As I sit here with one foot on either side of the ledge, looking down

from twelve stories above the streets of Boston, I can’t help but think

about suicide.

Not my own. I like my life enough to want to see it through.

I’m more focused on other people, and how they ultimately come

to the decision to just end their own lives. Do they ever regret it? In the

moment after letting go and the second before they make impact,

there has to be a little bit of remorse in that brief free fall. Do they

look at the ground as it rushes toward them and think, “Well, crap.

This was a bad idea.”

Somehow, I think not.

I think about death a lot. Particularly today, considering I just—

twelve hours earlier—gave one of the most epic eulogies the people

of Plethora, Maine, have ever witnessed. Okay, maybe it wasn’t the

most epic. It very well could be considered the most disastrous. I guess

that would depend on whether you were asking my mother or me. My

mother, who probably won’t speak to me for a solid year after today.

Don’t get me wrong; the eulogy I delivered wasn’t profound

enough to make history, like the one Brooke Shields delivered at

Michael Jackson’s funeral. Or the one delivered by Steve Jobs’s sister.

Or Pat Tillman’s brother. But it was epic in its own way.

I was nervous at first. It was the funeral of the prodigious Andrew

Bloom, after all. Adored mayor of my hometown of Plethora, Maine.

Owner of the most successful real-estate agency within city limits.

Husband of the highly adored Jenny Bloom, the most revered

teaching assistant in all of Plethora. And father of Lily Bloom—that

strange girl with the erratic red hair who once fell in love with a

homeless guy and brought great shame upon her entire family.

That would be me. I’m Lily Bloom, and Andrew was my father.

Straight back to Boston and hijacked the first roof I could find. Again,

not because I’m suicidal. I have no plans to scale off this roof. I just

really needed fresh air and silence, and dammit if I can’t get that

from my third floor apartment with absolutely no rooftop access and

a roommate who likes to hear herself sing.

I didn’t account for how cold it would be up here, though. It’s not

unbearable, but it’s not comfortable, either. At least I can see the

stars. Dead fathers and exasperating roommates and questionable

eulogies don’t feel so awful when the night sky is clear enough to

literally feel the grandeur of the universe.

I love it when the sky makes me feel insignificant.

I like tonight.

Well . . . let me rephrase this so that it more appropriately reflects

my feelings in past tense.

I liked tonight.

But unfortunately for me, the door was just shoved open so hard, I

expect the stairwell to spit a human out onto the rooftop. The door

slams shut again and footsteps move swiftly across the deck. I don’t

even bother looking up. Whoever it is more than likely won’t even

notice me back here straddling the ledge to the left of the door. They

came out here in such a hurry, it isn’t my fault if they assume they’re

alone.

I sigh quietly, close my eyes and lean my head against the stucco

wall behind me, cursing the universe for ripping this peaceful,

introspective moment out from under me. The least the universe

could do for me today is ensure that it’s a woman and not a man. If

I’m going to have company, I’d rather it be a female. I’m tough for

my size and can probably hold my own in most cases, but I’m too

comfortable right now to be on a rooftop alone with a strange man in

the middle of the night. I might fear for my safety and feel the need

to leave, and I really don’t want to leave. As I said before . . . I’m

comfortable.

I finally allow my eyes to make the journey to the silhouette leaning

over the ledge. As luck would have it, he’s definitely male. Even

leaning over the rail, I can tell he’s tall. Broad shoulders create a

strong contrast to the fragile way he’s holding his head in his hands. I can barely make out the heavy rise and fall of his back as he drags in

deep breaths and forces them back out when he’s done with them.

He appears to be on the verge of a breakdown. I contemplate

speaking up to let him know he has company, or clearing my throat,

but between thinking it and actually doing it, he spins around and

kicks one of the patio chairs behind him.

I flinch as it screeches across the deck, but being as though he isn’t

even aware he has an audience, the guy doesn’t stop with just one

kick. He kicks the chair repeatedly, over and over. Rather than give

way beneath the blunt force of his foot, all the chair does is scoot

farther and farther away from him.

That chair must be made from marine-grade polymer.

I once watched my father back over an outdoor patio table made of

marine-grade polymer, and it practically laughed at him. Dented his

bumper, but didn’t even put a scratch on the table.

This guy must realize he’s no match for such a high-quality

material, because he finally stops kicking the chair. He’s now standing

over it, his hands clenched in fists at his sides. To be honest, I’m a

little envious. Here this guy is, taking his aggression out on patio

furniture like a champ. He’s obviously had a shitty day, as have I, but

whereas I keep my aggression pent up until it manifests in the form of

passive-aggressiveness, this guy actually has an outlet.

My outlet used to be gardening. Any time I was stressed, I’d just go

out to the backyard and pull every single weed I could find. But since

the day I moved to Boston two years ago, I haven’t had a backyard. Or

a patio. I don’t even have weeds.

Maybe I need to invest in a marine-grade polymer patio chair.

I stare at the guy a moment longer, wondering if he’s ever going to

move. He’s just standing there, staring down at the chair. His hands

aren’t in fists anymore. They’re resting on his hips, and I notice for

the first time how his shirt doesn’t fit him very well around his biceps.

It fits him everywhere else, but his arms are huge. He begins fishing

around in his pockets until he finds what he’s looking for and—in

what I’m sure is probably an effort to release even more of his

aggression—he lights up a joint.

I’m twenty-three, I’ve been through college and have done this

very same recreational dr*g a time or two. I’m not going to judge this guy for feeling the need to toke up in private. But that’s the thing—

he’s not in private. He just doesn’t know that yet.

