“We should take this slow,” I finally say, my hands flexing at my sides into fists and then out again, resisting the urge to reach for her. “Make sure this is what we both want.”
We had this conversation last night, but I feel more articulate in the light of day, when we’re not so painfully alone. She, too, seems to be more clearheaded, because she nods as if this makes sense.
“Right,” she says. “Make sure this is what we want.”
“I don’t want to mess anything up between us.” It’s the truth, but there’s more than that, of course. Hope clings to me like dew on grass, and Finley has the potential to be my sun, burning it all up. She’s attracted to me, sure, but she might never want me the way I want her, and I will never recover if I get a piece of her, only for her to discard me when she realizes I’m not what she’s looking for.
I can’t bare my heart to her if she’s just testing us out, trying me on for size before she finds the person who fits.
She nods, and some of the heavy want leaves her expression and is replaced with something softer. It’s the way she looks at her mom when she’s dancing in the kitchen while cooking family dinner. It’s how she watches June when she’s telling a story, and gazes at Holden and Wren when they’re lost to the world, focused only on each other. She looks at me like I’m someone important to her, like I mean as much to her as the people she loves most.
“You’re right.”
A smile stretches across my face. “Would you mind if I got my phone so I could record that? I’d like to make it one of the positive affirmations I listen to in the morning.”
She rolls her eyes, the tension leaving her. “You don’t listen to positive affirmations.”
“No, but if you’d like to make some, detailing everything you like about me, I would.”
“The list would be short.”
My grin widens, so broad it hurts. “No, it wouldn’t. You can’t pretend you hate me anymore, Fin. I know you want me.”
“You’re making it remarkably easy to let go of.”
I shake my head. “No, the secret’s out. You like me.”
Finley rolls her eyes again, but the hope blooming inside my chest grows bigger when she doesn’t deny it. Maybe hope won’tbe dew on grass. Maybe it will be a sunflower, and she’s the sun that I turn my face to, blooming for her.
“You brought flowers for me,” I say.
She finally seems to remember them and extends them out to me. The glass is cool against my hand and heavier than I expected. “No one’s ever given me flowers before.”
She cocks a brow. “Not even a corsage?”
“My prom date only wanted to go with me to make her ex-boyfriend jealous. She left me in the middle of the dance to get back with him.”
Her mouth pops open. “That’s terrible. How did I never know that story?”
I lift my shoulder in a shrug. “I was embarrassed, probably. I didn’t talk about it.”
“Well, you should have,” she says. “I would have made you a corsage from one of the flowers in our garden.”
A smile curls one corner of my lips. “I would have liked that. I’ve always liked your flowers.”
Her cheeks grow rosy again. I like this side of her. One I haven’t seen much of before. I like how easily she responds to me, and my mind grows dizzy with possibilities.
“I picked light blue,” she says, fingering one of the petals. “To match your eyes.”
My heart softens, melts, like butter in the microwave. “You must look at them if you can match them so easily.”
There’s still pink staining her cheeks, but she doesn’t look as embarrassed now as she stares at me intently, like one of her flower arrangements. “They’re so pale. I’ve never seen eyes the color of yours. But the ring around them is such a deep blue.” She touches one of the other flowers, this one darker, with a deep orange center. “Then there are the flecks of other shades of blue, ones you wouldn’t be able to see if the iris weren’t so light.”She points to the other flowers, naming them. “Cornflower. Hydrangea. Thistle. Oxford.”
Her fingers settle on a particularly light one, a remarkably similar shade to what I see when I look in the mirror. “But I finally figured out what they remind me of. Himalayan blue poppy. My favorite.”
My side itches, and I resist the urge to touch it, to break the moment with Finley looking at me like this.
“Thank you,” I say, barely above a whisper. My throat feels tight. I can imagine her in her shop, putting this arrangement together. I always wonder what she’s thinking about when she works, when she’s so in her head that she seems to forget the world around her. I imagine her thinking of me today, and it’s humbling.
