I decide not to waste time today since I have to get all of the arrangements done in the shop before I leave for my faux date tonight. Many nights, I end up closing the shop close to eight, rather than five, which is the intended closing time.
As I’m placing each jasmine carefully into my carrying box, I hear a sound across the small pond. Curious, since my car was alone in the lot, I search around until I see a man in the distance. He has a hand up to one of the trees and I think he’s talking to it. How bizarre...
After a moment of watching the man continue to talk to the tree, I realize I’m being incredibly rude by staring, so I go back to pulling the jasmines from the ground.
Every flower I take from the soft soil reminds me of Ellie. These were her favorite flowers, so I make sure to plant them here on her behalf every planting season.
“This is a privately owned garden,” a man’s voice says from behind me.
I lift my head and turn toward him. It’s the man I was watching a moment ago. Surprised and almost speechless for a brief moment, I acknowledge what he said, as I recognize the sad look in his eyes that has obviously remained with him like a permanent scar. A million different emotions hit me at once, being this close to this man. I want to tell him I know who he is. I want to tell him I know why he must be in the gardens and at that tree in particular. Though, if I did that, the years of hiding my identity to protect him will all be for nothing. Instead, I search my mind for the right words in order to avoid a hint of who I am. “Are these your flowers?” I ask.
He peers down at his closed hand, holding a bunch of jasmines. “No,” he replies quietly. “I got permission from the owner of the garden.”
My parents. He got permission from my parents to take jasmines from around the tree when he visits—the jasmines I have planted for Ellie every year. I didn’t realize he was the one taking them but I should have assumed. Mom and Dad never told me they granted him permission to pick these flowers.
“I did too,” I tell him. “I help the groundskeepers out sometimes since I manage a flower shop downtown. The shop I work for supplies the seeds in the spring and takes what’s left at the end of the season. Since we’re getting an early freeze, I’m making my rounds sooner than normal this year.”
He looks taken aback by my response. I’m guessing he assumed these flowers are naturally grown here, but blue jasmines don’t typically grow in New England. They require cultivation and special care here.
Our conversation continues through short spurts of small talk, and I want to do what I can to keep the conversation going, just for the sake of hearing how he’s doing, how he’s surviving. The connection I feel toward him is like nothing else I have ever felt before. We’re both attached to the heart in my chest and it’s a blatant feeling that only I can know at the moment. Considering he doesn’t know who I am, and he’s still looking at me like every word I’m saying is one he wants to hang on to, it makes me feel guilty for hiding the truth. I want to apologize for so much but I can’t.
The last time I saw him and the images of him in the photos looks different than the man standing in front of me today. He looks like he’s been through hell—the lines on his face tell a story of loss, and the slight droop on the outside corners of his eyes show a permanent sadness I don’t remember seeing before. He speaks as though happiness is not part of his emotional wiring, and all I want to do is fix it. Broken hearts can’t always be put back together though, or at least if they are, they are never placed back the same way they once were. Hearts are like broken vases—it is possible to glue all of the pieces back together, but there will always be cracks and flaws that keep the vase from being less than perfect, even if it’s still beautiful in an abstract way.
I want to help you, Hunter. I want to tell you that a day doesn’t go by where I don’t think about what you’re feeling or how you’re doing. I want to hold your hand and tell you it’s okay even though it’s not. I want to apologize for keeping a part of your wife to myself. I want you to feel her heart and know it’s still beating with the love she had for you locked deep inside.
It doesn’t take long for our talk to turn to the subject of losing someone and about that being the reason he’s here today in the gardens.
When I fear what he may ask me next, I find no other option beyond running from the conversation. Anxious and upset, I jog up the steps as my foot catches on one of the cobblestones. My box of jasmines flies from my hand a mere second before I fall to the ground.
Nothing hurts but the wind feels as if it was knocked out of me as I pull myself back together, but not quick enough to avoid an extended encounter with Hunter, who is racing up the steps.
“Are you okay?” he asks, trying to help me up. “Did you lose someone too?” He knows he upset me. My intention of keeping this conversation from happening has been shadowed by gloom weighing down over me. Have I lost someone? Yes, and no. To answer that question wouldn’t make sense without a lengthy explanation, but I simply answer, “Yes, I lost someone,” leaving out the elaboration.
Surprisingly, and thankfully, he didn’t push for more information, and I make the mistake of prolonging this encounter through more abstract statements, like I tend to do when I’m nervous.
Feeling as though I dodged the identity revealing bullet, I come to another brick wall when he asks, “Where is your flower shop?” Why does he care? Maybe it’s for the jasmines. Maybe it’s because something deep inside of him is making him want to be near this heart. Could he know? Could his heart know?
No. There is no way I can allow him in the flower shop or allow him to know anything about me. He could find out my name that way, and while I know my name was kept private from the donation, my name was dragged through the public eye and the news. I was a local medical miracle as well as the patient associated with one of the biggest violations that particular hospital was ever incriminated for. Surely, he’s heard the story.
“It was nice to meet you,” I say, trying my best to leave his name off the ends of my goodbye sentences.
