He Believed His Ex More Than He Believed Me Chapter 11
I signed the no-contact agreement. I accepted the property as well.
That was not forgiveness.
It was compensation purchased with half my life.
The wind tore through the Red Mesa camp. Nolan sat on the edge of a narrow bed in a dust-covered work uniform.
His phone showed the signed receipt. He studied my name and brushed the screen.
His roommate called him to work. Nolan set down the phone and rose, striking his knee on the steel bedframe.
He remained bent over for a long time.
No one helped him.
He did not say it hurt.
Two years later, I leased a small flower shop in Seabriar, Florida. During our final telehealth appointment, Dr. Brooks smiled at the flower racks behind me.
“You recovered better than I expected.”
I placed a bundle of roses on the worktable. “I finally learned how to live on my own.”
She nodded. “That is more than enough.”
Afternoon sun filled the shop as I clipped thorns from each rose. Leaves dropped into a wicker basket with every clean snap.
My employee, Tessa Lane, came in carrying the order book. “That anonymous order came in again.”
I glanced at it. On the first of every month, someone ordered a bouquet of sunflowers for the Seabriar Foster Youth Center.
The payment originated in Wyoming, and the sender always called himself The Guilty One.
Tessa frowned. “He’s strange.”
“Every time, he asks us to make it especially beautiful.”
I handed the order back. “Make it the way he requested.”
“You don’t want to find out who he is?”
“No.”
My pulse stayed even. His identity, his location, and whether he was living well no longer had a place in my life.
Tessa went to arrange the flowers, and I returned to the roses. A thorn pierced my fingertip, leaving a bead of blood.
I paused, wiped it away with a tissue, and covered the spot with a bandage.
More than two thousand miles away, dust blew across the Red Mesa mine. Nolan sat beside a stack of steel pipe, his work clothes gray.
He followed my shop online. In its newest post, I stood in sunlight with pruning shears amid blooming roses.
He studied it for a long time. A coworker handed him a bottle of water.
“Looking at that flower shop again?”
Nolan tried twice before he managed to loosen the cap. “Yeah.”
The man asked casually, “Who’s the owner to you?”
Nolan lowered the bottle. The wind nearly carried away his answer.
“Someone I lost.”
The man did not ask anything else.
Sea air drifted down the street as I closed the shop. Tessa asked whether I wanted to get dinner.
I locked the door and dropped the keys into my purse. “Let’s go.”
A vendor on the corner sold roasted chestnuts. I bought a small bag, its heat warming my palm through the paper.
I once believed I could not survive. After leaving Nolan, I discovered that life was made of concrete, ordinary things.
A bouquet. A pair of shears.
Dinner with someone. A night of uninterrupted sleep.
At home, I placed the day’s last sunflower in a vase. It faced the window in perfect silence.
My phone lit with a message from Dr. Brooks.
[I’ll visit your shop next spring.]
I replied: [I’ll save the best roses for you.]
The surf whispered outside. Standing under the light, I studied my reflection in the window.
Strong winds would cross the beach again tomorrow. This time, I no longer needed another person to be my safety barrier.
I switched off the light and walked toward my bedroom.
That night, I finally slept without waking.