He takes in a long drag of his joint and starts to turn back toward

the ledge. He notices me on the exhale. He stops walking the second

our eyes meet. His expression holds no shock, nor does it hold

amusement when he sees me. He’s about ten feet away, but there’s

enough light from the stars that I can see his eyes as they slowly drag

over my body without revealing a single thought. This guy holds his

cards well. His gaze is narrow and his mouth is drawn tight, like a

male version of the Mona Lisa.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

I feel his voice in my stomach. That’s not good. Voices should stop

at the ears, but sometimes—not very often at all, actually—a voice will

penetrate past my ears and reverberate straight down through my

body. He has one of those voices. Deep, confident, and a little bit like

butter.

When I don’t answer him, he brings the joint back to his mouth

and takes another hit.

“Lily,” I finally say. I hate my voice. It sounds too weak to even reach

his ears from here, much less reverberate inside his body.

He lifts his chin a little and nudges his head toward me. “Will you

please get down from there, Lily?”

It isn’t until he says this that I notice his posture. He’s standing

straight up now, rigid even. Almost as if he’s nervous I’m going to fall.

I’m not. This ledge is at least a foot wide, and I’m mostly on the roof

side. I could easily catch myself before I fell, not to mention I’ve got

the wind in my favor.

I glance down at my legs and then back up at him. “No, thanks. I’m

quite comfortable where I am.”

He turns a little, like he can’t look straight at me. “Please get

down.” It’s more of a demand now, despite his use of the word please.

“There are seven empty chairs up here.”

“Almost six,” I correct, reminding him that he just tried to murder

one of them. He doesn’t find the humor in my response. When I fail

to follow his orders, he takes a couple of steps closer.

“You are a mere three inches from falling to your death. I’ve been

around enough of that for one day.” He motions for me to get down again. “You’re making me nervous. Not to mention ruining my high.”

I roll my eyes and swing my legs over. “Heaven forbid a joint go to

waste.” I hop down and wipe my hands across my jeans. “Better?” I say

as I walk toward him.

He lets out a rush of air, as if seeing me on the ledge actually had

him holding his breath. I pass him to head for the side of the roof

with the better view, and as I do, I can’t help but notice how

unfortunately cute he is.

No. Cute is an insult.

This guy is beautiful. Well-manicured, smells like money, looks to be

several years older than me. His eyes crinkle in the corners as they

follow me, and his lips seem to frown, even when they aren’t. When I

reach the side of the building that overlooks the street, I lean forward

and stare down at the cars below, trying not to appear impressed by

him. I can tell by his haircut alone that he’s the kind of man people

are easily impressed by, and I refuse to feed into his ego. Not that he’s

done anything to make me think he even has one. But he is wearing a

casual Burberry shirt, and I’m not sure I’ve ever been on the radar of

someone who could casually afford one.

I hear footsteps approaching from behind, and then he leans

against the railing next to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as

he takes another hit of his joint. When he’s finished, he offers it to

me, but I wave it off. The last thing I need is to be under the

influence around this guy. His voice is a drug in itself. I kind of want

to hear it again, so I throw a question in his direction.

“So what did that chair do to make you so angry?”

He looks at me. Like really looks at me. His eyes meet mine and he

just stares, hard, like all my secrets are right there on my face. I’ve

never seen eyes as dark as his. Maybe I have, but they seem darker

when they’re attached to such an intimidating presence. He doesn’t

answer my question, but my curiosity isn’t easily put to rest. If he’s

going to force me down from a very peaceful, comfortable ledge, then

I expect him to entertain me with answers to my nosy questions.

“Was it a woman?” I inquire. “Did she break your heart?”

He laughs a little with that question. “If only my issues were as

trivial as matters of the heart.” He leans into the wall so that he can

face me. “What floor do you live on?” He licks his fingers and pinches the end of his joint, then puts it back in his pocket. “I’ve never

noticed you before.”

“That’s because I don’t live here.” I point in the direction of my

apartment. “See that insurance building?”

He squints as he looks in the direction I’m pointing. “Yeah.”

“I live in the building next to it. It’s too short to see from here. It’s

only three stories tall.”

He’s facing me again, resting his elbow on the ledge. “If you live

over there, why are you here? Your boyfriend live here or something?”

His comment somehow makes me feel cheap. It was too easy—an

amateurish pickup line. From the looks of this guy, I know he has

better skills than that. It makes me think he saves the more difficult

pickup lines for the women he deems worthy.

“You have a nice roof,” I tell him.

He lifts an eyebrow, waiting for more of an explanation.

“I wanted fresh air. Somewhere to think. I pulled up Google Earth

and found the closest apartment complex with a decent rooftop

patio.”

He regards me with a smile. “At least you’re economical,” he says.

“That’s a good quality to have.”

At least?

I nod, because I am economical. And it is a good quality to have.

“Why did you need fresh air?” he asks.

Because I buried my father today and gave an epically disastrous eulogy

and now I feel like I can’t breathe.

I face forward again and slowly exhale. “Can we just not talk for a

little while?”

He seems a bit relieved that I asked for silence. He leans over the

ledge and lets an arm dangle as he stares down at the street. He stays

like this for a while, and I stare at him the entire time. He probably

knows I’m staring, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“A guy fell off this roof last month,” he says.

I would be annoyed at his lack of respect for my request for silence,

but I’m kind of intrigued.

“Was it an accident?”

He shrugs. “No one knows. It happened late in the evening. His

wife said she was cooking dinner and he told her he was coming up here to take some pictures of the sunset. He was a photographer.

They think he was leaning over the ledge to get a shot of the skyline,

and he slipped.”

I look over the ledge, wondering how someone could possibly put

themselves in a situation where they could fall by accident. But then I

remember I was just straddling the ledge on the other side of the roof

a few minutes ago.

“When my sister told me what happened, the only thing I could

think about was whether or not he got the shot. I was hoping his

camera didn’t fall with him, because that would have been a real

waste, you know? To die because of your love of photography, but you

didn’t even get the final shot that cost you your life?”

His thought makes me laugh. Although I’m not sure I should have

laughed at that. “Do you always say exactly what’s on your mind?”

He shrugs. “Not to most people.”

