Page 14 of Petals and Plot Twists
And why does the thought make my stomach flip?
Chapter Five
Sophie
The downtown branchof the library in Serendipity Springs is just as charming as the rest of downtown. It’s in an old stone building at the edge of Oldford Park, and whenever I venture inside, I always feel a pang of sadness that with modern technology, we all have fewer reasons to spend time in libraries.
I have a reason to be here today, though. Because the library really does have a killer collection on Serendipity Springs. I’ve never specifically looked for botany-themed history, but I’m banking on there being something in the vein of what I’m looking for. There has to be. The room that houses the collection is huge.
I wave at Sissy, the elderly head librarian sitting behind the main circulation desk, and make a beeline for the glass-walled room that fills the back left corner of the first floor. Last time I ran into Sissy, she nearly convinced me to spend twenty-seven dollars on a contour stick I definitely didn’t need. When she isn’t doing the librarian thing, Sissy sells makeup, and she isverypersuasive. But I definitely don’t have time to talk about accenting my cheekbones—at least not today. I have another work deadline at five, so I probably shouldn’t be taking the morning to research a flower that has absolutely nothing to do with my paycheck.
Then again, I had to work until almost nine twice last week to finish up a different deadline that was entirely unreasonable given the scope of the project. So maybe I don’t feel guilty about a little time off.
I push open the door of the Serendipity Springs collection room and slip inside. I’m the only one here, and it’s ten times quieter than the rest of the library. Quiet enough that I almost feel like I should tiptoe.
A computer station sits in the corner, providing access to a digital catalog for the collection, but there are also plaques affixed to the wooden shelves lining the walls, and I trail my hand over them as I read each one.
Political History. Culture. The Revolutionary War. Founding Fathers. And so many others.
The last time I was in this room, I was a senior in high school, and Peter and I were working on our final research papers for our history class.
Maybe it’s the smell of the room or the peaceful solemnity of all the history lining the shelves, but the memory of that afternoon pops into my brain with startling clarity.
Peter was naturally focused on his work, while I was focused, for reasons I can’t remember, on counting the number of times I could make Peter smile. I jostled the table, making his pencil roll. There was one. I whispered a knock-knock joke. There was two. I pretended to read out loud from the history text I was reading, but I changed the words, creating an outlandish narrative about a mercenary who stole George Washington’s horse.
I think I even made him full-on laugh with that one.
But then I’d gotten bolder, and I’d shifted from the seat across from Peter to the one right beside him. Heat climbs up my cheeks as I remember the way I boldly reached over and tried to tickle his waist, my fingers dipping under the hem of his t-shirt. It was totally innocent, and I barely touched his ribs, but Peter reached down and grabbed my wrist, tugging my hand away.
“Sophie, you can’t touch me like that,” he said, eyes wide and serious.
“Sorry,” I quickly said. “I didn’t know it would make you mad.”
“I’m not mad,” he explained. “It’s fine. I just…wish you wouldn’t.”
It wasn’t like we never touched. Our relationship wasn’t super physical, but we’d hugged multiple times and teased and joked around a lot, so his reaction completely took me by surprise.
I’m not sure I ever really understood it, and since we only had a few more weeks before we graduated, we never talked about it again.
After my conversation with Willa, I have to wonder if Peter acted so weird that day because he reallydidhave feelings for me.
But even if he did, that doesn’t mean he doesnow.That was such a long time ago, and he seemed perfectly fine with all the touching we did on Saturday. Either way, he’s been way too top-of-mind the last few days, and I only have an hour to research before I need to get back to work.
I finally reach a plaque that readsNatural History,and I force my brain back to the task at hand.
After sifting through several titles, I finally find a three-volume set of books by a Massachusetts naturalist who wrote extensively about the flora and fauna he encountered in his travels around the state. I carry it over to the table and read for close to an hour, but I don’t find anything notable.
When I’m returning the books to the shelf, Sissy lets herself into the room. “Just wanted to check in and see if I could help you find anything.”
I almost wave her away, but Sissy Mayhew has to be close to eighty, if not older. I don’t think she’s native to Massachusetts—she sounds like she’s from the South, Texas, maybe?—but she’s lived here at least as long as I have, and aren’t old people supposed to be full of knowledge? Especially old people who are also librarians?
“I’m not sure if you can, but it’s worth a shot. I’m looking for information about a flower that just popped up in my garden. I’ve never seen it before, and I haven’t been able to find anything about it on the internet. So I’m trying to figure out if it’s native to Massachusetts or if anyone else in Serendipity Springs has ever seen it. I think locals might call it a love flower?”
She reaches up and pats her very poufy hair. “A love flower, you say? Over at The Serendipity? I wonder…” She moves to a shelf labeledOral Historiesand runs her hand along the spines. “Ah,” she finally says. “Here it is.”
She carries the book over in wobbly hands. “Maybe look through this one? I think I remember a story in here about a love flower.”
I take the book. “Really? You’ve read it?”
