And the second letter is the one that’s trembling in my hand. It’s an invitation to embark on a once-in-a-lifetime adventure: a summer backpacking journey throughout the UK, fully paid for by the Miranda Hawthorne foundation. Kingston’s mother.
I look over at the flowers, now brittle and losing more petals each day, that arrived on my birthday and still remain on my dresser: seventeen white roses and a lone, bright-pink Stargazer lily in the middle. I’d known whom they were from the moment I saw them, but the card attached confirmed it.
Happy birthday, Love. Thinking of you every day.
The symbolism wasn’t lost on me, just as he knew it wouldn’t be. The bright-pink flower in the middle represented me; he always did have a thing about me and pink. And the seventeen white roses, which stand for innocence and purity, surrounded me.
I thought the flowers would be the last I’d hear from him, until this letter came today. I’m unsure whether the offer is his father’s very generous way of thanking me for all the things he credited me for or Kingston’s doing, but I suspect it’s mostly the latter. I should’ve seen something like this coming, since the last note he left me on the bathroom mirror—written in dry-erase marker, so I’d be sure to see it—was a challenge, again daring me to move.
Not all those who wander are lost.
I absolutely agree. It’s time for me to live—fly. And maybe I’ll fall…but perhaps, instead, I’ll soar. My mind is made up, and though I have a while to wait and parents to convince, it won’t be changing.
I’m ready to see the world…just not him.