This makes me smile. I like that he doesn’t even know me, but for

whatever reason, I’m not considered most people to him.

He rests his back against the ledge and folds his arms over his

chest. “Were you born here?”

I shake my head. “No. Moved here from Maine after I graduated

college.”

He scrunches up his nose, and it’s kind of hot. Watching this guy—

dressed in his Burberry shirt with his two-hundred-dollar haircut—

making silly faces.

“So you’re in Boston purgatory, huh? That’s gotta suck.”

“What do you mean?” I ask him.

The corner of his mouth curls up. “The tourists treat you like a

local; the locals treat you like a tourist.”

I laugh. “Wow. That’s a very accurate description.”

“I’ve been here two months. I’m not even in purgatory yet, so

you’re doing better than I am.”

“What brought you to Boston?”

“My residency. And my sister lives here.” He taps his foot and says,

“Right beneath us, actually. Married a tech-savvy Bostonian and they

bought the entire top floor.”

I look down. “The entire top floor?”

He nods. “Lucky bastard works from home. Doesn’t even have to

change out of his pajamas and makes seven figures a year.”

Lucky bastard, indeed.

“What kind of residency? Are you a doctor?”

He nods. “Neurosurgeon. Less than a year left of my residency and

then it’s official.”

Stylish, well spoken, and smart. And smokes pot. If this were an SAT

question, I would ask which one didn’t belong. “Should doctors be

smoking weed?”

He smirks. “Probably not. But if we didn’t indulge on occasion,

there would be a lot more of us taking the leap over these ledges, I

can promise you that.” He’s facing forward again with his chin resting

on his arms. His eyes are closed now, like he’s enjoying the wind

against his face. He doesn’t look as intimidating like this.

“You want to know something that only the locals know?”

“Of course,” he says, bringing his attention back to me.

I point to the east. “See that building? The one with the green

roof?”

He nods.

“There’s a building behind it on Melcher. There’s a house on top

of the building. Like a legit house, built right on the rooftop. You

can’t see it from the street, and the building is so tall that not many

people even know about it.”

He looks impressed. “Really?”

I nod. “I saw it when I was searching Google Earth, so I looked it

up. Apparently a permit was granted for the construction in 1982.

How cool would that be? To live in a house on top of a building?”

“You’d get the whole roof to yourself,” he says.

I hadn’t thought of that. If I owned it I could plant gardens up

there. I’d have an outlet.

“Who lives there?” he asks.

“No one really knows. It’s one of the great mysteries of Boston.”

He laughs and then looks at me inquisitively. “What’s another great

mystery of Boston?”

“Your name.” As soon as I say it, I slap my hand against my

forehead. It sounded so much like a cheesy pickup line; the only

thing I can do is laugh at myself.

He smiles. “It’s Ryle,” he says. “Ryle Kincaid.”

I sigh, sinking into myself. “That’s a really great name.”

“Why do you sound sad about it?”

“Because, I’d give anything for a great name.”

“You don’t like the name Lily?”

I tilt my head and cock an eyebrow. “My last name . . . is Bloom.”

He’s quiet. I can feel him trying to hold back his pity.

“I know. It’s awful. It’s the name of a two-year-old little girl, not a

twenty-three-year-old woman.”

“A two-year-old girl will have the same name no matter how old she

gets. Names aren’t something we eventually grow out of, Lily Bloom.”

“Unfortunately for me,” I say. “But what makes it even worse is that

I absolutely love gardening. I love flowers. Plants. Growing things. It’s

my passion. It’s always been my dream to open a florist shop, but I’m

afraid if I did, people wouldn’t think my desire was authentic. They

would think I was trying to capitalize off my name and that being a

florist isn’t really my dream job.”

“Maybe so,” he says. “But what’s that matter?”

“It doesn’t, I suppose.” I catch myself whispering, “Lily Bloom’s”

quietly. I can see him smiling a little bit. “It really is a great name for a

florist. But I have a master’s degree in business. I’d be downgrading,

don’t you think? I work for the biggest marketing firm in Boston.”

“Owning your own business isn’t downgrading,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow. “Unless it flops.”

He nods in agreement. “Unless it flops,” he says. “So what’s your

middle name, Lily Bloom?”

I groan, which makes him perk up.

“You mean it gets worse?”

I drop my head in my hands and nod.

“Rose?”

I shake my head. “Worse.”

“Violet?”

“I wish.” I cringe and then mutter, “Blossom.”

There’s a moment of silence. “Goddamn,” he says softly.

“Yeah. Blossom is my mother’s maiden name and my parents

thought it was fate that their last names were synonyms. So of course

when they had me, a flower was their first choice.”

“Your parents must be real assholes.”

One of them is. Was. “My father died this week.”

He glances at me. “Nice try. I’m not falling for that.”

“I’m serious. That’s why I came up here tonight. I think I just

needed a good cry.”

He stares at me suspiciously for a moment to make sure I’m not

pulling his leg. He doesn’t apologize for the blunder. Instead, his eyes

grow a little more curious, like his intrigue is actually authentic. “Were

you close?”

That’s a hard question. I rest my chin on my arms and look down at

the street again. “I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. “As his daughter, I

loved him. But as a human, I hated him.”

I can feel him watching me for a moment, and then he says, “I like

that. Your honesty.”

He likes my honesty. I think I might be blushing.

We’re both quiet again for a while, and then he says, “Do you ever

wish people were more transparent?”

“How so?”

He picks at a piece of chipped stucco with his thumb until it breaks

loose. He flicks it over the ledge. “I feel like everyone fakes who they

really are, when deep down we’re all equal amounts of screwed up.

Some of us are just better at hiding it than others.”

Either his high is setting in, or he’s just very introspective. Either

way, I’m okay with it. My favorite conversations are the ones with no

real answers.

“I don’t think being a little guarded is a negative thing,” I say.

“Naked truths aren’t always pretty.”

