Chapter Thirty-Four
Sean
My life with Flora continues, each day marked by her presence. Small moments take on greater significance, but despite our increasing proximity, our trajectories remain misaligned. From college decisions to trivial matters like where to eat or how often to text, everything is a negotiation.
One weekend, I agree to try molecular gastronomy at an upscale restaurant.
I did my due diligence—checked the menu, planned for the cheapest entrée, and counted on tap water.
I no longer tutor for free. Now every one of my sessions is for cold, hard cash.
Even college admissions should recognize that I can’t survive on altruism alone.
The server informs us there’s no à la carte tonight, only “the experience,” a multicourse set meal with dessert. Tap water is also off-limits as it “disrupts the culinary concept.” The alternative is imported Italian mineral water.
The numbers are impossible to ignore. We could get a basket of fried chicken for a tenth of the price.
“You know I got this, right?” Flora says. “Think of it as tutoring payment.”
“I can pay for my own food.” Can I, though? I pick at my cuticles as I do another calculation, factoring in tips and the water surcharge.
“Sean, can you not stress me out?” She sighs as if she’s the one facing financial ruin.
I relent, even though my stomach twists. The food arrives, each dish more unrecognizable than the last. Crab is restructured into neon turmeric custard, chicken is minced and molded into a marshmallow, and green basil foam lingers suspiciously at the edge of the plate.
This is certainly . . . an experience.
Flora catches my expression. “You never seem open to anything different.”
“I’m willing to try, but that doesn’t mean I have to love everything.”
Her grip tightens on her fork as she pushes at a piece of saffron jelly. “It’s safer to keep ordering the same thing, of course. No risk, no disappointment.”
That’s not true. The same thing is exactly what disappoints her.
“Why can’t you go along with me for once and enjoy?” she asks.
I take a sip of my overpriced water, washing down the last of the chickmellow. “I can’t even make a comment?”
“When do you ever gasp in amazement when I introduce you to something new? This is what I love, but you’ll never see the magic in it the way I do.”
She’s been getting mad at me so much lately. The usual quick fixes don’t work, and I’m running out of cute lines. “Hey, I’m sorry. Can you give me a smile? Rough day. Traumatized on the court, and now my girlfriend hates me.”
“You must be doing something wrong if she hates you.”
“She thinks I’m predictable.” I hesitate. “But she used to like me that way.”
The light shifts in her hazel eyes before she glances down. “I’m sorry. I still do. It’s just that we haven’t eaten out in a while, and I wanted everything to be perfect.”
“It is. Being with you is perfect.”
Her eyes soften, and she reaches across the table to touch my face. “Tell me what happened.”
“We lost because of me. Some days I’m just . . . off, and I don’t know why. Basketball feels completely out of my control.” And so does my relationship.
“No one can control everything in their life.”
“Ever since my ACL tear, I haven’t been as good as before. Sometimes, midrun, I get this fear my knee will give out. I didn’t get reconstructive surgery because I didn’t want to miss senior year.”
“You want to play with Jake and Dylan.”
“Yeah. I could probably play in college, but it won’t be the same.”
I barely see them outside of practice anymore, and when I do, Coach is consistently yelling at me in the background.
“Hey, you’re still the best shooter on the team,” she says, which is generous of her.
The check arrives, and I grab it out of reflex. It’s worse than I expected. Apparently, Flora’s citrus and lychee mocktails are what’s keeping this restaurant in business.
“Don’t be silly.” She takes the check from me and slides in her Amex without a word. My stomach twists again, a reminder that I’ll always hesitate when the bill comes.
After dinner, we step into the alley behind the restaurant, and Flora kisses me. Her lips are fervent, and I kiss her back just as intensely to calm my nerves. She tells me she loves me, over and over, like she needs to hear it out loud.
As if she needs to convince herself.
When we pull apart, she asks, “What are we doing tonight? Should we go back to your place?”
It’s been a long week, and the thought of anything but sleep makes my head throb. But I know better.
“Actually, let’s go to a party.”
Flora laughs.
“I’m serious. Do you know any good ones?”
“You don’t have to do this.”
I hold my ground. We go back and forth, and finally she says, “All right. Ray has a small group together. We can go there.”
Since the breakup, I haven’t spoken more than five words at a time to Raymond.
He probably doesn’t like me, since I’m the possessive boyfriend who doesn’t get his and Flora’s bond.
And I don’t like him, either, or the fact that she needs this emotionally supportive, generational wealth–funded best friend.
I’d rather drink a foie gras shot again than step into his house, but Flora is already chuckling.
