Chapter 29
Graham
The following morning I heard a knock on the door. When I opened it, a to-go coffee cup and a small paper bag from Mornin’ Joe’s sat on my front porch. I stepped outside, looking up and down the street, knowing it would only be from one person. But somehow she was already out of sight.
I took the gift inside, taking a sip of the coffee as I walked to the kitchen, and then placed both items on the counter and peeked in the bag.
Inside was a chocolate croissant – the smell of butter and bread and chocolate intoxicating.
I pulled it out and a napkin fluttered to the floor.
When I picked it up, I noticed it had writing on it.
“From your friendly neighborhood porch fairy,” it read in Lior’s familiar handwriting, a little pair of wings drawn on either side of the word ‘fairy’.
The following morning it was a vanilla bean scone.
I sat on the white sofa in my white living room, pulled the scone out of its bag, and took a large bite, a small chunk falling free and landing on the cushion beside me.
As I picked it up, I noticed a small triangle of blue between the cushion and grabbed it, pulling until my missing dress sock hung from my thumb and forefinger. I smiled.
Bronte.
My mind was flooded with dozens of memories.
Since the day I’d brought her home she’d decided “burying” clothes was going to be one of her favorite pastimes.
More often than I could count I’d heard Nadia stomping through the house shouting, “Where did you put my bra, Bronte?” Bra, top, shorts, favorite gym towel, underwear…
I’d never forget the time Nadia threw a party after the renovations on the house were done and one of her influencer friends pulled a lacy hot pink thong from one of the matching white armchairs.
“Whoooo!” she’d shouted, swinging it around her finger. “Someone’s sex life is on fire!”
I set my scone on the coffee table and then lifted each of the two couch cushions and chuckled at what I found.
The head of the rubber chicken toy I’d thought she’d eaten several months ago when I’d found its headless body at the foot of my bed.
A pair of my boxer briefs, a sock, and a kitchen towel.
I removed the items and put the cushions back and then turned to the armchairs.
“What other surprises have you left behind for me, old girl?” I asked aloud in the empty room, a small smile on my face.
I laughed as I lifted the cushion from the first chair. Beneath it was one of my flannel shirts.
“How on earth did you get this entire thing under there?” I whispered, pulling the wrinkled garment free. I held it to my nose and breathed in the scent of my sweet old dog. She must have rolled around with it before tucking it safely away.
Moving to the second chair I saw the corner of a familiar bit of fabric sticking out. I couldn’t place why it was familiar until I pulled it free completely and then I laughed again. Harder this time. Until tears ran down my face and I had to sit in the chair I’d just pulled the shirt from.
Oh this shirt. I stared down at it and shook my head. It was Nadia’s. A prized possession from her early days as an influencer.
She’d hunted high and low for this shirt when she’d packed up her stuff.
And for weeks she’d come back looking for it, barging in the front door, asking if I’d found it.
She’d made me look everywhere. Behind the washing machine, under it, in every nook and cranny of every closet…
even in the attic. But neither of us had ever thought to look beneath the cushions.
I shook it out now, getting a good look at it. It had been in pristine condition as she’d kept it in a sealed bag when she wasn’t wearing it for an anniversary video. Now half the collar was detached from the body of the shirt, the distinct imprint of dog incisors indented in the fabric.
“Good girl, B,” I whispered, and then wadded the shirt up. Perhaps a little fire in the fire pit tonight was in order.
Just thinking of sitting out back made me wonder what Lior was up to.
But I quickly pushed her from my mind. The entire way to the vet’s office to get Bronte’s ashes I’d wondered if I’d been stupid to take her up on her offer to stay in her guest room.
It had been lovely. She had been warm and kind and gave me space, but was also available when I needed to be distracted.
And then that last night happened. I still didn’t understand why I’d stood there staring at her. It was as if for a moment all the sadness I’d been feeling had cleared, making way for a yearning I couldn’t tamp down.
Have me, she’d said, repeating my own words back to me and lighting my body on fire. And I’d had her. Repeatedly. Until we were both exhausted and draped over one another.
But though it had been incredible, it had left me feeling even more conflicted about us and our situation.
I’d been adamant that more than friendship couldn’t work with Lior.
Her line of work coupled with her level of fame seemed an automatic no-go for me.
But we’d hung out together loads of times now and, other than a couple of doubletakes by women at the coffee shop, she hadn’t once been stopped for a photo op or an autograph.
Unlike Nadia, she didn’t invite it. She made a concerted effort to be invisible by wearing hats, sunglasses, no makeup, and more stained tops I’d ever seen on any one person.
Had I been wrong? Had my assumptions been based more in my fears than her facts? Was it possible being more than friends could actually be… possible?
But even as I thought it, my brain began to reject it.
Lior Flynn, the woman who had taken me into her home for two weeks without hesitation, was still Lior Flynn.
And while the bubble she’d been able to create, most likely for my comfort, had been nice, it wasn’t sustainable.
She could hide from the press, but she couldn’t escape them forever.