He stares at me for a moment. “Naked truths,” he repeats. “I like

that.” He turns around and walks to the middle of the rooftop. He

adjusts the back on one of the patio loungers behind me and lowers

himself onto it. It’s the kind you lie on, so he pulls his hands behind

his head and looks up at the sky. I claim the one next to him and

adjust it until I’m in the same position as him.

“Tell me a ***** truth, Lily.”

“Pertaining to what?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Something you aren’t proud of.

Something that will make me feel a little less screwed up on the inside.”

He’s staring up at the sky, waiting on me to answer. My eyes follow

the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheeks, the outline of his lips. His

eyebrows are drawn together in contemplation. I don’t understand

why, but he seems to need conversation right now. I think about his

question and try to find an honest answer. When I come up with one,

I look away from him and back up to the sky.

“My father was abusive. Not to me—to my mother. He would get so

angry when they fought that sometimes he would hit her. When that

happened, he would spend the next week or two making up for it. He

would do things like buy her flowers or take us out to a nice dinner.

Sometimes he would buy me stuff because he knew I hated it when

they fought. When I was a kid, I found myself looking forward to the

nights they would fight. Because I knew if he hit her, the two weeks

that followed would be great.” I pause. I’m not sure I’ve ever admitted

that to myself. “Of course if I could, I would have made it to where he

never touched her. But the abuse was inevitable with their marriage,

and it became our norm. When I got older, I realized that not doing

something about it made me just as guilty. I spent most of my life

hating him for being such a bad person, but I’m not so sure I’m much

better. Maybe we’re both bad people.”

Ryle looks over at me with a thoughtful expression. “Lily,” he says

pointedly. “There is no such thing as bad people. We’re all just people

who sometimes do bad things.”

I open my mouth to respond, but his words strike me silent. We’re

all just people who sometimes do bad things. I guess that’s true in a way. No

one is exclusively bad, nor is anyone exclusively good. Some are just

forced to work harder at suppressing the bad.

“Your turn,” I tell him.

Based on his reaction, I think he might not want to play his own

game. He sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair. He opens

his mouth to speak, but then clamps it shut again. He thinks for a bit,

and then finally speaks. “I watched a little boy die tonight.” His voice

is despondent. “He was only five years old. He and his little brother

found a gun in his parents’ bedroom. The younger brother was

holding it and it went off by accident.”

My stomach flips. I think this may be a little too much truth for me.

“There was nothing that could be done by the time he made it to

the operating table. Everyone around—nurses, other doctors—they

all felt so sorry for the family. ‘Those poor parents,’ they said. But when I

had to walk into the waiting room and tell those parents that their

child didn’t make it, I didn’t feel an ounce of sorrow for them. I

wanted them to suffer. I wanted them to feel the weight of their

ignorance for keeping a loaded gun within access of two innocent

children. I wanted them to know that not only did they just lose a

child, they just ruined the entire life of the one who accidentally

pulled the trigger.”

Jesus Christ. I wasn’t prepared for something so heavy.

I can’t even conceive how a family moves past that. “That poor

boy’s brother,” I say. “I can’t imagine what that’s going to do to him—

seeing something like that.”

Ryle flicks something off the knee of his jeans. “It’ll destroy him for

life, that’s what it’ll do.”

I turn on my side to face him, lifting my head up onto my hand. “Is

it hard? Seeing things like that every day?”

He gives his head a slight shake. “It should be a lot harder, but the

more I’m around death, the more it just becomes a part of life. I’m

not sure how I feel about that.” He makes eye contact with me again.

“Give me another one,” he says. “I feel like mine was a little more

twisted than yours.”

I disagree, but I tell him about the twisted thing I did a mere twelve

hours ago.

“My mother asked me two days ago if I would deliver the eulogy at

my father’s funeral today. I told her I didn’t feel comfortable—that I

might be crying too hard to speak in front of a crowd—but that was a

lie. I just didn’t want to do it because I feel like eulogies should be

delivered by those who respected the deceased. And I didn’t much

respect my father.”

“Did you do it?”

I nod. “Yeah. This morning.” I sit up and pull my legs beneath me

as I face him. “You want to hear it?”

He smiles. “Absolutely.”

I fold my hands in my lap and inhale a breath. “I had no idea what

to say. About an hour before the funeral, I told my mother I didn’twant to do it. She said it was simple and that my father would have

wanted me to do it. She said all I had to do was walk up to the podium

and say five great things about my father. So . . . that’s exactly what I

did.”

Ryle lifts up onto his elbow, appearing even more interested. He

can tell by the look on my face that it gets worse. “Oh, no, Lily. What

did you do?”

“Here. Let me just reenact it for you.” I stand up and walk around

to the other side of my chair. I stand tall and act like I’m looking out

over the same crowded room I was met with this morning. I clear my

throat.

“Hello. My name is Lily Bloom, daughter of the late Andrew

Bloom. Thank you all for joining us today as we mourn his loss. I

wanted to take a moment to honor his life by sharing with you five

great things about my father. The first thing . . .”

I look down at Ryle and shrug. “That’s it.”

He sits up. “What do you mean?”

I take a seat on my lounge chair and lie back down. “I stood up

there for two solid minutes without saying another word. There wasn’t

one great thing I could say about that man—so I just stared silently at

the crowd until my mother realized what I was doing and had my

uncle remove me from the podium.”

Ryle tilts his head. “Are you kidding me? You gave the anti-eulogy

at your own father’s funeral?”

I nod. “I’m not proud of it. I don’t think. I mean, if I had my way,

he would have been a much better person and I would have stood up

there and talked for an hour.”

Ryle lies back down. “Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re kind

of my hero. You just roasted a dead guy.”

“That’s tacky.”

“Yeah, well. ***** truth hurts.”

I laugh. “Your turn.”

“I can’t top that,” he says.

“I’m sure you can come close.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes you can. Don’t make me feel like the worst

person out of the two of us. Tell me the most recent thought you’ve had that most people wouldn’t say out loud.”

