Page 46 of Chasing Wildflowers
Jameson
Don’t talk to Chip about the incident at the bar. It’s taken care of.
His words should send fear skating up my spine but instead they bring relief.
The next morning, I wake up to a knock on the door and another beautiful bouquet of wildflowers. And the next day. And the day after that. This continues for two weeks.
Around day six, a “Good Morning” text started accompanying the flower. I haven’t responded. I’m not ready.
The Monday following the incident with Luke, he was found dead in his truck. Carbon Monoxide poisoning. It was ruled an accident; he passed out drunk in his truck while it was still running. The garage door was shut, trapping him with the invisible vapors. His blood alcohol level was double the legal limit.
Deep down I know Jameson is responsible, but I can't find it in me to feel bad that he’s dead. Or that Jameson is the one who killed him. He violated me and hurt me. Now he will never hurt anyone again.
The front door squeaks open, and I hear Kam’s peppy footsteps against the hardwood as she makes herway through my house. “When are you going to put the poor man out of his misery and call him?” she asks, stepping into the kitchen.
My chest squeezes as my eyes follow hers as they sweep across the room. Vases of brightly colored flowers sit on every available surface, their floral smell hanging heavy in the air.
I’ve opened our chat thread a few dozen times in the past two weeks. Hell, I've even typed out come over more than once, before quickly erasing it and walking away from my phone.
Kam sets her oversized bag on the island with a soft thunk, and braces her hands on the smooth marble, preparing to give me one of her heartfelt speeches.
“I tried really hard to stay out of this, to let you decide on your own. Hoping you would call him on your own. But I can’t sit back and watch this anymore. You’re miserable, Lane.”
Her eyes are sympathetic, voice soft. “You haven’t smiled in weeks, and you won’t leave the house unless it's for work. You are living in oversized t-shirts and biker shorts.” Her nose turns up as she eyes my new daily attire, aside from work. “You miss him, I know you do. And he’s miserable without you.”
My brows shoot up, betrayal creeping into my veins. “You’re talking to him?”
She nods, unfazed. “He calls me every day, Lane. Asking how you are. Asking if you are throwing his flowers away or keeping them.” She gives me a sad smile. “I don’t tell him anything more than you’re okay and the flowers look beautiful on your counter.”
She digs into her purse, pulling out two small, shiny objects, laying them beside the flowers. “He asked me to bring you these. Just call him Lane. At least talk to him. If you want to end it for good, tell him. But right now he’s holding onto hope.” She hikes a thumb over her shoulder. “I have to go open my shop. Just think about calling him?”
She disappears down the hall, the front door closing softly a few moments later.
I stand frozen, staring at the trinkets Kam left behind. It’s the jewelry I was admiring weeks ago at the fair.
When?
How?
I cross to the island, my fingers brushing over the smooth gems. My phone buzzes on the counter behind me. I don’t have to check to know it’s him.
I grab it with a shaky hand, my bottom lip caught between my teeth. My heart thumps in my chest, a steady beat urging me on, as my thumbs hover over the screen. Quickly, before I can talk myself out of it, I type out a message and hit send.
Lane
Do you want to come over so we can talk?
Nineteen
Jameson
Wildflower
Do you want to come over so we can talk?
Relief washes over me in waves as I stare down at her message. The words I’ve been so desperately wanting to hear, or see, are finally right in front of me.
It’s been two weeks of radio silence.
