Love Is Louder (17 page)

Heartbreak is devastating. I fell into a deep sadness, believing something was wrong with me. I didn’t realize the extent of my obsession with him until I lost him. That’s what some friends said of the photos I took of him on the football field, at practice, and pretty much everywhere. He was my muse, and it was difficult to let go, but I had to. Why would I want to continue being with someone who betrayed me that way? The last I heard of him was the New York Giants had drafted him, and he moved to New York City.

Sighing, I shake my head of the old memories, throw on my sunglasses, and head outside into the sultry summer afternoon and blend into the sea of people. I proceed to the Starbucks,where my college eye candy is behind the counter waiting for me.

“Hi, Mrs. Fleming.” He grins, widening his eyes as he slides the double shot of espresso already in the paper cup.”The usual.”

“David, I told you about using ‘Mrs. Fleming.’ I’m not much older than you,” I reply, removing my sunglasses. Looking up, I see his eyes float over my body in admiration. I don’t know what it means.

Stop playing dumb. It’s called flirting. He’s attracted to you.

I can’t be more than six years older than him. Everyone says I can pass for twenty-four.

Did I do something different today? My hair? Makeup?

I drop my chin to my chest, noticing my dress does enhance my cleavage nicely. Trying to break the anxiety building in my stomach, I open my wallet and grab my credit card to pay for my coffee. Maybe this flirting thing has gone too far. I clear my throat and stare at the contents of my wallet while ignoring the part of me that is enjoying the attention.

What’s wrong with me?

“This one’s on me.” He leans across the counter as I go to hand him my credit card. I can smell the scent of his cologne as his gray eyes skim down the front of my dress. Yes, I admit he is very handsome. I don’t want to have to stop coming here, so I make it a point to place my left hand onto the counter so he can see the enormous rock on my finger that I don’t think he can afford by working at Starbucks. He doesn’t care or doesn’t bother looking down at my hand. His eyes are still pinned on me.

“You look nice today,
Brie,
” he says. “Pink is your color.”

My name slides off his tongue like warm melted chocolate. Perhaps, having him call me Mrs. Fleming isn’t so bad after all.

“Thank you,” I force out.

I don’t know what to do or say since his behavior is so sudden it makes my head spin. He went from being a sweet Boy Scout to a confident cocky man overnight. Was it something I said? Something I did? I’m questioning myself again. I have to get out here. I grab my coffee and smile politely before I turn to leave.

“See you tomorrow,” he says from behind me.

I exit the Starbucks and inhale a breath of fresh air before I blow on my espresso and take a sip. One thing about David is that he does make the best espressos, but now with the awkwardness of the moment, I may have to go elsewhere to get my caffeine fix or I can suck it up and pretend it never happened. I hate being forced to make changes when I’ve grown accustomed to my routine.

I plop my sunglasses on my nose and check the time on my watch, noting I have ten minutes. Walking down the crowded sidewalk, I cross the street to the florist shop to purchase a bouquet of flowers for the studio and feed this extreme curiosity of mine. I’ve come here a few times to buy flowers, but now, I see this place differently. The enigmatic Mason comes here. His girlfriend is here. This is insane.

Why is Mason suddenly taking over my thoughts?

I don’t answer the question because I have no answer.

The florist shop has been here a while. I remember how James’ mother complained about it, telling me that I wasn’t going to get my wedding bouquet from here because she had a bad experience with the owner, so we ended up going a town over to get fresh flowers. That’s Barbara Fleming. She spared no expense for the wedding. Everything was immaculate, down to the toothpicks. Regardless of Mrs. Fleming’s experience, Lily of the Meadow looks to be doing really well. As a small business owner, that is a promising sign for my own business.

Needless to say, standing in front of this place evokes other memories of James’ old friend that used to appear every time he was in town. He never told me her name. I didn’t want to know her name. All I wanted was for her to go away, and she did. Where she went, I don’t know, but wherever she is, I hope she’s happy and has found a man she can call her own.

