Page 1 of Courage, Dear Heart

ONE

Elliott

My feet pound the ground.The impact vibrates up my calves and thighs. Each mile I add to my jog washes away the hellish week I had at work. If only I had the balls to keep on running and never look back. But for now, that’s only a wish. I can’t walk away yet. Not when my father still has me under his thumb. But soon. I have to hold out for two more years. And then he won’t be able to control me anymore. But until then, I’ll be his plaything and do as he pleases. I shake my head, banishing the thoughts away. The whole point of jogging is to release the stress and focus on the now. On what I can control. One foot in front of the other.

My T-shirt sticks to me, drenched with every mile I’ve pushed through. The thought of stripping it off tempts me, but I’ve got a stop to make before I head home. The flower shop is a few blocks away.

I weave through the crowded sidewalk, dodging people walking dogs and kids who’ve claimed the sunlit street as their playground. I run to the soundtrackof the city: the rumble of cars, music playing somewhere, a dog barking from inside someone’s home, people talking on their cell phones, police sirens, and angry beeping. A skateboarder rockets past, almost taking me out. I stumble, catch myself, and keep moving. Join a game of hopscotch as I jump through the chalk-drawn squares on the ground while one of the kids yells“hey”at me and then laughs. The entire neighborhood has erupted into life, soaking up the unexpectedly warm Friday April day after a week of relentless rain.

Slowing to a walk, I press two fingers to my neck against the pulsing thud beneath my skin. The second hand on my watch—a gift from Grandma after Grandfather passed—ticks away as I count the beats. I could have replaced the old watch with a modern one that does the work for me, but no modern piece of tech will ever carry the same value as Grandpa’s old watch. By the time I reach the flower shop’s door, my pulse has settled into a steady rhythm, fifty beats per minute.

As many times as I’ve ordered flowers from this place, at least a couple of times a month for years, I’ve never stepped inside. I’ve jogged by it. Driven by it probably thousands of times, but never once even glanced inside the windows.

A faded blue sign with a font in bright pink names the shop—Scent of Love. The corner building extends up into an apartment. A narrow wrought iron and glass door leads to the second floor. This building is classic old New York. It must be nearly a hundred years old.

I open the shop door and step inside. A bell above the door announces my presence with a metallic, out of tune chime, but there’s no one to greet me. Cool air sends a shiveracross my still damp skin. The sweet scent of flowers hangs heavy in the air, and a riot of colors competes for my attention.

Giant sunflowers stand against delicate orchids. Roses in every color are displayed like a living rainbow. There are potted plants and small trees too. The sound of rain and some kind of new age music plays softly. It’s as if I’m no longer in New York City. I’ve stepped into some kind of chaotic indoor jungle.

As I approach the back of the store, a loud squawk makes me jump. A parrot stares at me from a perch hanging from the ceiling. Her head tilted and beak slightly open. Still, there’s no one here.

“Hello? Anyone back there?”

No answer. The bird squawks again.

I approach the counter and find a sign next to the cash register.

PRESS BUZZER FOR SERVICE

I press the button next to the sign, and a low hum sounds in the back.

“I’ll be right there,” a feminine voice calls.

The bird and I watch each other. She looks like she’s plotting something. There’s intelligence in those eyes. Like she’s taking my measure and calculating the best way to either bite a finger off or maybe con me into giving her some treats. Not sure which.

I peer over the counter, trying to get a glimpse of whoever is back there. “Ouch!”

Something hits my leg and I look down to find a smallboy on a tricycle—the kind without pedals. Blond eyebrows slash into an angry V over sky-blue eyes, and the boy reverses the tricycle on the balls of his feet, stops, forges full speed ahead as fast as his little feet can carry him, and slams into my legs again. A devious little smile twists the corner of his mouth and again he backs up, readying himself for another attack. I face him, now fully aware of his intentions. “Nope. You’re not gonna get me again, buddy.”

The bird squawks louder and flaps its wings.

“Hi, I’m sorry. I needed one more minute to finish an arrangement. How can I help you?”

I turn to the woman behind the counter, prepared to tell her to leash the brat attacking my legs and freeze. She’s breathtaking. She smiles, waiting for my response, but the words don’t come. My throat is like sandpaper, and I can’t look away. She’s beautiful in a way that catches me off guard. Her blue eyes have this soft sadness, her lips are full and warm, and a few loose strands of light brown hair have slipped out of her ponytail. Freckles scatter lightly across her nose, and she’s wearing overalls patterned with flowers over a loose T-shirt. Somehow, the whole look works—like she belongs here among the blooms, grounded and real.

Her smile fades and a guarded expression crosses her face. She steps back a few inches, shoulders rigid.

Hidden by the counter separating the woman and me, the kid slams into my leg again. I press my lips together and hold back a curse. That hurt. The pain wakes me up, and I find my voice again.

“Hi. Sorry. I’m trying to remember what arrangement I usually get.” The lie slips out silky-smooth.

Her shoulders relax. “Oh, I can help you with that.” Shesteps to a computer. “If you have purchased flowers from me before, I can search for it. What’s your name?”

“Foster. Elliott Foster.”

I catch a movement near the floor and step back just in time. The kid misses me and hits a flowerpot instead. The woman looks up and leans over the counter. “Jamie! What are you doing?” Her voice is gentle but firm. “You know better than riding your bike inside the store. Please go in the back.”

The kid frowns at me as if it was my fault he got into trouble and wheels himself to the back of the store.

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