Chapter Twenty-One
Graham
W hen I awaken the next morning, I can still remember the taste of melted chocolate, caramel, and flakes of sea salt between our lips. The sun hits my eyes and reminds me that the storm has passed. The thought of her eating candy right before I picked her up to drive out to the wildflower field makes a smile cross my face. Of course she was. The woman is the chocolate queen, always with bite-sized bits of chocolate wrapped haphazardly and thrown into pockets, purses, and anywhere else she can store them.
When we were together those weeks in LA, I’d find the shiny wrappers sticking out in odd places, like she was a human disco ball of chocolate. I always had the urge to go on a treasure hunt to find them, and it was a challenge to force my analytical brain to tune out the desire whenever I hugged her. Suddenly, there would be a crackling sound coming from her clothes, and a wrapper—sometimes filled with chocolate, sometimes empty—would pop out of hiding. We’d laugh that I was at the scene of the crime for continuous confectionary murders .
Rolling onto my side, I slide up in bed and lean my back against the headboard. Swiping a hand over my face, I gift myself another thirty seconds of visualizing our encounter and committing it to memory. Will I ever forget how the ends of her hair danced merrily around her face, the scent of wildflowers swirling around us, or the vividness of her bright pink lips against the cloudy sky? When her eyes met mine, what once felt hollow was somehow filled.
I’m reveling in the memory all over again—a smile beaming on my face—when my phone pings on the bedside table. Though I shouldn’t let my hopes rise, my heart beats faster. Kissing her in the field of wildflowers convinced me that all sorts of things may be possible. I never thought we’d kiss again, and here we are. On the drive back, neither of us talked about it much—or at all—but just the fact that it happened must be a good sign.
Reaching for my phone, I rub my eyes to better grasp what I see. It’s a group message that includes Sparrow and Rafe.
Sparrow: Graham, I’m so sorry to ask, but is there any way you can check on Lily?
Rafe: I’m sure he’d love to check on her . . .
Instantly, my throat goes dry.
Sparrow: Something isn’t right. I’m covering the café this morning, but she texted me, and none of it made sense. Then, when I called her, she said she kissed you and hung up.
Rafe: My man, you kissed Lily? Does this mean you’re staying in Birch Borough for good?
I feel like I’m going to be sick but force my emotions back in check. Lily may be a wild card, but she isn’t the type to ever hang up on her friend. Rafe, however, is going to mysteriously need new guitar strings the next time I see him.
While I’m not certain what I’m signing up for, my feet are already on the floor. I type a hasty response to the group as I rush to gather some clothes.
Graham: Will be there in ten. I’ll send an update.
Sparrow hearts the message, and I toss the phone on the bathroom counter. After taking one of the fastest showers of my life, I berate myself for almost putting my pants on backward. I avoid eye contact with myself—a man who can pass the bar but can’t get his arm through his shirt without almost punching a hole through the fabric.
“Calm down, calm down,” I mutter. Lily isn’t far away. Unsure of what I’ll be walking into, I slide into my shoes, grab my keys, and barely manage to throw a protein bar into my jacket pocket before I’m out the door.
Since Lily’s studio is only a few streets away from my apartment, I’m already calculating that it should take me less than two minutes to drive there, including the starting of my car. Turns out, I’m there in less than one.
In my haste, I almost leave the car in neutral when I exit. Quickly throwing it into park, I nearly trip on the way to her building’s front door. Thankfully, because I was here when we escaped the storm, I know where she lives in the non-creepiest way possible. As I enter the building, a door flies open on the first floor. An older man with intense round glasses and a long cardigan wrapped around his shoulders steps out, pieces of his greying hair sticking out in every direction.
“Can I help you?” His question comes across as more inquisitive than threatening .
“I’m looking for Lily,” I reply. “And you are?”
He bristles a bit, clearly offended that I don’t know him. Should I?
“I’m her landlord, Mr. Crumbs. That lady is always up to shenanigans.” He shakes his finger.
His grim tone brings out an involuntary laugh from my chest. To cover my faux pas, I nod as if this accusation is a truly serious issue instead of acknowledging how distracted I am by his last name. Impatiently, I look away and spot a chocolate wrapper on the edge of a stair tread leading up to Lily’s door. I don’t know whether to keep it or commit myself for study.