I stroll inside the colorful airy shop. White wicker furniture, brick-colored slate floors that match the exposed brick wall, extravagant floral arrangements set atop glass tables, and freshly cut tulips greet me. I browse around for a couple of minutes and select a vibrant bouquet of pink hydrangeas and make my way to the register. My senses are on high alert, especially my tired eyes, which have now perked up when Mason’s girlfriend appears from the back carrying a bunch of white lilies. I’ve always exchanged pleasantries with her and an older woman the few times I’ve been here, but I’ve never lingered to chat. Today I feel compelled to talk as I get a glimpse of her name on the tag pinned to her yellow blouse.
Cindy.

“Good afternoon,” she greets as she lays down the flowers and comes around the back of the register. “I love these flowers. They really brighten up a room. Just make sure they get plenty of light, but not direct sun.” She takes flowers from me and begins to wrap them in yellow tissue paper.

“I will.” I smile warmly. I pull out my credit card to pay and survey the store, silently hoping Mason will show up.

But why?

This is his girlfriend standing in front of me.

This is so pathetic of me. But being a little curious never hurt anyone.

“Are you looking for something else?” she asks as she returns my credit card.

“No...no...” I shake my head, feeling ill at ease. I take my credit card and flick my eyes to a photo displayed behind the register. There’s no denying that it’s Mason, but the girl isn’t Cindy, which intrigues me even more so. The woman in the photo has her hair pulled back into a ponytail and is wearing a pink Yankees baseball cap. She is beaming with her arm wrapped around Mason’s waist.

Who is she, and what does Mason have to do with this flower shop?

The ringing phone near the register startles me as I try to connect the dots about a man’s life that has suddenly piqued my interest.

“Are you all set?” she asks as she wipes her hands on her apron, ready to pick up the phone.

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry. I’m good,” I say quickly, averting my eyes. “Thanks for everything.”

“Thanks for coming in,” she says before answering the phone. I pick up my bouquet and maneuver through the shop with my thoughts still absorbed by Mason and his link to this place when a voice shatters my peace.

“Brie, is that you?”

The sound makes chills snake down my spine.

What the hell is she doing here?

I prepare myself by taking a deep breath and cautiously glance over my shoulder. It’s the one and only Barbara Fleming standing in front of the register with a bouquet of red and white tulips ready to cash out.

“I thought that was you.”

How the hell did I miss her in that bright red designer suit and overpowering scent of Chanel N°5? My jaw hits the floor. The fact she’s acknowledging me in public is shocking.

“Hi,” I say, fighting to keep my voice light. Reluctantly plodding over to her, I give and receive the standard and unavoidable kiss on the cheek. “Beautiful tulips,” I add as I pull away to admire her flowers.

I hate conversing with this woman, so I keep my banter generic. As soon as we start talking about careers and goals, all hell breaks loose, and I cannot stomach more than one minute of her. James knows this.

“Thank you. Simple but classic.”

What does this woman know about simple and classic? She never leaves the house without diamonds adorning her neck, ears, and wrists, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without a full mask of cosmetics.

I stare at her and bite back words of retort as she drops her gaze and moves to dig into her Louis Vuitton handbag.

“What’s the special occasion?” I hold my gaze on her face until she looks up in exasperation, our eyes meeting as she pulls out her matching wallet to pay. Her eyes flicker and darken, and I immediately wish I hadn’t stopped here, but fate is a fickle little bitch, and my luck is just plain horrible.

“Just wanted to brighten up someone’s day,” she admits with a hint of cynicism.

Wow. Barbara doing something nice for someone. This is a first. Has she been drinking?

I steal a glance at my watch—the universal sign that means
you’re boring the shit out of me
.

“I’m sorry, but I’m expecting a client at the studio in five minutes. I don’t want to be late,” I disclose my half-truth eagerly. “It was nice seeing you.”

“Yes...” She smirks.

My eyes narrow on her mouth, knowing she thinks of my job as nothing but a hobby because she reminds me quite often.

“Tell James to call me. I miss him.”

“I will.” I breathe a sigh of relief and catch Cindy’s curious eyes as I run out onto the busy sidewalk. When the sun touches my skin, the chill of Barbara Fleming dispels.

Because of Barbara, I arrive at the studio five minutes late. She’s good at screwing up most people’s plans.

