Chapter Twenty-Three
Lily
C hamomile is everywhere. My favorite flower sticks out in cheerful clusters all around me. I’ve gathered some into vases and have set them out around the bakery and café. This morning, I noticed bunches and bunches of the pretty flowers surrounding the café steps. Seeing them makes my heart happy. I wear a ton of black clothes, and there’s something so satisfying about chamomile’s tiny, creamy, white petals sticking out of a bouquet in my arms. I also love the smell, earthy with a hint of sweetness. Currently, I wish it was in tea form because I could use a bit of a sedative right now as my thoughts are consumed with everything Graham.
It turns out that love does not always make you immune from viruses. Graham started to feel sick the next day. Thankfully, Sparrow and Rafe have been in town, and we’re still a couple of weeks away from the wedding. It was easier for me to get better and head to his place to bring him care packages, sitting with him while we binged our favorite show. (I say ours because, eventually, he admitted in his fevered state that he has been watching it religiously since we met. )
As I wander around the café, arranging the freshly picked flower stems, the overhead bell rings. I look up with a smile that instantly freezes. Graham is here. His eyes are wide, tentatively taking everything in. While he has been here before for the cake tasting and once to rescue me from a runaway espresso machine, this is the first time he has come in without an invitation.
“You’re here.”
He nods, and the entire space seems to go quiet. Sparrow rushes in from the back kitchen with a tray full of macarons. She pushes them toward me, trying to give me something to hold before she thinks better of it. I know I should be mentally prepared for this monumental moment, but I’m not.
“Don’t want you to jump him,” she mutters before placing them on the counter. “Graham, welcome! It’s so good to have you here, and I’m glad you’re feeling better. Have a seat at the counter. Rafe usually sits over there,” she continues cheerily, pointing to the soft white countertops and an empty stool.
He moves toward them.
“Coffee?” she asks sweetly.
Meanwhile, I stand like a statue in the middle of the floor, my mind positively combusting at the idea of Graham willfully entering this place and seeing it for what it is. I wonder what he thinks. Is it less glamorous than he imagined, now that he’s about to really take it in, and we’re not at odds? Or is he glad he managed to avoid the woman with her feet currently frozen to the floor in her natural habitat for so long?
As these thoughts race wildly through my mind, I spot a fresh bunch of chamomile sticking out of his suit jacket’s pocket. My eyes light up and meet his, and it is then that I see a grin deep enough to reveal a dimple gracing his mouth.
As his voice blurs under the pulse in my ears, I think Graham agrees to have a coffee.
“Lily, will you make a cappuccino? For the man who cared for you while you were on death’s door last week? Please?” Sparrow is pinching my side and shoving a cup into my hands.
If I wasn’t having so much trouble with the degree Graham has caught me off guard, the comical scene would make me laugh.
“Chamomile,” I declare, finally coming to my senses and doing my best not to notice the tips of his hair sticking up everywhere after he must’ve just run his hand through it. My heart does the thing where it starts to make a scene within my ribs, and I have to will it to calm the heck down.
Miraculously, I make a cappuccino on sheer willpower and manage to place it on a saucer and in front of him with a hand that is only slightly shaky. Per usual, he’s wearing a button-up shirt tucked into suit pants. If I could see his feet under the counter, I know they would be dressed in Italian leather shoes. I know his suits cost more than my monthly rent, and as much as I want to hate the expenditure, I can’t. I don’t, and I can admit that. I love the stylish way Graham dresses.
When neither of us speaks, Sparrow breaks the silence with her joyful chatter. “Graham, we found all these lovely bunches of chamomile flowers growing outside the shop door this morning. Lily was thrilled, of course . . . well, not of course.” She pauses awkwardly .
“It is her favorite after all.”
He says it so casually, not at all like the little comment just broke through to another part of my heart that has been boarded up over the last two years. I feel the countdown clock to my implosion from his nearness begin in my bones.
“It is,” Sparrow exclaims, a hint of delight in her tone.
No doubt, this scenario is more confusing to her than enlightening. Inwardly, I vow to do something extremely nice for her soon to show her how much I appreciate her friendship. No one handles my messy, roller-coaster emotional situations with such grace and dignity.
“It’s a bunny.” Graham stares at the top of his cappuccino.
I nod. My latte-slash-cappuccino art has finally progressed from unintentionally indecent figures and blobs to identifiable objects.
“I thought you banned them from your existence until next Easter.”
“Oh, I did. But I’m not the one drinking it.”
“This is good,” Graham says, taking a sip.
The deliciousness of the moment unfolding before me creeps into my consciousness. I would guess he means the coffee, but from the intensity of his gaze, the ceramic cup tiny in his muscular hand, I can’t be sure.
The bet I challenged him to weeks ago hovers in my mind. I don’t want to call an abrupt end to our game for fear of what it could mean for our budding relationship renewal. I like challenging Graham and seeing how far he’ll let me push the limits of his dignified, steady demeanor. Making him squirm while he rises to the occasion is immensely attractive. Will our feelings for each other fade without a circumstantial tie to pull us closer together?
As we grow closer to the date that we will officially be beyond our friends’ wedding, this is something that has been ours, and I don’t want to let it go. And because I’m the queen of awkwardness when it comes to him, I yell the first thing that comes to my mind.
“Eclairs!”
Sparrow looks at me like I’ve lost it, and Graham raises a single eyebrow. “You’re making them?” he asks with more diplomacy and dignity than I expected, to be honest.
