Page 20 of Petals and Plot Twists
“Huh. I hadn’t heard they got together. That’s cool.” It’s an inane thing to say, but it’s innocuous, and that’s what I need right now. To say meaningless words while my brain tries to wrap itself around Sophie’s claims.
“Anyway, even though three couples felt like pretty good evidence,” she continues, “I still wantedmoreproof, so I basically spent the last two days entirely in the garden, waiting for couples to show up.”
“You just sat up there and waited?”
My tone is more judgmental than I mean for it to be, and Sophie bristles.
“What else was I supposed to do?” she asks. “I wasn’t going to just knock on random people’s doors. And a lot of people come up to the garden”—she shoots me a look—“unlikesomepeople I know, so it didn’t take that long.”
“I get it,” I say. “I’m sorry. I was mostly just thinking about your work schedule.”
She winces. “Okay, that’s fair. I tried to take my laptop with me, but without my desk setup, I was pretty much useless, so I basically did nothing for two solid days. I’ll have to play catch-up to meet my next deadline, but this was important, and I honestly thought it would take longer. Two days feels pretty reasonable, all things considered.”
There is nothing reasonable about this conversation, though I can’t quite tell if I feel that way because we’re talking about love and Sophie and that’s making me nervous, or if it’s just because of the whole magical flower thing.
I want to believe her, for her sake, if nothing else. But the mental gymnastics required to do so still feel just out of reach.
“So you think you finally proved it, then?” I ask. “You saw enough couples come into the garden?”
“Six couples in total,” she says. “It was amazing.”
“That many?”
“Wild, right?” She lets out a little laugh. “But that’s not even the best part.” She moves into the kitchen, still buzzing with energy, and helps herself to a huge glass of water. She stands beside the counter and chugs it down while I do my best not to stare at the shape of her. She’s wearing bright orange overalls over a white tank top, an outfit that does excellent things for her curves.
When she finally turns to face me again, I force my gaze to her face, not wanting her to catch me checking her out. If she does notice, she doesn’t care enough to say anything.
“So, the story I read speculated that the flower also blooms when there is thepotentialfor love,” Sophie says as she moves back into the living room. “I wasn’t sure how I was going to test that part, but then, this guy, Jason, the dentist who lives on the fourth floor, brought a date onto the roof, and it was theirfirst date.They barely know each other, so they definitely aren’t in love yet, but the flower bloomed anyway. Do you know what that means?”
“That Jason’s probably going to have a good time tonight?”
“Exactly! Because they’re going to fall in love! The flower is a freaking fortune teller. A mystical, magical, love-finding fortune teller.” Sophie looks around, like she’s finally come down off her high enough to notice where she is. Her eyes catch on the duffel bag in the kitchen. “Are you going somewhere?”
It takes me a second to register her question. I’m still hung up on the last part of Sophie’s discovery because I can’t stop wondering: if she and I were on the roof together, would the flower bloom forus?
Not that I believe in Sophie’s magic love flower. I don’t.
But if I did believe, and I went onto the roof with Sophie and the flowerdidn’tbloom, would that mean love would never be possible?
The more important question might be: WouldSophietake it to mean love would never be possible?
I clear my throat and force myself to focus on Sophie’s immediate question.
“Uh, yeah, actually,” I say. “I’m going to go stay with my parents for a few days.”
“What? Why?” she asks.
As if to answer her question, the lights in my living room start flashing, repeated flickers as they brighten, then dim, then turn off completely before repeating the cycle over and over again. Sophie shields her eyes to the strobe-like effect. After twenty or so seconds, the flickering stops.
“That’s why,” I say, pointing to the ceiling. “They’ve been doing that for two days, but it’s gotten worse this afternoon. I can’t get them to stop, and I can’t work as long as they’re blinking. It’s driving me crazy.”
“Can’t you just leave them off? Use the natural light from the windows?” she asks.
“It doesn’t matter if they’re off. They still flicker. It’s happening in the bedroom too. I’ve barely slept the past two nights.”
She crosses into my living room and stares up at the light fixture. “Why not just take out all your lightbulbs?”
“And then what? Use candlelight after seven p.m.?”