“Is my next appointment here?” I ask Ashley as I enter the reception area and hand her the hydrangeas.

“Yes, they just went to the restroom to freshen up, and they’ll be right out.”

“Okay. Will you put the flowers in a vase and then tell them to come on back, please?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll show them back.”

I take the information with me on Lily Marks, a four-year-old girl. I run my finger down the list of her favorite things

Shoot. I wish I had taken the time to look at these notes earlier so that I could have grabbed the white lilies on her list since I was just at the florist.

Regardless, I have to make do with what I have in the studio. Placing the paper down, I begin to set up the backdrop with something pink, as it is noted that pink is her favorite color. I’m not sure what is taking so long, as ten minutes have passed, and I was hoping to leave here by three today. It’s already ten after two, and this shoot is booked for one hour.

“Hi!” A cheery voice breaks my thoughts. A little girl in a pink dress with bouncy dark brown curls carrying white lilies comes to stand in front of me as I’m kneeling down to adjust the tripod and camera for the shoot.

“You must be Lily.” I look into a set of beautiful blue-green eyes and a perfect heart-shaped face. A dull ache presses my heart at the thought of kids. It saddens me that the only time I get to interact with children is during my photos shoots. I fantasize about having my own and having this perfect little girl in front of me generates the same feeling of loss. I wrestle with the tears that threaten to break. I’m not going to run into the bathroom and lock the door; I’m going to get through this last shoot and let the waterworks flow later.

“Yes!” she squeaks, eyeing me with interest.

I turn my gaze from her for a moment, straighten up, and extend my hand to the older woman with whom she arrived. There is a familiarity to her face, like I know her.

Where have I seen her before?

I’m not sure if it is her nanny or her grandmother. I don’t want to assume since many families in town employ nannies to take care of their kids. If I had my own child, I’d be against a nanny. I wouldn’t want to miss my child’s first steps or first word. The idea of a nanny capturing those moments instead of me is not something I wish for my child or me.

My parents hired a Spanish nanny named Ida when I was growing up. She was a short, round woman, and I remember her always waiting for me after school, calling me her ‘
Pequeña
Arie.’

Not that my parents wanted to pass me off to someone else while they went on vacations or played golf, it was quite the opposite. They worked long hours; my dad was a CFO of a large marketing firm, and my mother was a buyer for Bloomingdale’s, so they both traveled a great deal. I spent most of my time with Ida and eventually learned Spanish along the way. When my parents spent time together, they doted on me, and I never felt unloved.

“Hi, I’m Katherine, Lily’s grandmother, and as you can see, Lily is really excited to have her picture taken.”

“I’m going to be four on the Fourth of July,” Lily says, holding up four tiny fingers.

“Wow, four is a fun age, and the Fourth of July is one of my favorite holidays.”

“Mine, too!”

“Well.” I lean down and plaster a gigantic smile on my face, saying, “Today is going to be so much fun.”

The little munchkin beams at me, throwing her arms up and twirling around, making her pink frilly dress flare out.

“Yay!”

“I hope you don’t mind, but I have to leave for a doctor’s appointment at three, but her…uh—” Katherine hesitates.

“My daddy is going to come and pick me up!” Lily interrupts her grandmother who shoots me an apologetic smile.

“Yes, her
daddy
is coming to pick her up,” she mutters, squeezing Lily’s hand. She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “He should be here at three. He’s very punctual, especially when it comes to Lily.”

“That’s not a problem.” I drop my eyes back down to the little princess. “You ready?” She bounces on her toes and clasps her hands together, her eyes lighting up.

“Yep!”

Lily is a ball of photogenic energy, singing, giggling, jumping, and skipping everywhere. The hour flew by, and I didn’t notice when her grandmother left for her doctor’s appointment. Throughout the photo shoot, I wondered what her parents looked like, and in a short five minutes, I would find out if she looked more like her dad or her mother.

I let Ashley leave a few minutes early and asked her to leave the front door open, so Lily’s dad would be able to enter. So enamored with this little princess, I wasn’t aware of my surroundings. My mind was drifting to having my own pictures taken with my child. I have to stop doing this to myself. It’s not healthy. Emotionally, it’s just too much.