Page 115 of What's Left of Us

She breaks the momentary silence. “Are you ready to move on with your life, Lincoln?”

Lincoln. Not Mr. Danforth.

I note that too.

“Once I finish what I started.”

“That sounds like a tall order.”

I dip my chin. “I suppose it is.”

“Tell me more about the carnations you bought for your wife,” she says.

My eye twitches. “You want the truth?”

She picks up her pen.

I smile, but it’s heavy on my face. “I think that’s when I noticed it was the start of the end. Because she never told me she hated carnations. She just…pretended she didn’t.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Lincoln/ Five Years Ago

Igo tothe library with a bouquet of assorted flowers that the florist put together—the white and pink carnations with something called snapdragons and aster fill the scent of my truck as I park in front of the large public building.

Conklin told me I should surprise Georgia with flowers. Apparently, whenever he notices Marissa is upset about his schedule, he tries getting her things she likes. Her favorite coffee. Flowers. Dinner from her favorite restaurant.

On the few days I am home and have time to spend with her, Georgia is quiet. She barely talks when I ask about her day or what’s been going on in her coworker’s lives. She used to share the gossip going around the librarians, which was always far more amusing than I thought it’d be for a group of middle-aged women.

Except when I walk in, the head librarian looks surprised to see me.

“Is Georgia here?” I ask, studying the space.

Mariam exchanges a look with the girl stacking books on the shelves before turning to me. “I’m sorry, dear. Georgia hasn’t worked here in months.”

Months.

“I thought she would have told you,” the older woman says, not realizing how hard that statement actually hits.

Then she glances at the bouquet I’m holding onto tightly with a frown. “Oh, dear,” she says with a tsk, studying themixed stems in my hand and frowning. “Georgia doesn’t like carnations.”

Georgia doesn’t… “Can you repeat that?”

“The scent. It makes her sad,” she tells me, touching the petals. “You wouldn’t have known it, but these were the flowers at her mother’s funeral way back when. I remember seeing pictures of the service in the paper. It was the most attended service in ages, they said. I thought it was such a pretty choice, very serene for such a sad day. Beautiful, even.”

It’s not the flowers I’m asking about.

Georgia doesn’t work here anymore.

“It’s a lovely thought though,” she goes on, misinterpreting my silence. “Not many men are willing to buy women flowers these days. Chivalry isn’t dead after all.”

“You said Georgia no longer works here?”

She shakes her head, sympathy coating her face as the realization sinks in. “I’m afraid not. We had to let her go a while ago.” Her eyes dart between me and the door before her voice lowers a notch. “She’s a sweet thing, but sometimes it doesn’t work out.”

Those words hit me like a ton of bricks.

I pass her the flowers and excuse myself before she can see my crumpled pride.

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