Page 25 of Beg, Borrow, or Steal

Annie and I finish up our work and when all the flowers are snipped and buckets are loaded, she grabs two water bottles from the back of the four-wheeler and gives me one. We both take a minute to cool off—and in these still moments, I can’t help but feel nostalgic.

“It’s wild to think Mom started this, isn’t it?” I say, looking out over the rows and rows of budding flowers—a vast aquamarine sky with dabbles of puffy cotton-ball clouds above. Even this little corner of Rome feels like home. My parents not only worked on this farm but were best friends with the owners (James Huxley’s parents). Mom talked them into letting her have a little plot of it for a cheap price to use for her roadside flower business. She always intended to grow it into a brick-and-mortar flower shop in town, but she died before she ever got the chance. Which is why Annie did it for her.

“It is.” Annie stares out at it like she’s trying to see what I see. “Do you have any memories of them here?”

I have to clench my teeth to stave off the tears. “I do—but…” It’s hard to get out this next part. “They’re getting fuzzier and fuzzier with time.”

“Tell me one,” Annie says with a soft plea in her voice. She was really young when they died, and I know it hurts her not to have had the chance to know our parents like Noah and I did. Maddie remembers more than Annie, but not by much.

“I’ll tell you my favorite memory.” I clear my throat and point to the left corner of the flower patch. “Right over there, they had the biggest fight.”

Annie’s head swings to me—a concerned frown etched between her brows. “Not really the memory I was hoping to get.”

I laugh. “They bickered because Mom swore she told Dad they were spreading sunflower seeds on that row, and he swore she told him they were spreading dahlia seeds instead…which is why theyboth had planted two different types of flowers in the same row.” A small laugh bubbles out of me when I remember how angry my sweetheart mom was at my dad that day. “She was livid because apparently sunflowers and dahlias are incompatible flowers. Neither will grow well if they’re planted together because of something sunflowers do to the soil. Anyway, she felt like all their work for the day went to waste and she just dissolved into tears.” I remember Mom always being a big feeler. Like Madison. My gut tugs and it’s going to be a struggle to get it out. “But Dad pulled her into a hug and reminded her the two of them were incompatible too, but so far they had gotten along okay.” I remember her playfully tickling him after that, which led to a sweet kiss. And when she found me watching, she told me to find someone someday who will hug me when I’m sad and then help me look on the bright side of things when all I can see is the dark.

Grief grows fresh claws in my heart, and the pain of losing them is new all over again.

I screw on the cap to my water bottle and make a big show of looking at my watch like there’s somewhere incredibly important I’ve got to get to. I give Annie a quick hug and avoid her gaze as I walk by her so she can’t see my heart bleeding out, but she stops me before I get too far away.

“Wait, Em!” I pause and look back at her. “Did the flowers actually grow or was the crop a bust?”

Whoever said time heals all wounds was a damn liar, because sometimes my heart hurts the worst from the memories that time has erased.

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Driving has always made me feel better. Not just driving in general, though, but driving on my hometown’s back roads in my truck.

I enjoy splurging every now and then and buying somethingnice. Top-of-the-line bed linens. Quality makeup. Luxurious PJs. But when it comes to my truck, I like it old and rusty. There’s just something about driving with my arm out the window on a long stretch of country road when the air is warm and the radio is blasting “Take It Easy” by the Eagles. It’s a unique kind of drug.

And that’s what I’m doing now, savoring the feel of the sun singeing my forearm and the wind tearing through my hair when I see a person on a sleek black motorcycle—a sports bike—come speeding up the road behind me. The loud engine competes with mine and I expect the person to pass me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he hangs back a bit. I check my rearview mirror a few times trying to figure out who it is. I know everyone around here, but I do not know this man. And I’m convinced it is a man judging by his body type. No one drives one of these bikes in Rome either. The kind where you have to lean forward and hug the body of the bike with your thighs.

I glance in the mirror one more time and study the rider. He’s wearing black leather gear (not the Harley-Davidson riding kind, but the nimble racer–type material), and it would appear black is his favorite color since his outfit matches his bike. Black as ink. The visor of his helmet is pulled down and it’s so tinted I can’t see through it. Maybe I’m experiencing what’s universally known as the Helmet Effect, but a pleasant chill runs down my spine at the sight of him. He could be a troll under that helmet and as long as the visor is shut, he would be the sexiest man alive to me.

He must have noticed me looking at him because next time I peek, he raises his black glove in a relaxed, amused wave, and somehow I just know that he’s smiling under that helmet.

Maybe it’s because I need to fully escape the lingering pain that visiting the flower patch brought on, but I find myself deciding to play a little. I raise my hand outside the window in my own casual wave. Just a friendly hello.

Next thing I know, his engine is revving and he’s curving around me to ride right up beside the window of my truck. I squeal and dart my gaze back and forth between him and the long open road ahead of us.

“Stop!” I yell, but I can’t keep a laugh from bubbling through my voice. “That’s not safe!”

His helmet looks in my direction and he does a very theatricme?gesture, pointing his index finger at his chest.

“Yes, you! Don’t be so reckless!”

This time he puts his hand to his helmet, pretending like he’s cupping his ear. He then shrugs and opens his engine up, tearing off ahead of me in the oncoming lane and popping a wheelie.

I scream and pray to anyone listening that this man doesn’t tip over backward and crash while trying to be a show-off for me. But a few seconds later, he sets the front end back down like it was nothing. An oncoming car is approaching a ways up the road now, so he holds out his right arm, gesturing that he’s going to enter my lane.Suddenly so responsible.A moment later, he leans to the right and cruises in front of me. I don’t want to, but I have to admit, I’m more than enjoying this interaction.

After the car passes by and he sees the road is wide open once again, he drops in beside me. Apparently he’s enjoying this as much as I am because the fool points at me and then balances the bike with no hands so he can hold up a heart to his chest before once again pointing his index finger, but this time to himself. I’m laughing so hard I nearly have tears in my eyes. But still, I shake my head and wave him off, so he’ll leave before he gets himself hurt.

He’s sitting upright on the bike now, left arm holding the handlebar and the rest of his body angled casually in my direction. He cocks his head like he’s waiting for me to play again, so I yell, “I’ve seen better.” Even though I absolutely haven’t. Maybe it’s just thepads in his leather gear, but I can’t help but notice how good his body looks. I’ll never know for sure, and maybe that’s a good thing.

He presses the back of his hand to his head.A comedian.I have no idea who this guy is but I’m starting to wish I did. There’s no way he’s from around here, though. Must be passing through.

Just up ahead is my turn and I feel a tug of disappointment knowing I’ll have to say goodbye to this random sexy speed racer. I motion to the approaching turn and wave my goodbye to him. At least I’ll always have this memory of the man on the bike flirting with me.

He mimes a tear running down the front of his helmet and then gives me one final wave, dropping back behind my truck once again. My heart sinks as I turn onto my road, and I realize the fun is over.

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