Page 41 of Our Long Days
Her red lips are raw from biting on them, eyes welling with unshed tears, a picture I never want to see again. “I’m so grateful for this job, so please don’t take this the wrong way, but I still can’t seem to find a purpose.” She taps the paper. “My dad and I made this list when I was fifteen. Almost nine years ago, Dex, and I’ve got nothing to show. I’m in a constant cycle of self-deprecating emotions with no way out. One good thing happens, and then three bad ones follow.”
I choose my words carefully. “The way you view yourself differs greatly from the Florence we see.”
“Yes, well, because all you see is your best friend’s little sister who can’t do the simplest things.” My hearing aid protests when she stands abruptly, and her chair scrapes over the hardwood floor. An apology morphs her face as I tap the little device until the feedback stops. Her eyes zip around the room, unfocused. “I want to like what I see.”
The glimpses I got of her this year are nothing compared to this. It kills me to not pull her into my arms, to eradicate whatever ghosts haunt her. A lost little girl sits behind the mask of a bold woman.
I want to fix this, have to. But how?
“I’m sorry for dumping this on you.” She glances at the clock. “It’s lunch, and you’re due on another call soon. I’ll go grab you a bite to eat.”
She takes advantage of my resounding silence and makes a beeline for the door. Storm clouds follow, clinging to her as she clamps a hand over her mouth. She says something, but I can’t hear it clearly.
Then, she’s gone.
I am well and truly out of my depth, with no business folding up the weathered piece of paper and tucking it into my pocket.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
florence
Burrowinginto my bed and forgetting yesterday ever happened sounds very appealing.
But allowing my emotions to take the wheel isn’t going to solve anything. It’s bad enough they controlled me in Dex’s office. The tiny room was bursting at the seams with how they rolled off me, filling it with untempered vexation. It was humiliating.
Today is a new day.
A cloud of dry shampoo fills the bathroom. Flipping my head upside down, I fluff my hair, apply some sunscreen, switch out my septum piercing, then study my reflection. There’s no hiding the dark smudges under my eyes thanks to the three hours of sleep I managed to get last night. My roots are in need of a touch-up, but I’m trying my best not to make unnecessary purchases. Box dye kits are not a necessity.
Dex doesn’t need to be dragged into my mess; I’m here to do a job. A job that, despite the curveball life’s thrown me, is going okay—I think. For a man who could build a chair in his sleep, his hatred of technology is comical. His desktop had me breaking out in hives, not a lick of organization in sight.
His calendar was abysmal, now color coordinated and linked to his phone. The documents he claimed to be “organized” are now scanned and filed into his computer. Tomorrow, I’m hoping to conquer his social media, fully prepared for him to ask what a hashtag is.
We’re on site today, visiting a smaller project. It’s fun seeing him in action. Never has anyone made a hard hat and a high-vis vest look so sexy.
In a pair of pale blue leggings and a matching athletic crop top, I take a deep breath. My lungs crave the fresh air. The few hours outdoors I get in the evening aren’t enough.
Most mornings, the goats greet me, their escape from the pen a mystery. Today, however, something else waits for me on the porch. A box.
It’s small, fitting nicely in the palm of my hand. I read the note attached.
Florence, saw this and thought of you. Dex x
The driveway is empty, the man himself nowhere to be seen.
As I lift the lid and tip the contents out of the velvet bag, my heart skips.
It’s a silver ring. Tiny flowers decorate the inner band while the outside is polished and smooth. It’s beautiful. I run my finger along the stamped edges and, to my surprise, the inner band rotates.
“It’s called a spinner ring,” a deep voice drawls. For such a large man, he’s very stealthy. “If you don’t like it, they have other designs.” Dex stands at the bottom of the stairs, expression unreadable. He’s in his usual: worn jeans, work boots, flannel.
“You bought this for me?” I ask wistfully.
He shrugs. “I came across it randomly. It’s no big deal.”
It’s the biggest. A horde of butterflies erupts in my stomach. I haven’t worn any rings since losing them on the beach. Their absence has left my skin tender from all the anxious fidgeting. And he noticed. Dex struggles to forward an email, so his claim to have stumbled across a very specific ring design is hard to believe. The gesture is thoughtful and does terrible things to the ever-growing feelings I’m trying to ignore.
Swallowing, I descend the steps until we’re toe to toe. He watches me slip the dainty band over my index finger. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
