6. Rule #6 A gentleman always brings flowers.
Matis
The sky is cloudy as I walk through the courtyard, a paper-wrapped bouquet of lilies in my arms.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Moreau,” the nurse at the front desk greets me as I pass through the doors of the building.
“Bonjour,” I reply with a polite smile. “Is she in her room?”
“Oui,” she replies. “She doesn’t want to come out.”
“Merci,” I say after signing my name on the guest roster on the counter. As I make my way to room number thirty-seven, I make a plan to get her out of her quarters today.
Reaching her door, I stop and take two long, deep breaths.
Then, pasting the smile back on my face, I open the door. She’s sitting by the window, slumped in a wheelchair as she stares blankly out at the garden. There’s a sweater hanging from her shoulder as if she was either putting it on or taking it off and forgot what she was doing midway through.
“Bonjour, Estelle,” I say with a grin as I carry the flowers over to the table.
Her eyes trail lazily toward me, blinking repeatedly as she works to recognize me. She used to fake it. For a while, she pretended I was just a nurse or orderly and acted like she knew exactly who I was. Of course, she didn’t. She hasn’t recognized my face in nearly two years.
But now…she doesn’t bother faking it. She only stares. Blinks. Stays quiet. Lost to the world in her mind.
“I brought you some flowers,” I say as I pick up the vase near the window. Her eyes follow me as I take it to the kitchenette, tossing the dead lilies in the trash and replacing them with new ones. As I pour water into the vase, our eyes meet, and I shoot her a warm smile.
My gaze catches on the photos of us in frames all over her room. Grainy black-and-white pictures, moments frozen in time. In every single one, we’re happy.
“I thought we could go outside today,” I say.
Slowly, she shakes her head. “Non,” she mumbles to herself.
Swallowing down my disappointment, I carry the vase over to the window and set it down on the table. Then I kneel in front of her, letting her stare at my face in hopes that somewhere deep inside, it brings her comfort. Even if her brain can’t comprehend who I am, then surely her heart knows.
“S’il te pla?t, Maman. Let’s go for a walk. Just you and me.”
Her brows furrow, and I see her throat move as she swallows. I’ve upset her by calling her my mother. When the dementia first set in, I used to fight to make her remember me. I spent most of my time convincing her that I was her son.
Her one and only, as she used to say.
Now I don’t bother. She doesn’t need to remember me for me to love her.
“D’accord,” she mumbles under her breath, relenting to my request.
I smile, picking up her hands and kissing the backs of each one. Tears spring to my eyes, but I quickly blink them away.
I help her with her cardigan and unlock her wheelchair so I can push her around the veranda on this beautiful day.
My mother had me young. Only seventeen when I was born, she raised me on her own. From the day I came until the day she stopped recognizing my face, she called me the love of her life. Her one and only. And in every single one of my memories, it was just us.
There never was a more patient or gracious woman.
As we pass the front desk toward the garden, the attendant gives me a proud smile. I don’t know how long it’s been since my mother has been outside, but they try. She can be stubborn at times, this I know. So I feel a sense of accomplishment at getting her out of her room.
And a sense of guilt for not coming by more.
“I’ll have to come back on a sunnier day,” I say as we start on the bumpy brick path around the flower beds and gazebo.
We wave to the other patients gathered around the garden. The nurses and attendants are helping some of them plant flowers, and I feel a sting of jealousy at how many of the women my mother’s age can still hold conversations, even forgetful ones.
“Lilies,” my mother mutters as she points a shaky finger at the garden.
“Your favorite,” I reply, resting a hand on her shoulder.
“Oui.”
Spotting an empty bench with a sliver of sunlight through the thick clouds, I push my mother’s wheelchair toward it. As I park it next to the bench, I take a seat and turn to face her.
She’s staring out at the garden and the people passing by. I see the frustrated confusion on her face, so I softly take her hand in mine. Gently, I caress the knuckles of her hand with my thumb, and it seems to calm her irritation. Her brows relax and her expression softens.
“I have a date tonight,” I say as I watch her face for a reaction.
Of course, there is none. Not really. So I continue.
“It will be my first real date in many years. Maybe forever. She’s a nice woman. Her name is Laura, and I’ve been talking to her on the phone for the past few days. Well,” I add with a chuckle. “With the help of my goddaughter. You know Amelia.”
At that name, my mother turns her eyes toward me as if clinging to something I said.
“Yes, Amelia. You remember?”
Subtly, she shakes her head.
“You’ve met her. She was a lot younger then, but she’s all grown up now.
You’d love her,” I say, squeezing her hand.
“She’s so creative and funny and brilliant.
And…beautiful. She’s been helping me find a date.
Telling me what to say and how to respond without being…
you know…me. She says I’m too flirty and too charming. You used to say the same actually.”
Her brow furrows again.
“Anyway…what was I saying? I was telling you about my date, and then I started talking about Amelia instead.”
Her interest piques at the mention of her name again. The corner of my mouth lifts in a crooked smirk.
“Okay, Maman,” I reply, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. “I will bring her to see you. I can see that’s what you want.”
