Page 62 of Things We Tell Ourselves

Evelyn shakes Camille’s hand. “You look tired. My parents will be back tomorrow and so will the specialist. Why don’t you go home and get some rest?”

“I’m not going to leave you.”

“Coming to you as a friend,” Evelyn scrunches her nose, “you should really take a shower and change out of those sweats. You aren’t in college anymore.”

Camille releases Evelyn’s hand to step back from the bed.

“I’ll have you know these sweats were handpicked by the owner of a multibillion-dollar company.” She runs her hand across the soft fabric on her belly.

Evelyn stares at her, unimpressed. “I’m sure they’re great. They just … don’t look that great. Go home, drop off your stuff, get cleaned up, and if you still want to stay the night in a boring hospital, by all means, come back.”

Camille leans down, planting a kiss on her best friend’s temple.

“Okay fine,” she relents. “I’ll drop off my luggage, take a shower, and be right back.” She walks around to the foot of the bed and sees Evelyn breaking out into a smile as she watches her go. “They must be giving you some really good drugs.”

“They are,” Evelyn admits, wincing a little as she presses the button to incline the back of her bed. “Make sure to call me when you get there.”

“Are you wanting me to pick you up food or something?”

“No, my parents should be getting me everything I need,” Evelyn says, toning down her smile, “well, maybe, but just call me when you get there.”

Camille nods, wondering how much pain medicine it takes for a burn patient to smile.

Camille grimaces as she lifts her luggage out of the trunk of her car, her bags feeling exceptionally heavy compared to how they felt this morning. A delivery man carrying a large vase of red roses is already waiting for the elevator inside her apartment complex. She stops beside him, inhaling deeply.

“Those smell lovely,” she exhales.

The delivery man looks over the bouquet in his hands. “Two dozen Mister Lincolns better smell good.” The elevator door opens, and they step inside.

“Never knew roses were called anything other than roses,” Camille admits, pressing the button for the fourth floor. “What floor?”

He looks at the button already lit on the panel. “Same as you.” He turns his attention back to the flowers. “There’s all kinds of roses, hybrid reds have a more pungent fragrance, but as far a beauty, besides the Gertrudes, Lincolns are my favorite.”

Camille nods along as if she knows what he’s talking about. On the fourth floor, the florist lets her exit first as she pulls her luggage. She takes a right out of the elevator and hears him behind her. As they get closer to Camille’s apartment, she slows.

“Who’s the lucky apartment?” she asks, glancing back at the delivery man.

He doesn’t even have to look at the card on the bouquet. “419.”

Camille stops and faces him. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, I’m sure,” he grins.

“I’m 419.”

He looks her up and down, surprised. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” she repeats, looking him over with heightened interest. Who would be sending her flowers?

He stops in front of her, her apartment door only a few feet behind her.

“I’ll take them,” she offers.

“You got some sort of I.D.?” he asks.

Camille narrows her eyes. “I don’t care how many of Mister Lincolns roses you’ve got. I’m not going to give a stranger my I.D.”

The man stares at her, and for a long minute, they stand in a deadlock.

---