“Likewise,” he says as I sweep past him, walking quickly, but carefully, up the rest of the stairs and to my car. Seeing he didn’t follow me, I close my eyes for a small second, feeling the heart in my body beating out of my chest. Do you know why your heart is beating so hard, Ellie? Can you feel him through me?
Throughout my entire drive to the shop I’m flustered, and my thoughts are spinning. I feel a connection to Hunter through Ellie, and I’m not being fair to him by keeping that to myself. I wonder if he would want to know the woman who has his wife’s heart? I’m scared of hurting him if he doesn’t. I would want to know, I think.
CHAPTER FOUR
I don’t know if the day is going by slowly because I’m scared of what will happen tonight with Dax or because I’m nervously anticipating what might happen. Either way, I’m having major regrets already. He’s so...the type of guy women fall all over when he walks by. His looks, his charm, and his desire to be a ladies’ man, win him all the right points, but I’ve never been in a serious relationship. I’ve never fallen in love with someone, and that’s a tradition I don’t intend to break. I won’t make someone hurt like I saw Hunter hurt the day he lost Ellie, and since there are no promises with this heart, as perfect as it is, I won’t take that risk with someone else’s heart.
Disregarding my resolution to avoid hot men who I could totally fall for if I allowed myself, I’m going tonight, and he’s going to be here to pick me up soon.
“Sit still,” Piper groans. “You’re like a Mexican Jumping Bean.” She paints a thin layer of lip gloss over my lips and then pinches my eyelids with one of those stupid lash curlers I have always refused to use, for exactly that reason she just reminded me of.
“Ouch!”
“Beauty is pain, Ari,” she sings.
“No,” I whine. “You just don’t know how to use an eyelash curler on someone else.”
“True statement,”
she says, grinning. “Okay, I think you look pretty perfect.”
I stand up in front of the bathroom mirror, which only allows me to see the top half of my body. This is what I get for getting ready at the shop. “I like the dress,” I say, turning from side to side.
“I knew it would fit you better than me. It’s like it was made for you. Perfection!”
I grab my black sweater out of my bag and slip it over my arms before buttoning it up. “There, now it’s perfect.”
“Um, what are you doing?” Piper asks.
“Adding the finishing touches,” I say with a shrug.
“Take the sweater off or unbutton it.”
“No one needs to see what’s underneath,” I remind her.
“A silly scar that holds in your one reason for being alive?” she argues.
“Exactly.” I press my lips into a straight line and offer her a firm smile as I take my clutch from the table.
The timing couldn’t be more perfect, or imperfect. I’m not ready—mentally, that is. The door chimes ring and I already know it’s him. The wind from the door carries in an even stronger scent of cologne than normal, making me feel an unfamiliar sensation that I hope is just nerves. “Anyone home? he calls out.”
I take a deep breath and place my hand over Ellie’s heart to calm it as I walk out to the front room of the shop. Dax is standing in front of the nearest counter with a hand behind his back. He’s dressed in a light gray suit, which plays off of his white dress shirt and perfect tan. I’ve only seen him in his gray-colored work uniform, and I had no idea he would clean up this well. His hair is slicked back in sharp contrast to the messy way he normally wears it. “You like nice,” I say.
His mouth is basically hanging open as he takes me in with his falling gaze. I try to ignore the feeling it causes me because I’m not allowed to care. Instead, I close my eyes to reset myself, but his image has been burned into my mind and I can’t escape him now. “So, excuse me for being corny but I refused to bring you flowers because…well…” He looks around the shop to make a point. “Anyway, I hope you like you chocolate-covered fruit.” Stretching his arm out in front of him, he reveals an expensive-looking box of chocolate dipped fruits and a crooked smile accompanying the gesture. “I know the way to a woman’s heart.” His words lament with sarcasm.
I follow Dax out to his...okay he has a limo tonight. Guess we’re going all out. “Wow. This is extravagant,” I tell him.
He opens the back door for me and I slide in first, careful not to trip over my long dress.
Once we’re closed inside and the limo takes off, Dax slides in closer. “I know you’re about to be mad at me but this was the only way.”
Without knowing what I’m going to be mad about, my posture stiffens with an uncomfortable question. “What are you talking about?”
He releases the top button of his suit jacket and sinks back into the seat a bit as he lets out a loud exhale. “There is no wedding, Ari. The truth is, I’ve somehow managed to fall in love with you over the past couple of years, even just over our meaningless small talk every morning. I feel like I know you, and I want to know you more, which is so out of order for someone who feels the way I feel, but it’s just the way it all happened.”
It’s immediate—the sorrow I feel for him. I wasn’t aware of how strongly he felt about me, but I knew there were serious sparks, ones I carefully avoided. I should be happy and excited to hear the words he’s saying, but anything I did feel for him suddenly slipped away with the one ounce of hope I had to casually have a good time with a great-looking guy. “I know it was wrong to lie and trick you, but you are so damn stubborn,” he groans as if I’m arguing with everything he is saying. “Just tell me why you will never say yes to me?”
I can only see his highlighted features in the glow of the neon blue light illuminating the interior of this limo, and what I see is honesty and a little pain carved into his unsure, emotionless face. “Where are you taking me?” is all I can manage to get out.
