Chapter 5
Lily
“And that is it for the morning news.”
I look to the head producer, Sophie, who gives me a thumbs up from behind the glass.
"Clear," the floor manager calls. The heavy studio lights shift, cooling down.
I am already moving toward the hallway before the applause from the studio audience even finishes.
I walk as fast as I can, the click of my heels rapid against the concrete floor, but his footsteps are faster.
I pause near the corner, letting him catch up so we can get this over with.
“Hello, news princess,” John says, materializing directly in front of my path.
I pull the skin-toned earpiece from my ear and look him dead in the eye. “Good morning, John.”
“Hmm,” he hums, stepping a fraction closer. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
I let out a short chuckle. “For a good reason, don’t you think?”
He smiles, that old, easy expression spreading across his face. “Yeah. Fair enough. Anyway, I wanted to ask you out for a drink tonight.”
“No can do, John. I am still married.”
His gaze drops to my left hand, his boots taking another step forward, filling my space until the heat of his shoulder is right over mine. “I don’t see any ring on it, now do I?”
I plant my hand against his chest and push him back before he can close the remaining distance. He doesn't budge. In order to avoid causing a full scene in front of the technical crew rolling up cables behind us, I drop my hand and freeze.
“Move,” I say through my teeth.
“Lily,” he calls out, dropping his voice into that familiar tone where the end of my name sounds more like Lil-air.
“What?”
“I want us to go out on a date.”
“I am married, John.”
He laughs, a light, dismissive sound. “Like I said, I don’t see a ring on that finger.”
“I have a husband,” I say, the lie tasting bitter and heavy on my tongue.
“It’s not news that you and your husband are separated.”
I swallow hard, the reality of the gossip hitting my stomach. I adjust my shoulders, pulling myself up to look him straight in the eyes. “I said, excuse me.”
He stays rooted in my space, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “I’ve always liked it when you get feisty.”
“Flowers for Lily George!”
I turn at the shout. A young woman from the camera team is jogging toward us, a massive bouquet cradled in her arms. Behind her, standing near the wide double doors of the exit, I see him.
Noah.
My husband.
Every single emotion I have kept under lock and key for the last sixteen months comes pouring down on me at once, hitting my chest so hard my knees go weak.
The floor seems to dip. I sway, my balance slipping, and John catches my elbow to steady me.
In that split second, the rest of the crowded hallway blurs into passing shapes, leaving only Noah in sharp focus.
I watch him from across the corridor. He runs a hand through his hair, his gaze locked entirely on my face. He tries to smile... a wobbly, fragile attempt that doesn't reach his eyes. My heart hammers against my ribs, the rhythm loud and fast in my ears.
He is nervous. I can tell by the slight tremor in that smile, by the way his weight shifts from one foot to the other on the linoleum. For a terrifying second, a wave of pure familiarity washes over me, and I want to smile back.
Then I steel myself.
The memories of my birthdays flash behind my eyes... the quiet kitchen, the empty side of the bed, the cold bathroom floor where I cried myself to sleep while he was away.
The woman presses the bouquet into my arms. Keeping my eyes fixed on Noah, I begin to walk toward him.
I can feel the sheer nervousness radiating off him as the distance closes, but I force myself not to care.
My mind draws toward him anyway. As I get closer, a faint trace of his scent hits the air...
clean cotton and cedar... and I almost lose my footing.
It has been so long since we shared a roof.
Since I looked at him without a screen between us.
Since my fingers touched the thick locks of his hair.
A sudden shiver tracks up my spine. My hand moves up to touch my new, shorter hair, smoothing the brown strands over my collarbone to make sure it falls perfectly.
When I am close enough to see the amber flecks in his eyes, I lift the bouquet and drop it straight into the gray wastebasket by the water cooler.
Noah’s face changes instantly. The fragile smile vanishes.
He looks down into the bin, staring at the crumpled green paper, then slowly lifts his face back to mine.
He swallows, his jaw tightening. We watch each other in absolute silence for what feels like a lifetime, the air between us thick and heavy.
I turn away, forcing my legs to move, walking past him down the hall.
Dozens of eyes follow me as I cross the floor toward my office. Before I even reach the door, I know he has turned and walked out of the building. I can feel the absence of him behind me, and it pisses me off that I am still that attuned to his movements.
I grab the brass door handle, but my fingers are shaking too violently to turn it. To keep up the appearance of being the boss, I look back into the bullpen.
"Sam," I call out.
My assistant drops her tablet and runs over. "Yes, Ms. Lily?"
I take a deep, stabilizing breath, rubbing my palms against the fabric of my gown. "Go to the wastebin by the cooler. Retrieve the flowers."
"Sure. Right away, ma'am."
I try the handle again. Before I can twist it, a hand wraps over mine, the grip firm and dry. John pulls the door open for me. I don't look up at his face. I mouth a quick thank you, scurry into the office, and let the door click shut behind me.
I throw myself into the leather desk chair and twirl it around until I am facing the bare wall, away from the window. I press my palm flat against my chest, trying to slow the racing beat of my heart.
"Noah," I whisper to the empty room.
The sound of his name makes my throat ache. I bow my head, my forehead resting against the edge of the mahogany desk. "God. Oh, Lord." My voice shakes on the words.
A quiet knock rattles the wood. "May I come in, ma'am?"
