Page 56 of The Two of Us

“Sorry to be so weird. It’s just… I haven’t seen you in that room since you were seventeen. Kind of caught me off guard.”

Oh.

I glance over his shoulder to the den and see multiple memories play out across my vision. Ambrose destroying me and Cat on the Wii. Alima setting down a platter of cookies and hot chocolate—even in the summer—while we watched Practical Magic for the millionth time. Ambrose ignoring my existence when we all started growing apart.

“I understand,” I whisper.

Anya’s words dance through my mind. He blamed himself. How could he have possibly blamed himself?

After mumbling an excuse about being on a time crunch for the rest of the day, I leave the house so fast I won’t be surprised if I leave skid marks on the ground.

***

The drive to Nadine’s is short, but it’s enough time for my subconscious to dredge up things that used to be neatly buried. I roam around the nursery in a daze, paying little attention to the plants I place into my cart. The smell of fresh leaves and flowers surround me but feel at odds with the hollowness I feel. I don’t bloom or stretch myself toward the light. I regress so far inward, shadows can’t help but be trapped within my buds.

Grace makes her way to my side, a small empathetic smile on her face. “Can I help you with something, sweetheart?”

My emotional exhaustion causes my voice to fall flat. “What makes you think I need help?”

The corner of her lip tips up as she reaches in to examine the two plants in my cart. “Has anyone ever told you that you look just like your father?”

I shake my head.

She tilts her head. “It’s easy to miss at first, but you have his smile. When you are smiling, that is.” She stares at the plants in my cart, her smile crumbling. “Are you sure you want to get these two?”

I sigh. “Yes. Why?”

“Because the succulents you have here are called graptopetalum paraguayense. Most commonly known as ghost plants.”

I laugh.

I laugh and then it slowly morphs into the kind of hysterical cackle that suggests I might be on the brink of a mental breakdown.

“Well,” I say between laughs. “Considering my dad’s state, these should be perfect.”

The poor woman gapes at my dark humor. Surely this wasn’t what she was expecting when she came into work this morning. Still laughing with a hand clutching my side, I leave Grace where she stands in stunned silence and head to the counter to pay for my ghost plants.

And as I walk back to my car, the sun piercing my eyes, I tell myself that the tears streaming down my face are a result of the humor of it all.

The humor and nothing else.

***

I drove to Duffy’s with single-minded determination. The sun set hours ago and I don’t know how long I’ve been posted up on this cold metal stool sipping away at my drink. No matter how long you sit on metal stools, they always stay cold, biting into your skin, keeping you from getting too comfortable. But the joke is on the stool because I’m never comfortable.

Mara: One.

Stool: Zero.

I snort at my private joke and the man two seats over pins me with a judgmental glare.

“Can I help you, sir?” I drawl.

He shakes his head and sighs. I imitate his sigh and drool dribbles down my chin.

“Look what the city rats dragged in.”

The silky voice comes from the corner of the bar. As the man approaches, I take my time perusing the length of him. His features are hard to make out in the dim lighting, but it’s no question he’s tall and very good-looking. Doesn’t vodka make everyone good-looking though?

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