“Yes! Right now. Sparrow, are you okay here?”
“Yes, of course,” she replies hesitantly. “I’m just going to finalize the order for the Rochester wedding. I’m good here. Do you want me to put those in water?” She motions toward the bouquet of chamomile that threatens to be squished if I hold it any longer.
I forgot about the handful before I got into this stare down.
“Yes, please. When I’m done . . . we feast on the eclairs!”
We just added the pastries to the menu, but that’s beside the point as I rush to the kitchen. I’m doing my best not to think about what it would mean for Graham to stay in Birch Borough. If his future isn’t with me, I don’t know how I’ll move through it. My nature, the way I process feelings and words, makes me want to run to the mountains. And I don’t even hike. I’m considering taking it up—much like I did boxing—when Graham reaches for my hand as I pull out a set of pans. Gently, he lifts it to his lips. Just when I think he’s going to kiss the back of it, he turns my palm so his mouth meets the base of my wrist, his lips warm and soft against my skin. I clear my throat, a smile blossoming on my face as he grabs my apron.
We settle in. He unbuttons his shirt, rolling up his sleeves to his elbows. I act as though I’m immune to the sight of it, even while my throat constricts with awareness of him. Even when we were at odds with each other, he never raised his voice to me. He has never called me a name or made me feel like I’m an unacceptable human. He’s always steady, cautious, and curious, qualities which make it all so much more puzzling that he wants to be with me.
At times, I know I irk him. I poke when I shouldn’t and prod when I need to quit. I give sharp retorts and like to be ornery. I wear black to his mostly blue. I’ve always had what I needed, and he’s been working since the day he could—even before it was fully legal. He calls his mother every morning, and I’m lucky if I get to check in with my parents once a quarter. It’s honestly a bit of a miracle that we ignited with the sparks we had. But ignite like a blazing fire, we did.
“So, are we still challenging each other?”
I see the tentative expression in his eyes. The question hovers between us of whether I still want him out of this town or if he is welcome to stay. I’m not confused about how I feel about him, but I’m still unsure that I’ll be able to love him fully and in the way he deserves.
“We’re not past the wedding yet,” I reply shakily. “Perhaps we can just see . . .?” Wildly, I motion toward the ingredients I’ve been throwing in a pile on the counter between us.
The smirk playing on his face transforms into a gorgeous smile. “Then let’s do this,” he declares, all assuredness and joy .
His eyes flash with a bit of heat meeting amusement. Looking at him, I feel growing excitement for a game we haven’t even begun. He looks at me, not a hint of anything besides happiness on his face. He doesn’t act like our arrangement is absurd or abnormal. That’s one of the things I’ve always loved best about him. Graham never attempts to talk me out of my antics. He just goes along with them. He’ll call me out on my crap and tell me if he doesn’t want to do something, but he is always so clear about his boundaries that I can’t ever get mad.
Anticipation flows through my system. I’m like a wheel of possibilities, and a sudden realization hits me. Graham is the one who elevates what I think I’m capable of. He makes me want to do irrational things like change the shape of my eyebrows or wear something that’s not . . . black. Ha! Joke’s on him. I’ll always want to wear black. I allow only colored accessories and one colored clothing item a month into my wardrobe.
Graham turns to face me and slowly takes off his watch. At this, the blush surges on my cheeks. Graham is clocking every part of my face right now, his eyes trailing the path of embarrassment taking over. The heat of his stare isn’t helping. His expression is subtle—and if I remember him at all, with a hint of something like desire at the edges—which triggers memories of us standing in the wildflower field . . . and of him taking care of me . . . and of me taking care of him . . . and of the chamomile sprig this morning. I try to quiet the war within me and attempt to quell the trigger response that itches to categorize him as a nemesis all in a vain effort to fortify my heart. All I can think about is the smear of chocolate icing that hovered at the corner of his mouth at the cake tasting . . . and the feeling of his soothing hands on my shins . . . and those scandalous ankles.
“By the way, tomorrow night is my birthday dinner. It’s with my mom and uncle.”
I hear the hesitancy in Graham’s tone, and I ache to go back to the days when there wasn’t ever a hint of it. “I’ll be there.”
He nods, his shoulders shifting down a touch despite my reassurance. As I will myself to maintain eye contact, the challenge in his eyes mixes with a hint of something like skepticism for what I’ll say next. I hate that he still has a reason to doubt me.
“One day, I hope you’ll call me Graham again,” he says as he studies the butter I'll need to melt over the stove, even though I’m already melted from the blue in his eyes that I want to get lost in. “Because I think that’s how you feel about me. And I think you know how I feel about you.”
My breath catches as he walks backward with a smile, his head tilted away as he rearranges the bunch of chamomile in his suit pocket.
“Oh, and even if you’re tempted to, don’t ever go easy on me, Lily.”
With that, he smoothly turns on his heels toward the front of the store and walks through the swinging door. I peek through the tiny round window, and my mouth falls open as he has the audacity to start laughing with Sparrow. A pain au chocolat is handed to him on a plate with a smile. A few minutes later, he’s behind the counter, washing his hands. In disbelief, I watch him put macarons into the case, each one looking tiny in his large hands as he gently stacks them on their trays, his smile strong and bold. He appears far too comfortable, and as much as I enjoy the sight of it, the pain of panic grips me. In a short span, I went from wanting to drive him out of town to wanting to do whatever it takes to keep him here. And I may know just how to do it.
Another point: Graham.