He pulls his hands up behind his head and looks me straight in the

eye. “I want to **** you.”

My mouth falls open. Then I clamp it shut again.

I think I might be speechless.

He shoots me a look of innocence. “You asked for the most recent

thought, so I gave it to you. You’re beautiful. I’m a guy. If you were

into one-night stands, I would take you downstairs to my bedroom

and I would **** you.”

I can’t even look at him. His statement makes me feel a multitude

of things all at once.

“Well, I’m not into one-night stands.”

“I figured as much,” he says. “Your turn.”

He’s so nonchalant; he acts as if he didn’t just stun me into silence.

“I need a minute to regroup after that one,” I say with a laugh. I try

to think of something with a little shock value, but I can’t get over the

fact that he just said that. Out loud. Maybe because he’s a

neurosurgeon and I never pictured someone so educated throwing

around the word **** so casually.

I gather myself . . . somewhat . . . and then say, “Okay. Since we’re

on the subject . . . the first guy I ever had sex with was homeless.”

He perks up and faces me. “Oh, I’m gonna need more of this

story.”

I stretch my arm out and rest my head on it. “I grew up in Maine.

We lived in a fairly decent neighborhood, but the street behind our

house wasn’t in the best condition. Our backyard butted up to a

condemned house adjacent to two abandoned lots. I became friends

with a guy named Atlas who stayed in the condemned house. No one

knew he was living there other than me. I used to take him food and

clothes and stuff. Until my father found out.”

“What’d he do?”

My jaw tightens. I don’t know why I brought this up when I still

force myself not to think about it on a daily basis. “He beat him up.”

That’s as ***** as I want to get about that subject. “Your turn.”

He regards me silently for a moment, as if he knows there’s more

to that story. But then he breaks eye contact. “The thought of

marriage repulses me,” he says. “I’m almost thirty years old and I have no desire for a wife. I especially don’t want children. The only thing I

want out of life is success. Lots of it. But if I admit that out loud to

anyone, it makes me sound arrogant.”

“Professional success? Or social status?”

He says, “Both. Anyone can have children. Anyone can get

married. But not everyone can be a neurosurgeon. I get a lot of pride

out of that. And I don’t just want to be a great neurosurgeon. I want

to be the best in my field.”

“You’re right. It does make you sound arrogant.”

He smiles. “My mother fears I’m wasting my life away because all I

do is work.”

“You’re a neurosurgeon and your mother is disappointed in you?” I

laugh. “Good lord, that’s insane. Are parents ever really happy with

their children? Will they ever be good enough?”

He shakes his head. “My children wouldn’t be. Not many people

have the drive I do, so I’d only be setting them up for failure. That’s

why I’ll never have any.”

“I actually think that’s respectable, Ryle. A lot of people refuse to

admit they might be too selfish to have children.”

He shakes his head. “Oh, I’m way too selfish to have children. And

I’m definitely way too selfish to be in a relationship.”

“So how do you avoid it? You just don’t date?”

He cuts his eyes to me, and there’s a slight grin affixed to his face.

“When I have time, there are girls who satisfy those needs. I don’t lack

for anything in that department, if that’s what you’re asking. But love

has never appealed to me. It’s always been more of a burden than

anything.”

I wish I looked at love like that. It would make my life a hell of a lot

easier. “I envy you. I have this idea that there’s a perfect man out

there for me. I tend to become jaded easily, because no one ever

meets my standards. I feel like I’m on an infinite search for the Holy

Grail.”

“You should try my method,” he says.

“Which is?”

“One-night stands.” He raises an eyebrow, like it’s an invitation.

I’m glad it’s dark, because my face is on fire. “I could never sleep

with someone if I didn’t see it going anywhere.” I say this out loud,but my words lack conviction when I say it to him.

He drags in a long, slow breath, and then rolls onto his back. “Not

that kind of girl, huh?” He says this with a trace of disappointment in

his voice.

I match his disappointment. I’m not sure I’d even want to turn him

down if he made a move, but I might have just thwarted that

possibility.

“If you wouldn’t sleep with someone you just met . . .” His eyes meet

mine again. “Exactly how far would you go?”

I don’t have an answer for that. I roll onto my back because the way

he’s looking at me makes me want to rethink one-night stands. I’m

not necessarily against them, I suppose. I’ve just never been

propositioned for one by someone I would consider it with.

Until now. I think. Is he even propositioning me? I’ve always been

terrible at flirting.

He reaches out and grabs the edge of my lounge chair. In one swift

movement and with very minimal effort, he drags my chair closer to

him until it bumps his.

My whole body stiffens. He’s so close now, I can feel the warmth of

his breath cutting through the cold air. If I were to look at him, his

face would be mere inches from mine. I refuse to look at him,

because he’d probably kiss me and I know absolutely nothing about

this guy, other than a couple of ***** truths. But that doesn’t weigh

on my conscience at all when he rests a heavy hand on my stomach.

“How far would you go, Lily?” His voice is decadent. Smooth. It

travels straight to my toes.

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

His fingers begin to crawl toward the hem of my shirt. He begins to

slowly inch it upward until a slither of my stomach is showing. “Oh,

Jesus,” I whisper, feeling the warmth from his hand as he slides it up

my stomach.

Against my better judgment, I face him again and the look in his

eyes completely captivates me. He looks hopeful and hungry and

completely confident. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as his

hand begins to tease its way up my shirt. I know he can feel my heart

thrashing around in my chest. Hell, he can probably hear it.

“Is this too far?” he asks.

I don’t know where this side of me is coming from, but I shake my

head and say, “Not even close.”

With a grin, his fingers brush the underneath of my bra, lightly

trickling over my skin that is now covered in chills.

As soon as my eyelids fall shut, the piercing of a ring rips through

the air. His hand stiffens when we both realize it’s a phone. His

phone.

