Page 8 of Petals and Plot Twists
“Hey,” Sophie says, holding up her iPad. “What do you think of this one?” She’s nestled on the opposite end of my couch, working on sketches while we binge episodes ofTed Lasso.
Sophie has landscape design software she uses for everything she gives to her clients, but when she’s brainstorming, she sketches on her iPad. This particular sketch is of a series of tiered planters moving down a hillside.
If I asked, Sophie could tell me the name of every plant she’s included in the design.
“Looks great,” I say. “I like the taller bushes over on the left side.”
“Yeah? They’re blueberry bushes.” She tucks a springy brown curl behind her ear. “They didn’t explicitly ask for them, but I’m hoping they’ll like the suggestion.”
Her eyes drop back to her iPad, and I take advantage of the opportunity to study her profile. The line of her neck, the mass of curly hair piled on top of her head.
A wave of yearning pushes through me, but I tamp it down just like I always do. I’ve had a lot of practice—though to be fair, it hasn’t always been this bad.
In the almost decade we’ve been friends, I’ve gone long stretches of time when friendship has been enough. I even had a fairly serious girlfriend through most of grad school, though I’m sure that was only possible because I was in Boston, at MIT, and Sophie was across the state at UMass.
Still, she was always in the back of my mind, the standard by which I measured every woman I met. When my girlfriend, Penelope, hinted she was ready for a proposal, I realized with startling clarity that I couldn’t marry her when Sophie still occupied so many of my thoughts.
I’m beginning to think I’ll never meet anyone who measures up, which is admittedly concerning. I’m not an idiot. I know I can’t live like this forever. That at some point, I’m going to have to tell her the truth. Lately, I’ve been feeling the pressure to do it sooner than later.
I just can’t figure out how.
“Oh! I forgot to tell you,” Sophie says. “The author you love—what’s her name? The woman who writes the books bigger than my head?”
“Silvie Wainwright?” I ask.
“Yes! That’s her,” Sophie says. “So I guess she’s coming to Serendipity Springs for a book signing next month. I happened to be walking by the bookstore when they were putting a poster in the front window about ticket sales, and I recognized the book cover…” She pauses and points at the most recent Silvie Wainwright book sitting on my coffee table. “That one! I’m not sure I would have remembered her name otherwise, but that cover is gorgeous, so I knew she was the one you love.”
“They sell the tickets online,” I say. “I tried to get one, but they sold out in seconds.”
“That’s exactly what the bookstore lady told me,” she says. “But then I spent ten minutes explaining how she could revive her fiddle-leaf fig from the brink of death, and she was so grateful for the advice, she gave me her comp tickets to the signing.”
“You’re kidding,” I say.
“Why would I kid about that? They’re VIP tickets and everything, so you get to go to this question-and-answer thing, and you won’t have to wait in a holy long line to get your books signed.”
“Sophie, that’s incredible. And she just gave them to you for free? How did you manage it?”
“It’s not a big deal,” she says easily. “Her plant really needed help. And I guess it wasn’t entirely free, because I promised I’d stop by next week and drop off some of my favorite homemade plant food. Fiddle-leaf figs love it, so I really think it will help her.”
While I am genuinely excited about the opportunity to meet Silvie Wainwright, right now, I’m more preoccupied with the ease of Sophie’s interactions in the world. The fact that she just waltzed into the bookstore and became best friends with the employees—it’s so far outside of anything I would ever do.
I don’t mind talking to people. But I’m generally comfortable with my own company, so I don’t often think about putting myself out there.
Sophie is good for me in that way. She pushes me to be more social, to let people in when it’s generally against my nature to do so.
“It is a big deal,” I say. “Thank you. You’ll come with me, right?”
She looks over and smiles. “Of course I will.”
As I take in her smile, it occurs to me that my sudden pressing need to be honest about my feelings might have something to do with my parents’ move.
The two people who have always been my safety net, my safe place, announced they are leaving Massachusetts and driving a thousand miles south for warmer temperatures and year-round tee times.
And they’re taking my sister with them.
My parents are good people. And my sister Allison, even though she’s my polar opposite, is the only person I like to be around as much as Sophie.
I hate to see them go, but I also want them to be happy, and this move is exactly what they all want. Which means I have to figure out how to live my life without my family nearby.