“Hartford, a nice restaurant, so I can wine and dine you to prove I’m an okay guy to be around.”
The problem is, the lifestyle of the rich doesn’t faze me. What Dax doesn’t know about me is that I live to make my heart feel things—good things, rather than pain and discontent. That’s what Ellie wanted for her heart. Rightfully so. Though I won’t deny the generosity, I am a little put off by the lie and for the fact that he just admitted those intense feelings to me, which means I don’t have a choice now. I am going to be forced to break a heart. Making sure not to break anyone’s heart has been my one self-made rule, and now I have to break it. How could I not have known how strong his feelings were becoming?
“I can’t let you take me there,” I tell him. The fun I have had waiting for his morning visits every day will probably come to an end. For the amount of times he told me his route was supposed to change, and he begged his company to let him keep my stop, I’m confident he will more than quickly eliminate my shop from his route.
“Why, Ari? Just tell me why. That’s all I want.”
“I’m no one’s future, Dax. Not yours, not any other person’s in this world. The heart in my body was someone’s future once, but now it’s my ticket to the end of the road.” I’m aware I’m making very little sense, but I’m not sure how else to explain myself.
“That makes no sense,” he says. Disappointment slowly settles over him like a cloud, and his posture is now not-so-subtly slouching forward. I had no idea his feelings had grown so deep or I would never have agreed to even a fake date.
“There is a very strong chance I won’t make it another five years,” I begin to explain as I slowly unbutton my sweater, letting the fabric fall off my shoulders as I expose my plunging neckline. Feeling the need to close my eyes and shut him out, I allow him the second it takes to see my past, present, and future. I place my hand over the large vertical scar and pull in a sharp breath against the dull and sad beat of Ellie’s heart. “This is only a loaner, a life extension. It’s not mine.”
“The dress?” he questions with confusion.
“No,” I reply. “The heart beating in my chest.”
“What are you saying?” The tone of his voice tells me we’re now moving on to a saddening hostility. There are stages of acceptance that come along with finding out a person is wilting.
“Many heart recipients go on to have a normal life for a lot of years. Many don’t. I’ve had several small hiccups following my transplant, and each one has lessened my odds of having many normal years left. I’m a ticking time bomb, Dax, and I won’t let you feel the pain I’ve seen as a result of this very heart, even before it was placed into my body.”
“Ari,” he says, breathing heavily without words to follow. “I’m not going to just run away from you because you're sick or because your heart isn’t perfect. I’m not an asshole.”
“Well then, I have to be one right now,” I tell him, swallowing my pride and pain. “Take me back to the shop, please.”
“Ari, you can’t be serious,” he says, pleading.
“Serious as a heart attack,” I say, forcing a small laugh.
“That’s not funny.”
“Dax, you’ll thank me someday.”
“No, I won’t. I’m not giving up,” he says, leaning forward in his seat.
“Yes, you are. I don’t want to ever see you again. I’ll change my delivery options tomorrow and you can eliminate my stop from your route.” The words coming from my mouth feel like rusty nails, scratching against my tongue for every second longer I speak.
“Ari,” he says again.
“Dax, take me back, now.” My words are firm and final because I will not do this. I won’t hurt another human being because of this heart. No way. This is my sacrifice, whether anyone agrees with me or not. I don’t need what others need out of life—what I also want, but I know I don’t need. What I do need is to right wrongs and leave my mark, somehow,
some way before I leave this world.
He stares at me for a long moment before he leans forward to the window that separates us from the driver. Dax mutters something to the man and makes his way back to me. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand,” he says.
I lean forward to match the level of his gaze. “You don’t want to. I watched a man nearly croak right after his wife died. I watched his world literally crumble in a matter of seconds. Seeing that made me never want to do that to a person. Ever. I won’t do that to anyone. Especially you.”
“Why especially me?” he asks quietly.
“Because I really, really like you and I know...I know something amazing could have happened between us if I let it, and I have restrained myself from allowing anything to happen since the day you walked into my flower shop, years ago.” Except, this heart doesn’t belong to me. This heart had been given to a man once and ended up breaking his heart. I refuse to do that to anyone else.
“Really?”
“Yes,” I tell him.
He reaches over, takes my hand and brings my knuckles to his lips. “You know I’d fight you on this.”
“I know, but I’m nicely asking you not to.”
He releases my hand and nods his head with a grief-stricken, subtle movement. “If my heart feels the way it does right now, maybe I wouldn’t survive anything more,” he says.
It hurts to know the pain I unintentionally caused him has always been inevitable.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“Me too.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Filled with despair and defeat, I lock myself inside the empty flower shop and drop down against the closest counter, folding my knees into my chest and hugging myself the way I need to be hugged. As selfish as it is, I sometimes wonder if it would have been easier to die the first time around. I suffered through waiting and assuming when my last day would be, only to get some winning ticket to another ten or so years. Is the only purpose in life for people to find their mate, settle down, and stamp a big old Happily Ever After on it? Because my happy ending is just having a full life, even if a full life is not as full as most others.
Christmas in the City II Page 15
