Page 67 of Late Bloomer
Like the sucker I am, I follow after her.
She flicks through a box of postcards, eyes darting like lightning as she scans worn drawings and scribbled cursive.
“I always hope I’ll find a love letter in one of these,” she says, switching to a new shoe box. “Something achy and hopeful and a tiny bit desperate to express how much the recipient means to the writer.”
Something hot glows through me, making my skin prickle and chest stretch. I realize, after a moment, it’s longing. For what, I don’t know.
Whatever it is, it’s ridiculous and pointless. I don’t have anything to long for. I push the feeling far away, knotting it all up into a ball in my stomach, then kicking it out. I’m granite. Marble. A statue. Solid and unfeeling, no emotions cracking through me. Exactly as I should be to stay safe and whole.
“Or find one that’s super dirty. Someone really putting their whole heart and pussy into a four-by-six rectangle of cardstock.”
“Charming,” I say, that scary hot feeling snuffed out. Unfortunately, it’s replaced by something like glee at this ridiculous woman’s ramblings—equally as brilliant and distracting.
“It’s honestly such a power move to raw dog the mail system like that. Put it all out there with nary an envelope to protect your horniest thoughts.”
“You’re extremely weird,” I blurt out. I realize this is probably a bit harsh, but it’s also true.
Opal grins. “Took you this long to realize, Pep? Little slow on the uptake, I see.”
“No. I’ve known that since you pulled up like a pink-haired monster and told me you wanted to paint shoes for a living. I guess I’m just now realizing that I kind of like it.” My hand darts to my throat like I can clamp around it and stop those disastrous words that tumbled out of me.
Too honest. Too scary. Too dangerous. When you share soft spots like that with people, they’ll only take advantage of them. And something about Opal is making me nothing but soft spots.
Opal studies me, her face open and curious. I turn away, squirming under the intensity of her focus. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her lean closer.
“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” she whispers.
I snort. “Tell me I’m an asshole without telling me I’m an asshole.”
Opal chuckles, then falls silent.
I hear her suck in a breath, and I brace myself for her to say something more, to poke and prod at my confession until I’m bruised from it, finding all the ways she can break me down with it.
But instead, she reaches out to me—opening her hand like a flower unfurling its petals to the sun.
I stare at it. The ink stains and calluses and chipped nails and bitten cuticles.
For a moment, that hand looks like a second chance. A lifeline.
Then I blink.
And her hand is just her hand and I’m a fool.
I pat my palm against hers in a weak attempt at a high five, then move down the aisle.
After a moment, Opal follows, discovering a box of old photos to rummage through.
Thankfully, she lets the silence linger until the tension of the previous moment evaporates, cooling us down.
“Do you ever wonder if you’ll end up in one of these boxes?” I ask, watching her pull out a grainy black-and-white picture of a solemn-faced woman standing in her front yard, studying it close. I used to love silence more than oxygen, but for some unhinged reason, I like noise when it’s coming from Opal. “A photo of you crammed into a shoe box with hundreds of others, random people flicking through?”
Opal tilts her head, putting the picture back into the stackand dragging the pad of her thumb over the softened edges of the others. “I don’t know. I kind of hope so.”
“Really?” I purse my lips, bringing a faded snapshot of two little kids holding hands and grimacing at the camera close to my face. “Doesn’t it seem sad? All these memories given away for strangers to gawk at.”
Opal scrunches up her nose. “Nah. I hope photos of me end up scattered in ratty boxes all over the place. And I hope I look ridiculously happy in every single one. I hope they make people stop their flipping to look closer. To wonder what I had to be so happy about.”
“Whatdoyou have to be so happy about?” I ask, staring at that magnetic smile of hers that always draws me in. It’s pure sunshine, warmth radiating from the crooked corners.
