“Liz, you have some nerve leaving like you and Emma did without even giving me a call!” Mama scolded me through the telephone. Emma and I had been back in our house for two days and Mama was just now calling me. It was either because she was upset with me for only leaving her a note, or because she’d been off running around town with some stranger and had just now returned home after all that time.
I was leaning toward the second option.
“I’m sorry, but you knew we were planning on leaving… We needed a new start,” I tried to explain.
“A new start in your old house? That doesn’t make much sense.”
I didn’t expect her to understand, so I changed the subject. “How was dinner with Roger?”
“Richard,” she scolded. “Don’t pretend like you don’t remember his name. And it was amazing. I think he could be the one.”
I rolled my eyes. Each guy she saw was the one—until they weren’t.
“Are you rolling your eyes at me?” Mama asked.
“No.”
“You are, aren’t you?! You’re so disrespectful sometimes.”
“Mama, I need to get to work,” I lied. “Is it okay if I call you back later?”
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe next week.
I just need space.
“Fine. But don’t forget who was there for you when you had no one, baby girl. Sure, Steven’s parents are probably helping you now, but there’s going to come a point when you realize who your real family is, and who isn’t.”
I’d never been so thankful to end a phone call.
Sometimes I stood in the backyard and stared out into the wild bushes and tall grass, trying to remember what it had used to look like. Steven had made the place beautiful. He’d always had an eye for details when it came to landscaping, and I could almost imagine the smell of the flowers he’d planted, which were now all dead.
“Close your eyes,” Steven whispered, walking up to me with his hands behind his back. I did as he said. “Name this flower,” he said. The smell hit my nose and I smiled.
“Hyacinth.”
I smiled wider when I felt his lips kiss mine. “Hyacinth,” he echoed. My eyes opened. He placed the flower behind my ear. “I was thinking of planting a few by the pond in the backyard.”
“It’s my favorite flower,” I said.
“You’re my favorite girl,” he replied.
I blinked, and I was back, missing the smells of the past.
My eyes shifted to my neighbor’s house, whose lawn was even worse off than mine. The house was made of reddish-brown bricks and had ropes of ivory wrapping around each side. Their grass was ten times longer than mine, and on the back porch I saw a garden gnome that was shattered into pieces. A plastic yellow kid’s baseball bat was hidden in the ever-growing strands of grass, along with a toy dinosaur.
A small table saw was set up by the shed, its red paint peeling. Stacks of wood were leaning up against the shed, and I wondered if anyone actually lived in the house at all.
It seemed more abandoned than ever, and I couldn’t help but wonder about the mindset of my neighbor.
Behind all the houses on our block was the beginning of Meadows Creek’s forest. The area was surrounded with trees. I knew deep within those trees there was a narrow river hidden in the darkened woods that ran for miles and miles. Most people didn’t know it actually existed, but when I was in college, I’d discovered it with Steven. In the narrow river was a tiny rock. On the tiny rock were the initials ST and EB. Those initials had been carved into the tiny rock resting in the narrow river in the darkened woods when Steven had asked me to marry him. Without much thought, I found myself walking into the woods and before long I sat within the trees, staring down at my reflection in the water.
One breath.
The small fish swam downstream peacefully, until the water began to ripple after a big splash was heard. I turned my head to my left to see what the commotion was, and my cheeks blushed as I saw Tristan standing in the river wearing no shirt and a pair of running shorts. He bent down to the water and began washing his face, scrubbing his fingers against his rough, wild beard. My eyes danced across his tanned chest, which was covered with hair, and he began tossing water against his body, cleaning himself. Tattoos covered his left arm and wrapped across his pec. I studied the markings on his body, unable to look away. There were more than I could count, yet my eyes tried to take in each one. I know those tattoos. Each a different masterpiece from classic children novels. Aslan from Narnia. A monster from Where the Wild Things Are. The boxcar from The Boxcar Children. Across his chest were the words ‘We’re all mad here’ from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
My insides exploded from the brilliance of it all. There was nothing more stunning than a man who not only knew the most classic stories of all time, but also found a way to make his body his own personal bookshelf.