers grows stronger as I approach the shop and okay, this place is adorable. An assortment of bouquets fills the window display along with art prints dangling on wires and a small shelf of colorful ceramic vases. Looped purple script on the bay window proclaims, “Flowers, gifts, and more. Let us brighten your day!”
“Cute,” I murmur to myself as I open the door. A bell tinkles and a dog barks from somewhere deeper in the store. I tense at the series of growl-laced woofs, but relax when I spot the dog waddling over from behind the counter. He’s long and plump like a corgi with the floppy ears of a beagle, and his short white-and-brown fur is covered with dusty yellow splotches. Not exactly a ferocious Cujo.
“Hi, sweetie,” I say, extending a hand to let him sniff me. When he licks my fingers, I give him a good scratch behind the ear. “Who’s a good doggie? Who’s a good doggie?” He wags his tail once at my ridiculous baby voice, then moseys back through the shop, brushing against a row of lilies as he goes. And that must be why he’s yellow—from the pollen. Retreating behind the counter, he flops into a worn navy-blue bed strewn with petals and bits of greenery.
“He likes you.” I look up to find a man about my age studying me from behind the counter, chin resting on palm, elbow propped next to the cash register. His thick, tawny-brown hair gleams in the light. Straightening, he flashes me a grin. “To be fair, The Colonel likes everyone.”
“The Colonel?”
The guy nods at the dog. “Colonel Archibald Buttersworth III. But he prefers The Colonel for short. Don’t forget the ‘The.’？” He winks.
The Colonel heaves a grunting sigh that’s halfway between a potbellied pig and a humpback whale, rolls onto his back, and splays out with all four legs in the air. A giggle bursts out of me. “Very dignified.”