She sounds lighter, bouncier, like an intensified version of her. By the time we arrive at Raymond’s house, she’s laughing a lot.
That laugh is the highlight of the night for me. I’ll never get tired of it, especially since it comes a lot less these days. As Flora works the room, I leave her to it and retreat to a corner.
She absorbs the atmosphere like a sponge, her energy bar recharging with every conversation. It’s both impressive and mildly concerning how much happier she looks talking to other guys. She moves through the room like a caged animal finally let loose, and something tightens in my chest.
It’s not jealousy—jealousy I can handle.
It’s the dark fear that I’ll never be enough.
She’s in her element here, shining brighter than the chandelier overhead.
We got together the first time because of a party, and the second time after planning one.
Turns out, I fell for a party girl. And she’s dragged herself away from her natural habitat for me.
When Flora returns, a tall glass of punch is in her hand. She sits down beside me. “Why aren’t you drinking?”
“We can’t both get drunk. Someone has to drive.”
A faint frown crosses her face. “Are you having a good time?”
“The best time,” I say, injecting as much enthusiasm as I can manage.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“Don’t worry about me. I don’t mind being here at all.”
She sets her drink down. “But you’re sitting here like a chaperone. I can’t relax knowing you’re tired and miserable. You’re probably keeping track of how much I’ve had too.”
Three glasses down, working on the fourth. “Go have fun, Flora.”
She shakes her head and lifts her drink again, taking slow, deliberate sips like she’s saying goodbye to it. Then, with a quiet clank, she sets it down. “Let’s just go.”
Tugging on my hand, she pulls me outside with a force in her stride. We pass Raymond on the way out.
“Heading out already?” he asks, reeking of pot.
“Yeah.” Flora brushes her hair behind her ear. “Just a long day.”
Ray’s gaze flicks to me. “You guys good?”
I nod. “Thanks for having us.”
“Of course. You know you’re always welcome.”
They share a quick fist bump, and we’re off.
The moment we step into the cool night air, I can breathe. The chill is quiet and soothing, like slipping under a cool blanket.
There’s a small garden in the backyard. Flora sits on one swing, and I take the other. The paint on the wooden beams is chipped, and the frame creaks under my weight. She traces idle patterns in the grass with the toe of her shoe.
“I feel guilty for forcing you to come here,” she says. “You tolerate the things I like and you’re the sweetest, but I wish you genuinely shared my interests.”
I take her hand. “I can try harder. Give me time.”
“No, it’s fine.” She squeezes my hand tighter. Her eyes are darker than usual, like rare pieces of meteorite. “You’re a simple, sensible guy, and I love that about you. I can do your thing.”
When Flora tries to be the understanding one, I get twice as scared of losing her. Pointing out the obvious isn’t easy. “Button, you’re not happy doing my thing.”
We’re both trying to please each other, like pushing a plate back and forth, insisting the other take the last bite. Sharing food is easy. Finding common ground is a lot harder.
I like order. She thrives on chaos. I think things through. She leaps first, asks questions later. I rely on routines to keep my sanity, while she craves the rush of the unpredictable to feel alive.
We’re not just different. We’re complete opposites.
She rocks on the swing, watching people stagger in and out of the house. “We have nothing in common.”
“We both like ice cream.” I try to lighten the mood.
“Well, if that counts . . .” She tilts her head, letting a strand of dark hair fall. “We both hate it when it melts too fast and drips through the bottom of the cone.” She stills. Swallows. “Have you ever wondered if it’d be easier to date someone more compatible?”
Her words crush the wind out of me. I love her too much to even consider it.
“It would be easier,” I say, gazing at the face I wish to look at forever. “But I don’t want easy. I want you.”
Her eyes shine, and for a second I think she’s going to cry. My throat tightens.
Please don’t bail. Not now. Not when I’m all in.
She stands up, lifts my face, and kisses me. “I want you too. I want it to always be you.”
A bug chirps. That moment on the swing feels like staring into eternity.
I could type my hobbies into a dating app, let an algorithm find me a perfect match.
Flora could walk back inside and pick anyone she desired.
But it wouldn’t be the same. Because despite everything, we put each other first. We make each other laugh. We get each other.
As unimpressive as that sounds, it’s everything.
No one makes me feel the way she does.
She glows under the night sky, eyes twinkling, wind in her hair, and, if given the choice, I’d choose her all over again.
We stay outside for a long time, unable to decide if we want to go back in, and does it even matter?
Everything I feel that night, I know Flora does too.
That’s more than enough.