For the rest of the afternoon, my mother and I sit together while I talk, telling her mostly about my date. And even I notice the way the conversation constantly makes its way back to one person in particular.
It’s half past seven when I walk into Geo’s bar, holding a small bouquet of red roses. I’m wearing a pair of tailored black trousers and a charcoal button-down, opened at the collar. I wanted to dress nicely without looking like I tried too hard.
I’m early because I want to make sure we have a place to sit near the back where it’s private.
Geo’s place isn’t very big. A moody speakeasy underneath a restaurant, it’s only accessible via a door that looks like it belongs to an industrial freezer, not a small bar.
With hazy purple lighting and vintage burlesque photos on the walls, it gives a timeless vibe that people flock to.
I nod to the owner as I make my way through the sparse early evening crowd when I spot a familiar blond taking up the booth in the back.
“What are you doing here, Trouble?”
“This is the best seat in here, so I was saving it for you,” she says when she spots me coming. Jumping up, she gestures toward my chair.
Then her eyes scan me from my head to my feet, which is only slightly unsettling. I fidget with my shirt, tugging the collar open even more. And I’m starting to suspect it’s hotter in here than usual.
“How do I look?”
Amelia bites on her bottom lip for a moment. She’s wearing more makeup than normal, with glossy red lips and a black overall-style dress.
“You look great,” she replies. Then she steps toward me and reaches for my top buttons.
“What are you doing?”
As she slips one of the top buttons into the slit, I stare at her, finding myself wanting to reach for her smooth blond hair just to feel how silky it is, remembering how lovely it smelled on the Métro that night.
“This was too sexy,” she says, fixing my shirt. “You really shouldn’t be showing chest hair on a first date. One fewer button should be fine.”
“Too sexy?” I ask with a playful smirk.
Not moving any farther away, she glances up until we’re gazing into each other’s eyes just inches apart. “Do you know how sexy you are without even trying?”
Suddenly my mouth goes dry.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I whisper. Which is the wrong thing to say.
Her eyes widen, and her breathing hitches. “Matis.”
Shit.
I do this all the time. I say things that are far too flirtatious without meaning to. It’s not that I’m trying to seduce Amelia, but it comes out that way. It’s because I’m so comfortable with her. She lets me be myself, and being obnoxiously flirty is just me.
“I am not sexy,” she replies breathily, still just inches away.
And what the hell am I going to say to that? I’ve put myself in this position. I can’t tell her I was joking and hurt her feelings. Besides, that would be a lie. Amelia is sexy.
But I can’t really tell her that either. Doubling down on my inappropriate remarks feels like an even worse idea.
Stammering, I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. Luckily, I’m suddenly saved by the sound of another woman saying my name.
“Matis?”
Amelia and I turn at the same time to find the beautiful woman in blue standing before us. She’s no longer in blue, though. Her long dark hair is curled the same way as in her photo, but tonight she’s wearing a tight black dress that stops just below her knees.
Amelia pulls away, looking flustered. “I should… You look great… Have fun. Sorry.”
With that, she flies toward the bar, and my eyes follow her to ensure she’s okay. She’s wringing her hands and glancing behind her as she climbs onto one of the barstools.
Two seconds into my first date and I’m already fucking it up by getting caught telling my twenty-five-year-old goddaughter that she’s effortlessly sexy. What an idiot I am.
“Matis?” the woman says again.
Nervously, I turn my gaze to the woman. “Laura,” I reply with hesitation.
She smiles. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
As she puts out her hand, I realize just how bad I’m going to be at this. My instincts are telling me to pull her close, touch her hair to make her smile, speak in a low, sultry tone to gauge how much she’d like to go to bed with me. Turn her on to distract her from the shitty start to our evening.
But I’m not here to do that tonight.
So I put out my hand and shake hers. Then I remember the roses and hold them out toward her. She grins down at them, clearly blushing as she takes in my appearance.
“How sweet of you.” She takes the bouquet, lifting them to her nose to inhale the fragrance.
“Please have a seat.” I gesture toward the booth, and she slides into the seat. Before taking the one against the wall, I offer to go to the bar. “Would you like a drink?”
“A glass of sauvignon blanc, please,” she says sweetly.
She really is quite beautiful. If I wasn’t so flustered by the incident with Amelia, I’d be able to appreciate it more.
“I’ll be right back,” I say before walking over to the bar. Standing next to where Amelia is sitting, I let out a sigh.
“I’m sorry about that,” Amelia whispers. “I had no idea she’d be here already.”
“It’s fine. Nothing happened.”
Geo strolls over, and I put in the order for two glasses of wine before turning back toward Laura. She has her back to me, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so nervous in my life. This is ridiculous.
“She’s pretty,” Amelia whispers, and I look at her to see a hint of reluctance on her face. She doesn’t like Laura. I can tell.
“Oui,” I mumble, still staring at Amelia. “She is.”
“What are you doing over here?” she asks, noticing me still looking at her. “Get over there!”
Playfully, she shoves me toward my date.
And reluctantly, I go.