Page 21 of Blurred Lines

Flora wraps an arm around my shoulders. "Talk to me, Em. You know I won't judge."

We find an old, weathered bench nestled between rows of vines. "It's about feeling safe," I finally admit, the words stumbling out, "Seeing how Dad treated Mom … I swore I'd never let myself be that vulnerable."

"Em," Flora says, her voice soft but firm, "Dad isn't the sum of all men. There are good ones out there. And don't forget, my job is literally digging into people's messy lives. Let me give you a crash course …"

Flora launches into a long recounting of all the cases she's encountered in her years as a detective. Some are outright bizarre, but there are also impossibly sweet ones where couples have found their ways back to each other. I almost wonder if she's making them up so I don't feel too bad about myself.

"As a matter of fact," she continues, her face serious, "the most I learned was from people in open relationships."

I stare blankly at her. "Flo, are you serious?"

She shrugs. "Monogamous people can preach all they like about being in relationships with single individuals. Then, they go and cheat on them. Don't you think it's much better to set boundaries at the onset? I'd rather have that than be cheated on later."

She has a point.

"Maybe love doesn't have to be one cookie-cutter shape." She grins, "My current situation, for example. It's … unconventional. We're both free to explore different options."

My eyes widen. "Flora, you wild woman!"

"It works for us," she shrugs. "The point is, Emily, there are lots of ways to do this. Don't let fear stop you from finding something wonderful. And hey," she adds, squeezing my hand, "you've always got me, no matter what mess you get yourself into."

She's right, I do. I squeeze her hand gratefully.

"Let's wander," Flora suggests, and we slip deeper into the heart of the vineyards. The air hangs thick with the scent of ripening grapes, a heady sweetness that makes my mouth water. Rows upon rows of vines stretch into the moon-drenched night like a sprawling green army. Overhead, the stars glitter like diamonds scattered across a velvet cloth.

"Remember the time we used to sneak into the vineyard as kids?" I chuckle, plucking a plump grape and savoring its tart burst. "We thought we were so clever, tiptoeing through the vines, leaving a trail of squashed grapes."

"And ending up with purple-stained everything!" Flora adds, giggling like a schoolgirl. "Those were the days, Em—simpler somehow."

The moonlight catches her face, highlighting the laugh lines and the twinkle in her eyes. She has a way of disarming me, reminding me that life isn't all about responsibility and complicated emotions. With Flora, even the weight of this sprawling estate and its tangled inheritance feels lighter.

We find another weathered bench perched on a small rise, and Flora whips a bottle of wine from her bag. "Ta-da!" she announces, flourishing the bottle with a magician's flair.

I burst out laughing. "Flo, you never cease to amaze me. Wine in the vineyard? Are you trying to get me arrested?"

"Relax, Em," she grins, uncorking the bottle with a satisfying pop. "It's the family vintage. We're practically royalty here."

We pass the bottle back and forth, the wine warming me from the inside out. A strange sense of recklessness bubbles up, fueled by good company and the heady night. "So," I begin, tracing a pattern on the chipped wood of the bench, "this whole … open relationship thing. Do you ever worry that it might, you know, complicate matters?"

Flora sips her wine thoughtfully. "The only way it gets complicated is if there's something missing. Honesty, clear communication—those are the keys. As long as all parties are on the same page, it's about freedom, not chaos."

Her answer surprises me. I've always been so constrained, tethered to the shoulds and shouldn'ts, letting my father's mistakes dictate my own choices. I run my fingers through my hair, the scent of the vineyard clinging to my skin. Even after his death, the echoes of his control still linger.

"Speaking of fathers," Flora says, a wry twist to her lips, "how about that letter? Still haven't cracked the code, super sleuth?"

I groan inwardly. Of course, she wouldn't let it go. "It's insane, Flo. A treasure hunt? Dad, even in death, manages to make everything dramatic."

"So, he left you a hidden heirloom?" she prods, eyes gleaming with curiosity.

"Yeah," I sigh, "Supposedly. But I have to decipher his ridiculous clues to find it. The first one is a stupid poem—something about 'where whispers lie and secrets hide, beneath the watchful moonlit tide.'"

Flora bursts out laughing. "Seriously? Dad was quite the character. In another life, I wish he would have acted more like a dad to me. Left me with a ridiculous treasure hunt."

The words, said with so much nonchalance, feel like she's stabbed me with a knife. Dad was an asshole to both of us, but I got … I got some good weekends, some moments when he took me in his arms, walked with me in parks, told me stories. I was the first child, the planned one. Flora was—she was supposed to be a boy.

"Flo—"

"No, forget I said that," she says immediately. "I apologize for putting this on you."

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