Page 5 of Bloom

Now, my bones ache like I’m two-freaking-hundred instead of twenty-two, and I have to consciously fight the urge to haul ass back to the parking lot. By the time I make it to the waterfall at the end of the trail, I’m bright red and embarrassingly short of breath, but hey, at least I’m smiling.

Maybe it looks more like a grimace to the untrained eye, but I know there’s some joy in there.

Slipping my backpack off my quickly reddening shoulders, I collapse on the first patch of dry, clear ground I see. I plant my hands behind me and stretch out my cramping legs, squinting against the sun—naturally, I forgot sunglasses—as I take in the view.

Bright side; the pain is definitely worth it.

I can’t believe I ever stopped coming here. I forgot thewhyof it all, how the fresh air seems to clear my head and instantly improve my mood. It’s prettier than I remember, especially this time of year; early June when everything beautiful is in full bloom and the heat isn’t too unbearable so the falls haven’t dried up yet. Adding another notch to my list of mistakes, I make a mental note to wear a swimsuit under my clothes next time so I can take advantage of the refreshing spray.

Wrestling my water bottle out of my stuffed backpack—thankfully, I’m not quite useless enough to forget that—I suck down a greedy mouthful, letting a little trickle down my chest too in an attempt to cool down. It doesn’t take that long for my breathing to even out, but I let time waste by, people-watching as discreetly as I can without my forgotten sunglasses hiding my eyes. Two older women power-walk past, arms pumping and hips wriggling, putting me to absolute shame. A group of shirtless guys dripping with sweat treat the waterfall like a jungle gym, and I quickly avert my gaze away from the dripping, chiseled chests. Most often, I’m drawn towards the couple lingering nearby, both of them clad in athletic wear, looking like the American dream as they frolic along the path. I watch as they amble further up the trail, a lump in my throat as they grip each other's hands tightly, a flush heating my cheeks as the guy smacks his girlfriend's ass playfully. A pang of longing echoes around my chest, a little jealous pinch accompanying it, both of which I shrug off quickly.

You don't need a relationship, I remind myself.You like your life the way it is. You have plenty to be happy about. You’re fine.

Who cares if it's been, what, four years?

Who cares that my ex, my first and only everything, has moved on with someone so perfect, even I can’t help but have a little crush on her?

Who cares that I'm still pathetically alone? That I couldn’t score a date if my life depended on it because while my people skills aren’t exactly stellar to begin with, they evaporate entirely around men? That there’s not a man in town who’ll touch me because despite the fact it’s been forever, I’ll never not be Oscar Jackson’s ex-girlfriend?

Not me.

Shaking my head to rid it of a train of thought that never takes long to turn self-loathing, I refocus my attentionelsewhere, on the reason I came here, the thing that inspired me to pick my old hobby back up; the old notebook I found forgotten in the back of my closet, untouched since Mom died.

In my mind’s eyes, I picture her desperately scribbling in the moleskin just small enough to keep tucked in her back pocket. The routes we took, the flowers that bloomed, the critters we stumbled across, all of it was memorialized in a way I didn’t remember until I found the thing by accident whilst packing.

I’d cried for an hour, cradling the leatherbound journal to my chest, before I heard telltale clomping footsteps and quickly hid it in my underwear drawer, paranoid my dad would find it and freak out, probably throw it away like he did with most of Mom’s stuff.

While I cherish the memories, he resents them. Rejects them. Tries to stomp them from existence by adopting an out of sight, out of mind philosophy.

I didn’t get it as a kid. I don’t really get it as an adult either. But, like most things, I never fought it. I was only eight when she died; what the hell was I supposed to do to stop the only adult left to care for me suddenly became a different person overnight and started burning women’s clothing in the fireplace?

It’s a miracle the journal I retrieve from my backpack didn’t burn too. I have no idea how it ended up in my closet, but I’m grateful it did. I swear, as I flip through the pages, it still smells like my mom. The scent that could very possibly be entirely in my imagination comforts me as much as the familiar handwriting does. And even though I’m alone, reading about my mom following the same route I took today makes me feel a little less lonely.

The digital camera that’s been around way longer than I have has the same effect. Just like the notebook, I have no idea when or how it was saved from my dad’s wrath, but every time I flick through the collection of photos, I’m glad. There’s not many, butthat’s okay. There’s enough. Even if I only had the one I click through to find now, a portrait of my mom standing in front of the very waterfall I stare at now with a huge smile on her face, her arms lifted triumphantly, that would be enough.

Closing my eyes, I remember what it was like, being here, with her, taking that picture. I imagine what it would be like to be here now, a lot older and with her a lot older too.

If I try hard enough, I can almost convince myself she is.

I'm limping by the time I make it back to Bloom. A whining noise scratches my throat as sweaty palms and trembling fingers hinder my ability to unlock the front door, the various aches and pains plaguing my body only growing when I kick the slab of wood in frustration.

At least the store doesn’t open for a while, so no one’s around to witness my fit. Or me whimpering my way inside. Or me crawling upstairs and into my new home.

Slowly but steadily, that’s what it’s becoming—a home. There’s still a seemingly permanent musty aroma that no amount of incense or candle can conquer. Light is something of a foreign concept, what with only a small window above the stove and the skylight above the bed. The walls will likely remain an interesting shade of orange until a miracle occurs and I can afford paint, and every piece of furniture and decor is thrifted so nothing matches, but I like it. More than I like the last place I lived.

It says a lot that a dusty, stuffy attic beats an actual house with consistent hot water and a real bed frame instead of a rickety wooden pallet.

With just enough time before the store opens to shower, I whip my sweaty t-shirt over my head and start towards the bathroom, already devising grand plans of dousing my poor burnt skin with cold water before lathering on some peppermint oil. But as I toe off my sneakers, the faint sound of a bell chiming makes me groan.

Crap. I forgot to lock the front door behind me.

When I glance at the kitsch clock hanging on the wall—it’s shaped like a daisy; I couldn’t possibly resist—my groan becomes a sigh. Too early to be a real customer, it must be Lux collecting the extravagant bouquet she ordered to celebrate her brother’s college graduation. I won’t lie and say that spending hours on the blue larkspur and yellow daylily arrangement meant for a guy who broke up with me mere months before the only graduation I ever had wasn’t a special brand of torture, but I did it. And I did it good. And I would be proud to present the thing, if I wasn’t looking quite so unpresentable myself.

“I’ll be right out!” I holler loud enough to be heard downstairs, grimacing when I catch sight of myself in the long, vertical mirror propped against the wall; a lopsided greasy ponytail, flushed cheeks, and glistening layer of sticky sweat dampening my sports bra and shorts is quite the combination. At least it’s only Lux.

“Sorry, I just got back,” I apologize as I thunder down the stairs, shouldering open the door separating my home from the store and simultaneously freeing my hair from the ponytail giving me a headache. “I went hiking. I swear to God, I thought I was fit, but my butt is—”

If I thought I was flushed before, it’s nothing compared to the dark shade of red I feel warming my skin when I push my hair back from my face and my eyes donotfind Lux waiting for me.

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