Chapter 76
Seventy-Six
Jax graduates next week from San Jose State University. Even though my heart feels like it’s been run through a woodchipper, and I lug around a cavernous ache, I’m so damn proud of her.
My beautiful girl is going to take the world by storm. Only she’s not mine anymore, is she?
I debate recognizing her accomplishment. I haven’t caved once in my desperate desire to contact her. Hear her musical laugh, glimpse her golden hair, caress her silky skin. It’s better this way, less painful.
Right.
I don’t want to hurt her, set her back, or reinsert myself into her life if she’s doing well. And of course, she is. She’s graduating with a degree, moving on, starting the next important phase of life.
After some waffling and way too much time in my head, I say fuck it and drive to the florist. This achievement ranks too high not to acknowledge, especially after the sacrifice we’ve made.
A bell jingles as I push through the door, soft floral scents and a tinge of humidity instantly blanketing me.
Easy rock plays in the background as I take in the array of plant life.
Curated terrariums and flowering pots wind around the store, shelf units display vases and other receptacles, at least two dozen buckets burst with bouquets, and a refrigerated case holds roses and exotic flowers.
There’s even a section of small trees in one corner.
A slender woman wearing culottes and a T-shirt emblazoned with “petal pusher” emerges from the back and greets me with a polite smile. “Can I help you?”
“I’m interested in sending roses to someone,” I answer, already by the glass-front case. “Something nice. Fancy. Is this everything you have?”
“There’s more in the back. What color did you want?”
I don’t hesitate. “Red.” The tint of my heart, my blood, my love. She owns it all.
The woman smiles. “A dozen long-stemmed?”
“That’s good. Can you deliver them in two days?”
“Sure thing. Did you want to include a note?”
I’ve agonized over this part.
“Or I could write one for you,” she offers, probably interpreting my pained expression.
“No, I’ll do it. Do you have cards?”
“Yes. Let me show you.”
I select one, borrow a pen, and write something simple but sincere.
I’m so proud of you, Jax. Fly high, baby.
Love,
Mick
With a heavy breath, I tuck the note in the miniature envelope and pay for the roses, hoping like hell I’m doing the right thing.
For the umpteenth time, I tell myself that I did what’s most beneficial for her. I have only ever wanted what’s best for her. Isn’t real love about caring more for someone other than yourself?
Back in my Mustang, I roll down the window and light up a cigarette, the wind blowing my hair when I pull into traffic.
“Fly high, baby. Fly high,” I murmur.