He drops his forehead to my shoulder. “Dammit.”

I frown when his hand slips out from beneath my shirt. He fumbles

in his pocket for his phone, standing up and walking several feet away

from me to take the call.

“Dr. Kincaid,” he says. He listens intently, his hand gripping the

back of his neck. “What about Roberts? I’m not even supposed to be

on call right now.” More silence is followed with, “Yeah, give me ten

minutes. On my way.”

He ends the call and slides his phone back in his pocket. When he

turns to face me, he looks a little disappointed. He points to the door

that leads to the stairwell. “I have to . . .”

I nod. “It’s fine.”

He considers me for a moment, and then holds up a finger. “Don’t

move,” he says, reaching for his phone again. He walks closer and

holds it up as if he’s about to snap a picture of me. I almost object,

but I don’t even know why. I’m fully clothed. It just doesn’t feel that

way for some reason.

He snaps a picture of me lying in the lounge chair, my arms

relaxed above my head. I have no idea what he plans to do with that

picture, but I like that he took it. I like that he had the urge to

remember what I look like, even though he knows he’ll never see me

again.

He stares at the photo on his screen for a few seconds and smiles.

I’m half-tempted to take a picture of him in return, but I’m not sure I

want a reminder of someone I’ll never see again. The thought of that

is a little depressing.

“It was nice meeting you, Lily Bloom. I hope you defy the odds of

most dreams and actually accomplish yours.”

I smile, equally saddened and confused by this guy. I’m not sure

that I’ve ever spent time with someone like him before—someone of a completely different lifestyle and tax bracket. I probably never will

again. But I’m pleasantly surprised to see that we aren’t all that

different.

Misconception confirmed.

He looks down at his feet for a moment as he stands in somewhat

of an unsure pose. It’s as if he’s suspended between the desire to say

something else to me and the need to leave. He glances at me one last

time—this time without so much of a poker face. I can see the

disappointment in the set of his mouth before he turns and walks in

the other direction. He opens the door and I can hear his footsteps

fade as he rushes down the stairwell. I’m alone on the rooftop once

again, but to my surprise, I’m a little saddened by that now.

Lucy—the roommate who loves to hear herself sing—is rushing around the

living room, gathering keys, shoes, a pair of sunglasses. I’m seated on

the couch, opening up shoeboxes stuffed with some of my old things

from when I lived at home. I grabbed them when I was home for my

father’s funeral this week.

“You work today?” Lucy asks.

“Nope. I have bereavement leave until Monday.”

She stops in her tracks. “Monday?” She scoffs. “Lucky *****.”

“Yes, Lucy. I’m so lucky my father died.” I say it sarcastically, of

course, but I cringe when I realize it’s not actually very sarcastic.

“You know what I mean,” she mutters. She grabs her purse as she

balances on one foot while sliding her shoe onto the other. “I’m not

coming home tonight. Staying over at Alex’s house.” The door slams

behind her.

We have a lot in common on the surface, but beyond wearing the

same size clothes, being the same age, and both having four-letter

names that start with an L and end with a Y, there’s not much else

there that makes us more than just roommates. I’m okay with that,

though. Other than the incessant singing, she’s pretty tolerable. She’s

clean and she’s gone a lot. Two of the most important qualities in a

roommate.

I’m pulling the lid off the top of one of the shoeboxes when my

cell phone rings. I reach across the couch and grab it. When I see that

it’s my mother, I press my face into the couch and fake-cry into a

throw pillow.

I bring the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

There’s three seconds of silence, and then—“Hello, Lily.”

I sigh and sit back up on the couch. “Hey, Mom.” I’m really

surprised she’s speaking to me. It’s only been one day since the

funeral. That’s 364 days sooner than I expected to hear from her.

“How are you?” I ask.

She sighs dramatically. “Fine,” she says. “Your aunt and uncle went

back to Nebraska this morning. It’ll be my first night alone since . . .”

“You’ll be fine, Mom,” I say, trying to sound confident.

She’s quiet for too long, and then she says, “Lily. I just want you to

know that you shouldn’t be embarrassed about what happened

yesterday.”

I pause. I wasn’t. Not even the slightest bit.

“Everyone freezes up once in a while. I shouldn’t have put that

kind of pressure on you, knowing how hard the day was on you

already. I should have just had your uncle do it.”

I close my eyes. Here she goes again. Covering up what she doesn’t

want to see. Taking blame that isn’t even hers to take. Of course she

convinced herself that I froze up yesterday, and that’s why I refused to

speak. Of course she did. I have half a mind to tell her it wasn’t a

mistake. I didn’t freeze up. I just had nothing great to say about the

unremarkable man she chose to be my father.

But part of me does feel guilty for what I did—specifically because

it’s not something I should have done in the presence of my mother

—so I just accept what she’s doing and go along with it.

“Thanks, Mom. Sorry I choked.”

“It’s fine, Lily. I need to go, I have to run to the insurance office.

We have a meeting about your father’s policies. Call me tomorrow,

okay?”

“I will,” I tell her. “Love you, Mom.”

I end the call and toss the phone across the couch. I open the

shoebox on my lap and pull out the contents. On the very top is a

small wooden, hollow heart. I run my fingers over it and remember

the night I was given this heart. As soon as the memory begins to sink

in, I set it aside. Nostalgia is a funny thing.

I move a few old letters and newspaper clippings aside. Beneath all

of it, I find what I was hoping was inside these boxes. And also sort of

hoping wasn’t.

My Ellen Diaries.

I run my hands over them. There are three of them in this box, but

I’d say there are probably eight or nine total. I haven’t read any of

these since the last time I wrote in them

I refused to admit that I kept a diary when I was younger because

that was so cliché. Instead, I convinced myself that what I was doing

was cool, because it wasn’t technically a diary. I addressed each of my

entries to Ellen DeGeneres, because I began watching her show the

first day it aired in 2003 when I was just a little girl. I watched it every

day after school and was convinced Ellen would love me if she got to

know me. I wrote letters to her regularly until I turned sixteen, but I

wrote them like one would write entries in a diary. Of course I knew

the last thing Ellen DeGeneres probably wanted was a random girl’s

journal entries. Luckily, I never actually sent any in. But I still liked

addressing all the entries to her, so I continued to do that until I

stopped writing in them altogether.