They would turn up, just like they had when we’d been in Seattle with Marley.
Sneaky, intrusive, and unwanted. And while I got my own bit of press here and there when a new book of mine came out, once the excitement had passed, I was left alone again.
Lior would never be left alone. Not only because of who she was, but because of who her mother was as well.
And I could just imagine the scrutiny I'd get by being connected to her. Who was this guy and why had she chosen him? I’d gone through it once with Nadia. With Lior… it would be ten times worse.
I sighed. As much as I’d love for it to happen, we were not to be.
And part of me must’ve known that when I let her leave the other day.
As much as I’d have liked her to stay, I couldn’t hang onto her.
We could be friends, but we had been treading in dangerous territory by my staying for so long.
One of us had to keep things on track. I hated that it was me.
The next day the bag from Joe’s contained a large piece of coffee cake. The day after, a brown sugar pecan brioche. I was going to need to start running again if she kept this up.
I picked up my phone.
“Good morning, Neighborhood Porch Fairy,” I typed.
“Thank you for the coffee and treats. But if you continue on this path, I will not be able to do much more than roll down any given path, as I will have turned into a cinnamon roll. Though, even as I typed that, I think I’ve decided there are worse things.
Anyways. Thank you. You are very sweet.”
I hit send and then immediately wished I could take the latter part of the text back.
You are very sweet? Come on, man. Do better.
I was embarrassed for myself, but also… I didn’t have much more to say than that at the moment. I was grieving and I could only hope she’d understand.
I placed the bun on a plate and sat at the kitchen table, my laptop open in front of me.
My agent had asked if I needed to extend my deadline, understanding the trauma of losing Bronte.
But the book was the only thing getting me out of bed in the morning, and so every day I got up, drank and ate the treats left for me by Lior, and got to work.
I didn’t set a timer. I just put my head down, my fingers on the keys, and got to it. I was now at the final chapter.
The cursor blinked at me, waiting. I knew what was going to happen.
What I wanted to say. What I wanted to leave the reader with.
But I wasn’t ready to let go of this story just yet.
It was the last book I’d written while Bronte was alive, and it was a story of resilience, kindness to oneself, and realization.
It was, in a way, my story. And while I knew how it would end, I was still torturing myself over how my own story would go forth after the book was done.
I was considering taking a break. Maybe even a vacation.
My text alert went off and I opened the message from Lior, smiling at the litany of pastry emojis, followed by a bandaged heart and a simple, “Thinking of you.”
I set the phone back down, shut the laptop, and took my coffee and pastry out onto the back patio and sat in one of the stupid, clear plastic chairs Nadia had purchased and put my feet up on the edge of the copper fire pit, a small, charred remnant of the shirt I’d watched burn stuck to the inside of the drum.
Maybe I’d have another fire tonight. I’d found a pink ankle sock with an avocado print “buried” in my office chair last night.
Taking a long sip of coffee, my eyes fell on the red rubber ball B had once liked to gnaw on and nose around the house before picking it up and dropping it at my feet in a slobbery mess.
Sadness bloomed in my chest, but instead of my eyes welling like they had so often this past couple of weeks, I just smiled, got out of my seat, and retrieved the ball, tossing it up in the air and catching it, and then laughing as it squeaked, startling me as it always had.
I set the ball on the mantle inside the circle of B’s collar, and then went upstairs to work out.
The following day, after the morning knock on the door, I opened it to find Joe standing on my porch with a coffee and paper bag and gave him a confused smile.
“I’m here on assignment,” he said, holding out the cup and bag. “Lior had to leave for a job. For the next three days I’ll be your porch fairy.”
I was positive the man blushed as he struggled to get the last two words out. I laughed at his obvious discomfort.
“Thank you,” I said, taking the food and drink. “You really don’t have to. Though you do make a very cute fairy.”
“She threatened me,” he said.
“Lior threatened you?” I grinned, trying to imagine this.
“Said she’d spread rumors that I secretly put edibles in all my pastries and that’s why people thought they were so good and couldn’t stop coming back for more.”
“Hm,” I said. “It’s not a bad idea.”
“The rumor or me actually doing it?”
“Both?”
“That’s what I told her.” He grinned for a moment and then sobered. “You doing okay?”
I shrugged. “As well as can be expected. I’ll be back by the coffee shop soon.”
“Good. Bring Lior. I like her.” He tipped an imaginary hat then and shuffled down the front steps, leaving me to stand there, his parting words doing laps around my brain.
“Yeah,” I murmured. “Unfortunately, I think I do too.”
I stepped inside and closed the door, taking my treats from Joe to the kitchen table.
I opened my laptop again and perused a local news site while I ate.
On the front page was a video of Lior walking through the airport last night, her head down, dark hair flowing out from beneath a knit hat, people standing and pointing and taking pictures as they shouted her name in an attempt to get her to look up.
I closed my eyes, my heart heavy as I came to the decision that I needed to take a step back from our friendship. Because if we were both being honest, it was more than that. And more than that would lead to heartbreak. Possibly for her. But definitely for me.