“If you find that amusing, then you two deserve each other,” Mr. Crumb says. He turns around and slams his door.
Relieved to be back on mission, I rush up the stairs two at a time and knock on her door with the backs of my knuckles.
“Lily, honey.” I surprise myself with the term of endearment that just slips out. If I wasn’t so worried about her, I’d be thinking about the way I’m hoping and wondering if she’ll look at me again today like she used to.
From inside her apartment, I hear what sounds like a crash. I’m about to break down the door when it flies open, revealing Lily slightly hunched with her hair wrapped in a bun on the very top of her head. It appears alarmingly like a bird’s nest, and I take in the sight before registering the rest of her ensemble: a black sweatshirt that reads Tell it to the judge , joggers (black, of course), and a look in her eye that immediately tells me what’s wrong. She’s sick.
“Stuffed up. Shivering. All of this!” she mutters, using a hand to signal around her face. She reaches into her pocket and grabs a tissue.
Right at this moment, it occurs to me that I’ve never seen Lily sick. She’s always been so formidable, unable to not be ready for battle. I hear her let out a little whimper—she’s clearly not fully realizing who I am at this moment. Or she doesn’t care because her defenses are down. Or perhaps she recognizes that I’m the closest thing to hope.
She turns from me without a word, her feet shuffling in slippers that are light pink and covered in chocolates. Of course they are. While I suspect that Lily thinks she’s moving quickly away from me, it’s really a pathetic shuffle. She stops halfway to her couch and looks longingly at the kitchen. If she were fully aware of my presence in her current state, I’d be embarrassed at how quickly I’m behind her, my hands hovering just beside her ribs in case she starts to sway.
“What do you need?” They’re the only words that escape my mouth, though I could say more. While I wish her answer would be me, I mean more along the lines of medicine and picking up soup from the diner.
She makes a squeaking sound. Her little noises are quickly shattering my resolve not to pick her up and bring her to the couch myself. Her energy seems spent, the floor appears to be lava, and she can’t seem to get away from the safety of where she stands.
As gently as I can, I put an arm around her shoulder and guide her toward the couch. I nearly forget to breathe when she places her head on my shoulder. But that isn’t where she lands. Immediately, she shifts her face so it’s turned toward my neck. She nuzzles against my skin. I tell myself she doesn’t mean to be so vulnerable. The heat radiating from her tells me there’s a fever involved, but I use the gesture as permission to scoop her up into my arms.
“Do you want the couch or your bed?” I whisper, not sure if her head is pounding.
She points to the couch, and I set her down as gently as possible. Lifting her head with the palm of my hand, I support her neck and shift a cushion underneath. Not good enough.
“Hold on,” I mutter. As I move away, I keep my eyes on her until the last possible second, when my vision is cut off by the wall—you know, just architectural conventions separating me from her—and rush to her bedroom. It takes me a solid ten seconds to muster the courage to step over the threshold, but my woman is sick. She needs more than a couch cushion. Spotting the fluffy pillows on her bed paired with an eccentric quilt that I decidedly ignore, along with the lingering smell of what must be her body wash or perfume, I’m back by her side a few moments later.
“What are you doing?” Lily mumbles, her nose scrunched in pain.
“Taking care of you.” Gently, I lift her head again to replace the pillow.
“This was my dream,” she whispers.
I’m going to need more time to process those words. Hastily, I text Lucy and ask her to have an order of vegetable noodle soup ready. I send an SOS to Liam—the most solid guy I know, practically a fixture in Birch Borough, and someone I now consider a good friend—a request to grab some tissues, lozenges, and medicine from the general store. I also ask him to order a vat of ice cream from Bette’s for me to pick up. I text Sparrow to tell her that I found Lily, she’s sick, and I’m not leaving her. My phone pings with a reply immediately.
Sparrow: Thank you for taking care of her. She couldn’t have anyone better.
My mind races. If I had to guess, this is the equivalent of having Sparrow’s blessing. The phone pings again, and I scan the message before pausing to read it again.
Rafe: Just remember: Lily once told me I could change the ending. Rooting for you both.