I open another shoebox and find more of them. I sort through

them until I grab the one from when I was fifteen years old. I flip it

open, searching for the day I met Atlas. There wasn’t much that

happened in my life worth writing about before he entered it, but

somehow I filled six journals full before he ever came into the

picture.

I swore I’d never read these again, but with the passing of my

father, I’ve been thinking about my childhood a lot. Maybe if I read

through these journals I’ll somehow find a little strength for

forgiveness. Although I fear I’m running the risk of building up even

more resentment.

I lie back on the couch and I begin reading.

Dear Ellen,

Before I tell you what happened today, I have a really good idea for a new

segment on your show. It’s called, “Ellen at home.”

I think lots of people would like to see you outside of work. I always wonder

what you’re like at your home when it’s just you and Portia and the cameras

aren’t around. Maybe the producers can give her a camera and sometimes she

can just sneak up on you and film you doing normal things, like watching TV

or cooking or gardening. She could film you for a few seconds without you

knowing and then she could scream, “Ellen at home!” and scare you. It’s

only fair, since you love pranks.

Okay, now that I told you that (I keep meaning to and have been forgetting)

I’ll tell you about my day yesterday. It was interesting. Probably my most interesting day to write about yet, if you don’t count the day Abigail Ivory

slapped Mr. Carson for looking at her cleavage.

You remember a while back when I told you about Mrs. Burleson who lived

behind us? She died the night of that big snowstorm? My dad said she owed so

much in taxes that her daughter wasn’t able to take ownership of the house.

Which is fine by her, I’m sure, because the house was starting to fall apart

anyway. It probably would have been more of a burden than anything.

The house has been empty since Mrs. Burleson died, which has been about

two years. I know it’s been empty because my bedroom window looks out over the

backyard, and there hasn’t been a single soul that goes in or out of that house

since I can remember.

Until last night.

I was in bed shuffling cards. I know that sounds weird, but it’s just

something I do. I don’t even know how to play cards. But when my parents get

into fights, shuffling cards just calms me down sometimes and gives me

something to focus on.

Anyway, it was dark outside, so I noticed the light right away. It wasn’t

bright, but it was coming from that old house. It looked more like candlelight

than anything, so I went to the back porch and found Dad’s binoculars. I tried

to see what was going on over there, but I couldn’t see anything. It was way too

dark. Then after a little while, the light went out.

This morning, when I was getting ready for school, I saw something moving

behind that house. I crouched down at my bedroom window and saw someone

sneaking out the back door. It was a guy and he had a backpack. He looked

around like he was making sure no one saw him, and then he walked between

our house and the neighbor’s house and went and stood at the bus stop.

I’d never seen him before. It was the first time he rode my bus. He sat in the

back and I sat in the middle, so I didn’t talk to him. But when he got off the

bus at school, I saw him walk into the school, so he must go there.

I have no idea why he was sleeping in that house. There’s probably no

electricity or running water. I thought maybe he did it as a dare, but today he

got off the bus at the same stop as me. He walked down the street like he was

going somewhere else, but I ran straight to my room and watched out the

window. Sure enough, a few minutes later, I saw him sneaking back inside

that empty house.

I don’t know if I should say something to my mother. I hate to be nosy,

because it’s none of my business. But if that guy doesn’t have anywhere to go, I feel like my mother would know how to help him since she works at a school.

I don’t know. I might wait a couple days before I say something and see if he

goes back home. He might just need a break from his parents. Same as I wish I

could have sometimes.

That’s all. I’ll let you know what happens tomorrow.

—Lily

Dear Ellen,

I fast-forward through all your dancing when I watch your show. I used to

watch the beginning when you danced through the audience, but I get a little

bored with it now and would rather just hear you talk. I hope that doesn’t

make you mad.

Okay, so I found out who the guy is, and yes, he’s still going over there. It’s

been two days now and I still haven’t told anyone.

His name is Atlas Corrigan and he’s a senior, but that’s all I know. I asked

Katie who he was when she sat next to me on the bus. She rolled her eyes and

told me his name. But then she said, “I don’t know anything else about him,

but he smells.” She scrunched up her nose like it grossed her out. I wanted to

yell at her and tell her he can’t help it, that he doesn’t have any running water.

But instead, I just looked back at him. I might have stared a little too much,

because he caught me looking at him.

When I got home I went to the backyard to do some gardening. My radishes

were ready to be pulled, so I was out there pulling them. The radishes are the

only thing left in my garden. It’s starting to get cold so there’s not much else I

can plant right now. I probably could have waited a few more days to pull

them, but I was also outside because I was being nosy.

I noticed as I was pulling them that some were missing. It looked like they

had just been dug up. I know I didn’t pull them and my parents never mess

with my garden.

That’s when I thought about Atlas, and how it was more than likely him. I

hadn’t thought about how—if he doesn’t have access to a shower—he probably

doesn’t have food, either.

I went inside my house and made a couple of sandwiches. I grabbed two

sodas out of the fridge and a bag of chips. I put them in a lunch bag and I ran

it over to the abandoned house and set it on the back porch by the door. I wasn’t

sure if he saw me, so I knocked real hard and then ran back to my house and went straight to my room. By the time I got to the window to see if he was going

to come outside, the bag was already gone.

That’s when I knew he’d been watching me. I’m kind of nervous now that

he knows I know he’s staying there. I don’t know what I’ll say to him if he tries

to talk to me tomorrow.

—Lily

Dear Ellen,

I saw your interview with the presidential candidate Barack Obama today.

