“What is wrong with you!” I make a grab for it and a thorn drags across my palm.
“I only sent you those fucking roses because you looked so cut-up after our fight. This is why I don’t do nice things for people.”
“Ow!” I look at my palm. A stinging red line is forming. I’m holding drops of blood. “You scratched me!”
I catch him by the cuff and squeeze his wrist in a death grip.
“Thank you, Nurse Joshua, you were wonderfully kind. And thank your gorgeous doctor brother.”
He remembers something. “I have you to blame for the fact I now have to go to his wedding. I’d nearly gotten out of it. That’s your fault.”
“My fault?”
“If you hadn’t been sick, I would never have seen Patrick.”
“That makes no sense. I never asked you to call him.”
He examines the line of blood I’ve left on his cuff with a look of complete and utter revulsion. He stuffs a tissue into my palm.
“Just wonderful,” he tells me, tossing the ruined rose in the trash. “Disinfect that.” He disappears into Mr. Bexley’s office.
I open my inbox and see our interviews have been scheduled for next Thursday. My stomach makes a
little heave. I think of my rent. I look at the empty desk opposite me.
I then lift up my mouse pad where I have hidden the little florist’s card from the bunch of roses. I’d peeked at it last week whenever Joshua wasn’t looking.
I stare at the card and wonder how I could have ever thought it was from Danny. It’s Josh’s handwriting; but I didn’t notice the way the letters slashed and swooped.
You’re always beautiful.
There’s one red petal on my desk and I press it onto the pad of my thumb and breathe it in deep while the daisies blur at the corner of my eye. My palm stings and itches. Josh is absolutely right. I’ve somehow injured myself due to my own carelessness.
I sit and breathe in the scent of roses and strawberries until I can trust myself not to cry.
Chapter 12
I feel childish as I look at his rolled-up white cuffs, one of which now contains my DNA. He’s glowering at his computer screen and has not spoken a word to me in hours. I’ve royally fucked up.
“I’ll dry clean your shirt,” I offer, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. “I’ll buy you a new one. I’m so sorry, Josh—”
He cuts me off. “Did you think it’d all be different today?”
I feel a lump begin to squeeze in my throat. “I’d hoped so. Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad.” His neck is red against his white collar.
“I’m trying to tell you I’m sorry. And I wanted to say thank you, for everything you did for me.”
“And are those pretty daisies for me, then?”
I remember. This might fix everything. “Wait, I did get you a present.”
I pull the little plastic cube topped with the red bow from my purse. I present it to him like a boxed Rolex. His eyes spark with an unidentified emotion before he reassumes his frown.
“Strawberries.”
“You said how much you love them.” The word love has probably never been said in this office, and it gives my voice a weird little tremor. He looks at me sharply.
“I’m surprised you remember anything at all.” He puts the strawberries into his out-tray and logs back onto his computer.
After several more minutes of silence I try again.
“How can I pay you back for . . . everything?” The balance has shifted dramatically between us. I’m in his debt now. I owe him.
“Tell me what I can do. I will do anything.”
What I want to say is, Speak to me. Engage with me. I can’t fix anything if you ignore me.
I watch him continue to type, his face expressionless as a crash test dummy. Stacks of sales figures are to his right and he slashes a green highlighter across them. Meanwhile, I am at complete loose ends with no Helene.
“I’ll clean your apartment for you. I’ll be your slave for the day. I’ll . . . bake you a cake.”
It’s like a soundproof pane has dropped in between us. Or maybe I’ve been erased. I should let him do his work in silence, but I can’t stop talking. He can’t hear me anyway, so it won’t matter if I say this next thing out loud.