I put the phone down, my hands shaking.
“Lily, honey,” I begin, that word slipping again through my filter. “I need to pick up some things for you. Can you . . .?”
I’m cut off by another faint sound as she shifts to try to get more comfortable. Before I can think any more about it, I text Liam again to ask if he can bring everything here. I’ll transfer money to him later. I tell him to get an extra ice cream for himself. With Lily in this state, there is no way I’m letting her out of my sight right now.
A few hours later, I think I’m wearing an actual hole in Lily’s floor. There is at least some newly evident wear on her area rug. It’s been hours since I first arrived. My t-shirt is wrinkled. I’ve called a local doctor, Sparrow and Rafe, and even put in a call to Gladys. Liam dropped off the items hours ago. God bless him. I hugged him from the relief of finally having something in my hands that may help her feel better.
After giving her a dose of medicine and pain reliever and making her a cup of tea to soothe her throat, Lily fell asleep again. I’ve been waiting for her to wake up. How have I kept myself entertained? I haven’t. Books on her shelves that would normally be enjoyable to read? Lackluster. A whole library of Regency television shows, including multiple seasons of her favorite show, The Man is a Rake ? Not today. Anything other than trying not to stare at Lily in an unsettling way while she rests? Unacceptable. The way her face looks like an angel’s while she sleeps? Devastating.
∞∞∞
Eventually, I flip through the pages of a newly released novel. But the quiet atmosphere causes my brain to wander, playing with an idea I’ve had for a while. I end up charting out the path to creating an LLC to provide pro bono or low-cost services in the area for local artists and musicians. When Rafe gets married, he won’t need me quite as much for the next few months. Something about being near Lily makes me think of the future again. I find a notebook on the side table and a pencil with a chunky eraser that says Write Me and get to work. The pencil flies across the pages, and I realize I haven’t created or dreamed like this in ages.
“Graham?”
Her whisper hits me right in my core. I look at Lily, immediately regretting that I was finally so focused on what I was doing that I missed the moment she opened her eyes. My pulse quickens, and I remember one very important truth: Lily only called me by my real name when we were together.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, tossing the items I’ve been using to the floor by my feet.
“Everything hurts,” she admits.
My hands find her feet. They have been nestled under my thigh while she slept (her doing), and I rub them through her fuzzy socks.
“But better,” she adds.
“I’m sorry.” My words are quiet. The sentence feels like a loaded statement, full of everything we’ve yet to say to each other, but I think Lily might be too sick to notice.
She looks toward the table and the box of rosemary crackers precariously hanging near the edge closest to her. “Those are my favorite.”
I nod.
“You got me my favorite crackers?” Lily is all practical, her voice void of emotion.
“I did.”
“You’re taking care of me.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
My hands pause. I look at her, caught up in the way her grey eyes expand their lavender edges as the fairy lights she has hung throughout her apartment illuminate them with hope.
“Because you needed me to.”
I expect her to huff or give me a snarky quip, but she doesn’t reply. After yesterday’s kiss in the wildflower field, I’m not sure where we stand, and while I would love to say that we’re past everything we’ve been through, I don’t know if it’s true. As much as I’ve wanted a different ending to our story, my mind doesn’t let me forget that it’s entirely possible Lily may bolt again. But I’m not a casual guy. I can’t do short term. And with Lily, nothing short of forever will ever be enough.
“I told you that was my dream.” Her eyes suddenly widen with the realization .
“You did.”
“No plus-ones!” she blurts out.
“What do you mean?” With gentle pressure, my hands tighten around her shins in what is hopefully a comforting move. She curls deeper into the couch and stretches more of her legs onto me, so I think it must be.
“No plus-ones,” she repeats.
“Does that mean I lose your game?” My breath hitches. The question hovers in the silent air for a few seconds. What I’m really asking her is if she wants to be here with me. Are we done pretending we’d rather fight than kiss each other whenever we’d like?
Her voice is soft, and her eyes are downcast when she replies, “I think you’ve already more than met anything I could ask of you.”
“What do you mean?” I need her to explain. I don’t want to leave anything in the dark between us.
