Page 56 of The Games We Play
Then I headed upstairs to my apartment, the warm smell of flowers still lingering in my hair and clothes. But as I reached the top step, something unusual caught my eye—a small something on the floor near my door.
I stepped closer.
A bouquet.
The red petals were unmistakable. I bent down slowly and picked it up, the scent sweet and familiar, the stems cool and dewy in my hands. A note was tucked between them, the paper rough under my fingertips. I flipped it over, heart already skipping ahead of me.
Penelope,
I’ll never let your pitcher go empty. It’s my promise to you.
Forever,
Mac.
I stared at the note, my heart thrumming as my breath caught somewhere between my chest and throat. He must’ve come straight from the library. And if these were from Sandy’s shop, which of course they were, she hadn’t said a word.
“That woman,” I whispered with a smile, shaking my head.
The grin that spread across my face was instant, unstoppable. My cheeks flushed, heart fluttering like I was seventeen again, and I held the bouquet close to my chest.
I walked through the door, the quiet of home wrapping around me like a soft blanket. And the very first thing I did?
I filled the pitcher.
For the first time in months, I watched the water rise to the brim and gently lowered the roses inside. They fit perfectly.
Then I dug through my purse until I found my phone and snapped a picture of the flowers right there on my little kitchen table.
Penny: I got the flowers. They’re beautiful
Unknown Number: Glad they didn’t wilt. They look good
Penny: OMG how long were they up here?
Unknown Number: Dropped them off before work, right after the library. Sandy said they’d be fine. That woman is never wrong
Penny: Suck-up
I laughedto myself as I walked toward the kitchen. I turned on the speaker and connected my phone, locking the screen and setting it face down on the counter.
Reaching into my fridge, I filled my wine glass with wine until it kissed the rim. Then, I leaned back against the counter and glanced across the room.
The pitcher caught my eye once again.
It looked foreign, being full—like a part of me I’d forgotten had come back to life.
Roses had always been my favorite. But after Mac… they carried more weight. More meaning. They were tattooed on him, inked on his skin in a place I had been close enough to kiss. Close enough to memorize.
I closed my eyes and took a long sip of wine, letting the memories rush over me like a tide.
Happiness.
Comfort.
Thrill.
He brought out a side of me I always enjoyed. And I knew, deep down, I did the same for him.