I clear my throat, sitting back up and smoothing my skirt. "Yeah. Come in."
Sam steps inside, holding the large bouquet, her eyes carefully fixed on the floor. "Here are the flowers."
"Leave them on the desk. Thanks, Sam."
The door closes. I turn the chair back around and look at them.
They are lilies. White, crisp, and fresh.
In the privacy of the room, away from the cameras and the gossip, I lift the bouquet and bring the blooms to my nose. The sweet, peppery scent fills my lungs, and a small smile tugs at my lips against my will.
“Just like your name suggests, baby, I will be fragrantly devoted to you.”
His altar vows echo through the years, the deep of his voice returning so clearly it makes my skin prickle.
Sitting here, I remember exactly why I said yes to him sixteen years ago.
Noah is a considerate man. He was quiet, but he loved with a fierce, protective certainty that made me feel entirely safe.
And he was a heartthrob. Those beautiful brown eyes, the long lashes that brushed his cheekbones, the straight, strong line of his nose.
A memory surfaces early in our marriage, the bedroom warm and dark after we had made love. I had rolled over, tracing his jawline, and whispered, “Your eyes... they bewitch me.”
He had caught my wrist, his thumb pressing into my pulse point, and countered with a low smile: “Your eyes... they conquer me.”
I let out a dry, bitter laugh at the wall.
How little those words ended up meaning.
Seven years down the line from that night, those same eyes had looked at him across dinner tables, trying to communicate the slow death of our marriage.
Aren't you forgetting me? I had thought every time he picked up his briefcase.
Aren't you leaving me behind a little too often? But the eyes he claimed had conquered him didn’t seem to be important then.
I reach into the green paper and notice an envelope tucked between the stems. No card. Just a plain white square. I slide it out, my thumb catching on the seal, and unfold the single sheet of paper inside. His handwriting fills the page... sharp, tilted to the right, laid bare before me.
***
Dear Baby,
It's been a while. I went to the counselor yesterday and he says I should craft a genuine letter to you, so I guess here goes nothing...
I was awake last night thinking of how it must have hurt you when I missed those beautiful times you put to bed. I just watched a pregnancy vlog on my laptop. I know this is coming years too late, but baby, you are strong. You are so strong.
I want to let you know the reason I didn't come.
I had an evening event to host, a special broadcast that was going to pay a significant amount of money, and the schedule clashed with your delivery because of the storm that night.
I wanted so badly to buy you that specific push gift...
the car... and I couldn't leave the studio until the segment finished.
So I stayed for a while. I got the car. But now that I think back, I know you must have been lying in that hospital bed, healing from the wound and the tear, completely alone while I chased a check.
Baby, I haven't said this enough, but I love you.
God!, I remember the night I told you we were too old to play bedroom games.
I can't even look at myself in the mirror after remembering that.
Baby, I am sorry. I don't even know what I am writing right now.
My hands are shaking, but if you take only one thing from these words, know that I love you, and I am sorry.
I wish you were staying beside me on this very bed tonight.
I want to use my teeth to pull down your nightie just the way you like it.
I want to kiss those succulent lips of yours until they are pink and swollen.
My dear darling, I want to feel the softness of your body against mine.
But more importantly I want to be able to continue this thing called life with you in it.
I love you, baby. Cheers to a second note.
Always yours,Noah
***
My breath catches on the final paragraph.
A sudden heat flares deep in my stomach, the words printing a vivid image against my eyelids.
I can see the evening after we had gone out on a date.
the steam still hanging in our bathroom when Noah walked in.
He had wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, kissing me senseless until the room spun, before pulling me into the sheets.
While the baby slept in the crib, he had whispered against my neck in that thick, sleepy voice, “How about I take you to the moon and back, baby?”
I clear my throat against the sudden tightness, my palm feeling hot as I run my fingers through my hair again. The office feels smaller, warmer, the weight of his words lingering on the paper in my hands.
I take the flowers home.
I don't mean to. I tell myself I'm just keeping them because they're lilies and it would be wasteful to leave them at the office, and that has nothing to do with him.
But by the time I pull into my parents' driveway, the bouquet is on my passenger seat and the letter is in my bag and I have read it twice at the red lights.
I sit in the parked car for a long minute.
He said succulent lips.
I press my fingers against my mouth, staring at the steering wheel.
I am a grown woman. I have been angry at this man for sixteen months.
I have slept on the wrong side of a strange bed and cried in a bathroom and signed legal documents and I have done all of it with my chin up, and now I am sitting in my mother's driveway with my fingers on my lips because my estranged husband used the word succulent.
I get out of the car.
***
I am seated at the small desk in the guest room with the letter flat on the wood in front of me. I've been staring at it for twenty minutes. I've been telling myself I'm not going to cry.
I don't know what I am writing right now. My hands are shaking.
I fold the paper before I can read it a fourth time and press it face-down against the desk.
The anger is still there. But underneath it all, quiet and inconvenient and completely refusing to leave, is the other thing. The thing that made me send Sam back to that trash can for those flowers. The thing that made me pack them into my car and bring them all the way to this house.
I still love him. I have never stopped loving him, and I absolutely hate how much that messes everything up.
I turn the letter back over.
Take your time, baby.
I let out a long breath at the ceiling.
Fine, I think. Fine.