She waves her hands to indicate the space between us. “Best man. Maid of honor. Who has time to add another human to that dynamic? At best, we’d dance with them. At worst, we’d leave them in the dust while we are celebrating our best friends.”
I nod, a hint of a smile trembling at the edges of my lips. “So, I don’t lose?”
“No.” She shakes her head, all business. “You can’t lose because the challenge is technically fulfilled. Isn’t that how it goes? Best man, maid of honor. I mean, if you’re single. You are still single, aren’t you? Oh, I really should’ve asked you that yesterday . . .”
Lily’s eyes finally lift, and the intensity in them causes what feels like a blush to creep up my neck .
“Jury is still out on that,” I reply, and she gasps. I laugh and squeeze her foot. “Honey, you think I would kiss you like that if I wasn’t free?”
Before she starts thinking that my rush to care for her today is just a way for me to cement myself more into her life, I hasten to add, “You don’t need to decide our status right now.”
Lifting herself briefly, she slumps back into the side of the couch, which is cradling her bones if the way she curls into it with a sigh is any indication.
“Graham, I need to tell you something.” Her voice is soft again.
I shut my eyes and focus on my breathing, willing my body to relax no matter what she may say next.
“Wait—why are you sorry?”
So, she does remember the statement I was hoping she’d forget, even if I did say it within the last five minutes.
“I won’t apologize for yesterday, if that’s what you’re asking.” I rub the arches of her feet again, needing something to do with my hands. When I slow, she wiggles her feet as if she wants more of my touch but is unsure if she should ask for it. Our hesitant push and pull feels like a metaphor for what we’ve been to each other for the last two years.
“I didn’t mean it,” she whispers. “In LA. I didn’t mean it. I was . . . scared.”
I consider my words carefully before replying. “Love is scary, Lily. It’s not a sure thing—clearly. But you have to commit to it. You have to lean into it despite the fear of the unknown. I respected what you wanted and stayed away when you told me this was a one-sided love in LA. I did what you told me to do when I moved to town. I loved you enough to be committed to your wishes even if there was no hope for us. I’m sorry if that made you feel that I didn’t fight for you.”
She clears her throat, the slow blink of her eyelids a sign that she won’t be awake much longer. I feel an urge to get out everything I’ve wanted to say while I can. I open my mouth to speak again but am cut off from the intent by the crumbling of her smaller frame. Her strong demeanor has been brought down by a virus and honesty. Her eyes glisten with a sudden sheen. I see the tears pooling at the edges. One trails along the side of her cheek, gravity pulling it more quickly toward the crack in the couch cushions from the angle of her face against it.
No response feels worthy of the vulnerability she is allowing me to see without saying a word. Instead, I grip the tops of her shins and massage them gently, hopefully showing her that I hear her. I’m here for her. The rise and fall of her chest while she breathes is as when someone cries, the silent kind until her breath hitches involuntarily. Unable to stop myself, I lean forward, sliding my hands underneath her shoulder blades to scoop her up.
Without hesitation, she nuzzles into my neck and shifts to wrap her arms around me. I lean back against the couch. She curls up with her face close to my heart, her ribcage supported by my arm on one side while the other wraps around the side of her face, my fingertips caressing the edge of her hair. Her cheekbone presses into my palm. I want to memorize the ridge of it and the softness of her skin.
Knowing her head hurts, I start to massage the back of her neck. An energy pulses through me. If I don’t move, I fear I’ll crack fully. The damp flood of tears through my new t-shirt and her sniffles tell me that she’s doing it enough for the both of us right now. There are two parts to Lily’s mind that I’ve observed—the one she shares with others and the one she only shares with me when she feels safe. The part she shares when her defenses have been disarmed. It seems as if she has to fight with herself before she lets herself be free. Lately, I’ve gotten a glimpse of how she could love me again. I remember how she liked to be held when she worried about leaving LA and felt lost. At the time, she told me she felt secure in my arms. I can only hope she still feels the same.
Only when she’s sound asleep, her breathing soft, her body flush against mine, do I let myself inhale deeply. The warmth of her wraps around me. It reaches the places of my heart I forgot had grown cold. Without her, it seems as if I don’t just forget how to make a fire. I forget that the flame exists at all.