Page 25 of When Wildflowers Bloom

Deep-rooted sense of joy? Feeling of freedom? Even I’m not this delusional; I know the answer is no. No, no, no.

When I look at him again, he’s smug. Again. Like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“Why do you want to do this?” I ask, skimming the words on my screen again.

He shrugs. “Maybe selfishly it’s a reason to be around you even though I know I can’t have you.”

I attempt to translate what that means, but everything jumbles together. He is the least of my concerns in this moment, as the internet, in its infinite wisdom and source of definitions, called me dead even though that’s the opposite of what I want. What I’ve been working for.

Finally, I say, “Fine.”

When he grins, I hold out my hand. “But let me read the list.”

“Uh-uh.” He shakes his head, scraping his knuckles under his chin before shoving the sticky notes in the pocket of his jeans. “That’s part of it. It’s a surprise.” When my nostrils flare he adds, “But I promise you won’t get hurt.”

I shake my head, push my cart another two steps, then stop.

Again, I ask, “Why are you doing this?”

His response is instant. “Because I know how it feels to not have a say in how your life happens.”

I squint at him, but when he doesn’t say more neither do I.

The way he looks at me has an intensity—a hopefulness that I can’t explain. For the first time, part of me wonders if he needs this as much as he thinks I do.

I swallow, my body vibrating with too many things. Fear? Excitement? Anxiety? It’s hard to pinpoint one.

In the year that will likely be my last, can I do this? With him?

I like my life. I think.

I study him. His toothpick rolling effortlessly across his lips and his brown eyes sparkling with green and gold flecks that look like two gemstones on his face.

Then, like I’m not so terrified I might pass out, I push my cart again, saying over my shoulder, “I need bread if you’re going to follow me.”

I’m not looking at him, but I know he’s smiling. I feel it.

The sound of the wheels of his cart screakily rolling across the floor confirms what I predict.

“Tell me about the cabins you build,” I say, stopping my cart in front of a rack of bread. “How’d you start?”

“Lincoln Logs on Gran’s floor,” he says, strolling to an easy stop as he leans on the handle of his cart. “I got a degree in architecturefrom NC State, but it was always cabins for me. My parents lived in a cabin, and then growing up making them with toys—I guess they kind of felt like home for me. I worked for another builder for a while before finally going out on my own right after Lucy was born.”

“The ones I saw online are beautiful,” I say, grabbing a loaf of bread off a shelf before cringing at the ingredient list and putting it back. “Is that why your hands look like you’ve been in a fight with barbed wire?” I ask, eyeing his scar-covered fingers draped over the handle of his cart.

He chuckles, making a fist with one of his hands to examine the faded lines that are slashed across them. “Most of these are from logs.” He pauses, smile wide. “A select few are from bad teenage decisions.”

I laugh under my breath, ponytail whipping across my back as I shake my head and start pushing my cart again.

“How did you start doing what you do?” he asks, watching me read labels, cringe at ingredients, and put food back on the shelf.

“Not as fun as Lincoln Logs,” I smile. “I know there’s a good chance I’ll never get to be old, so I figured it would be a great way to live my life. Experience a chapter I might not get to otherwise. It was either that or be a teacher, but since I got to be a kid, old people it is.”

His nod is subtle as I read another label and groan. “God, I hate buying bread. Whatever happened to flour, water, and salt?”

“You know, I’m always wondering that,” he deadpans.

I shoot him a look.

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