“Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for your date?”
He didn’t say anything about the girl I’d mentioned when I told him Emil asked me out, and I’m glad because I wouldn’t know what to say to him. I thought I might never hear from Rafaela again, so I’ve tried to forget about her and concentrate on Emil. But now I’m going to be working side by side with her, and thinking about that makes me want to take deep breaths.
“He’s sick, from his Ménière’s,” I say, trying not to sound as disappointed as I feel. Of course I want to see Emil, but I don’t like that he’s ill. He must be feeling really bad to have canceled.
“Ah, yeah.” Lionel leans on his broom. “He missed a bunch of school when he was first diagnosed. Kind of made me feel like I wasn’t such a freak for a while.”
“But…” I pause. “Do you feel like that now, since you’re not on your meds?”
“I felt like a freak after the diagnosis,” he says, clasping and unclasping his hands around the broomstick. “When there was a name for it, and all these things to look out for.… Before that, I was just me.”
I want to ask him how he’s sure which him is the real him, but I shouldn’t be asking questions I can’t answer myself. I don’t even know if I like girls or guys better or if it’s really and truly both.
“Well, you’re not a freak. Then or now,” I say definitively. “How are you feeling… since you’ve been off your meds?”
He shrugs. “Do I seem any different?”
He doesn’t, but he doesn’t seem as lighthearted as the day he told me he was going to stop taking them, either. Maybe it’s not working out like he wanted, and Lionel can be stubborn. What if he wants to take them but doesn’t want to go back on his word?
“No, you don’t.” The reluctance swells through in my voice, but I can’t help it. If he actually would have been fine without his meds this whole time, that means the last year was all for nothing. All the excessive worrying over his moods, and Mom worrying about my excessive worrying, and going away three thousand miles to Massachusetts.
But that’s not true. His mood could swing so low so quickly, and I know how serious that is.
At least he’s still seeing Dr. Tarrasch. He wouldn’t be able to get away with missing their appointments—she’d call Saul right away if he didn’t show. Lionel genuinely likes her, and if he doesn’t dread going, maybe he’ll want to take his meds again. They’ve gone hand in hand since the beginning, his pills and Dr. T.
“Good,” he says, the word clipped and final, as if that wraps up this conversation, and maybe any future conversations, about his mental health.
The air feels awkward and so, like most times we talk about this, I know the way to clear it is to change the subject.
“I got a job,” I say. “I’m going to hawk flowers.”
“What?” He laughs, and then, as if someone snapped their fingers between us, the tension fades. “You hate flowers.”
“I don’t hate them,” I say, and I’m surprised at how genuinely defensive I feel. “Peonies are nice.”
“Peonies, huh? Is that what’s dying on your dresser?”
“They were better when they were alive.”
“Aren’t most things?” And he sends the broom swishing across the floor once again.
ten.
My first day of work feels a bit like my first day of school.
Lionel offers to drop me off. The drive from our house to the flower shop is short, and my heart pounds faster the closer we get. I rest my palms on my jeans so the fabric will soak up some of the perspiration. I tell myself it’s new-job anxiety, that I’m not actually so nervous about seeing Rafaela again.
But I am. I’ve only been around her twice, and each time was just a few minutes. Maybe I won’t be attracted to her now that I’ve had some time away. It was the opposite with Emil; the months away from him made me realize how cute and sweet and strong he is, so maybe it could work the other way with Rafaela.
The sun is hitting the front window of the shop at the perfect angle for sunbathing, so I’m surprised to see the orange cat’s spot empty as I walk up to the store. The coffee shop next door is bursting with customers, including two bearded guys at a wrought-iron table out front, holding a painfully intense conversation over a pair of iced lattes.
Rafaela is staring down at her phone when I walk in, absentmindedly stroking the cat. He sits complacently next to the cash register, his gravelly purrs traveling all the way to the door.
She looks up when the bell jingles. “You made it,” she says, her mouth turning up in a small smile. Same plum lipstick.
I smile back and wonder if she can read my energy. Because her lips, they unnerve me. Being away from her a few days didn’t make a difference. The way I like Emil is different from the way I like Rafaela. I can’t explain it, but I know it’s not the same. And yet I didn’t expect that if I ever liked another girl it would feel so different from what I felt for Iris… and it does. Maybe it’s because I don’t know Rafaela well, but Iris reminds me more of Emil. Gentle and kind and a little bit serious.
Rafaela seems… very much her own person. Like she doesn’t care what people think of her. Maybe if I were more like her, I’d still be with Iris instead of wondering if returning to Dinsmore in the fall will ruin her entire year.
“Yeah, thanks.” I stand by the door because I’m not sure where I should be standing. I’m awkward, like my first day at Dinsmore, when I constantly felt like I was in the wrong place and doing the wrong thing, no matter where I went. “It was cool of you to get me the job.”
“Sorry it took me so long to get back to you.” She scratches under the cat’s collar and I look at her nails, at the polish still hanging on with jagged edges. “There was an incident.”
I wait for her to go on, but instead, she reaches under the counter and pulls out a folded piece of navy-blue cloth and holds it out in front of her. I walk over to take it—it’s my apron—and am reminded of how good she smells. Not any scent I’m used to. DeeDee is partial to floral fragrances, and Emil—well, he always smells like plain soap and I always notice that I like it. Iris wore nothing at all, but sometimes the scent of citrus would linger on her skin from the shower.
“You’re not allergic to cats, are you?” Rafaela’s eyes briefly flick to the ginger kitty still purring by her side. “Because Tucker kind of rules the roost around here.”
“Not allergic.” I set my leather messenger bag on the counter and carefully unfold the apron. “But my family isn’t really into animals. I mean, we like them, but Saul is allergic to dander, so we’ve never had any.”
“My aunt is a model cat lady. Tucker lives here at the shop, and she has two at home.” Rafaela is wearing a white tank top, ribbed and fitted. She plays with the strap on her right shoulder, the part that covers the burst of daisies inked onto her skin.
“Do you live with Ora?”