Does that make you nervous? Interviewing people who could potentially run

the country? I don’t know a lot about politics, but I don’t think I could be

funny under that kind of pressure.

Man. So much has happened to both of us. You just interviewed someone

who might be our next president and I’m feeding a homeless boy.

This morning when I got to the bus stop, Atlas was already there. It was

just the two of us at first, and I’m not gonna lie, it was awkward. I could see

the bus coming around the corner and I was wishing it would drive a little

faster. Right when it pulled up, he took a step closer to me and, without looking

up, he said, “Thank you.”

The doors opened on the bus and he let me walk on first. I didn’t say

You’re welcome because I was kind of shocked by my reaction. His voice gave

me chills, Ellen.

Has a boy’s voice ever done that to you?

Oh, wait. Sorry. Has a girl’s voice ever done that to you?

He didn’t sit by me or anything on the way there, but on the way back from

school, he was the last one getting on. There weren’t any empty seats, but I

could tell by the way he scanned all the people on the bus that he wasn’t looking

for an empty seat. He was looking for me.

When his eyes met mine, I looked down at my lap real quick. I hate that I’m

not very confident around guys. Maybe that’s something I’ll grow into when I

finally turn sixteen.

He sat down next to me and dropped his backpack between his legs. That’s

when I noticed what Katie was talking about. He did kind of smell, but I

didn’t judge him for that.

He didn’t say anything at first, but he was fidgeting with a hole in his

jeans. It wasn’t the kind of hole that was there to make jeans look stylish. I

could tell it was there because it was a genuine hole, due to his pants being old.They actually looked a little too small for him, because his ankles were showing.

But he was skinny enough that they fit him just fine everywhere else.

“Did you tell anyone?” he asked me.

I looked at him when he spoke, and he was looking right back at me like he

was worried. It was the first time I had actually gotten a good look at him. His

hair was dark brown, but I thought maybe if he washed it, it wouldn’t be as

dark as it looked right then. His eyes were bright, unlike the rest of him. Real

blue eyes, like the kind you see on a Siberian husky. I shouldn’t compare his

eyes to a dog, but that’s the first thing I thought when I saw them.

I shook my head and looked back out the window. I thought he might get up

and find another seat at that point, since I said I didn’t tell anyone, but he

didn’t. The bus made a few stops, and the fact that he was still sitting by me

gave me a little courage, so I made my voice a whisper. “Why don’t you live at

home with your parents?”

He stared at me for a few seconds, like he was trying to decide if he wanted

to trust me or not. Then he said, “Because they don’t want me to.”

That’s when he got up. I thought I’d made him mad, but then I realized he

got up because we were at our stop. I grabbed my stuff and followed him off the

bus. He didn’t try to hide where he was heading today like he usually does.

Normally, he walks down the street and goes around the block so I don’t see him

cut through my backyard. But today he started to walk toward my yard with

me.

When we got to where I would normally turn to go inside and he would keep

walking, we both stopped. He kicked at the dirt with his foot and looked behind

me at my house.

“What time do your parents get home?”

“Around five,” I said. It was 3:45.

He nodded and looked like he was about to say something else, but he

didn’t. He just nodded again and started walking toward that house with no

food or electricity or water.

Now, Ellen, I know what I did next was stupid, so you don’t have to tell me.

I called out his name, and when he stopped and turned around I said, “If you

hurry, you can take a shower before they get home.”

My heart was beating so fast, because I knew how much trouble I could get

into if my parents came home and found a homeless guy in our shower. I’d

probably very well die. But I just couldn’t watch him walk back to his house

without offering him something.He looked down at the ground again, and I felt his embarrassment in my

own stomach. He didn’t even nod. He just followed me inside my house and

never said a word.

The whole time he was in the shower, I was panicking. I kept looking out the

window and checking for either of my parents’ cars, even though I knew it

would be a good hour before they got home. I was nervous one of the neighbors

might have seen him come inside, but they didn’t really know me well enough to

think having a visitor would be abnormal.

I had given Atlas a change of clothes, and knew he not only needed to be

out of the house when my parents got home, but he needed to be far away from

our house. I’m sure my father would recognize his own clothes on some random

teenager in the neighborhood.

In between looking out the window and checking the clock, I was filling up

one of my old backpacks with stuff. Food that didn’t need refrigerating, a

couple of my father’s T-shirts, a pair of jeans that were probably going to be two

sizes too big for him, and a change of socks.

I was zipping up the backpack when he emerged from the hallway.

I was right. Even wet, I could tell his hair was lighter than it looked earlier.

It made his eyes look even bluer.

He must have shaved while he was in there because he looked younger than

he did before he got in the shower. I swallowed and looked back down at the

backpack, because I was shocked at how different he looked. I was scared he

might see my thoughts written across my face.

I looked out the window one more time and handed him the backpack. “You

might want to go out the back door so no one sees you.”

He took the backpack from me and stared at my face for a minute. “What’s

your name?” he said as he slung the pack over his shoulder.

“Lily.”

He smiled. It was the first time he’d smiled at me and I had an awful,

shallow thought in that moment. I wondered how someone with such a great

smile could have such shitty parents. I immediately hated myself for thinking it,

because of course parents should love their kids no matter how cute or ugly or

skinny or fat or smart or stupid they are. But sometimes you can’t control where

your mind goes. You just have to train it not to go there anymore.

He held out his hand and said, “I’m Atlas.”

“I know,” I said, without shaking his hand. I don’t know why I didn’t

shake his hand. It wasn’t because I was scared to touch him. I mean, I was scared to touch him. But not because I thought I was better than him. He just

made me so nervous.

He put his hand down and nodded once, then said, “I guess I better go.”

I stepped aside so he could walk around me. He pointed past the kitchen,

silently asking if that was the way to the back door. I nodded and walked

behind him as he made his way down the hall. When he reached the back door,

I saw him pause for a second when he saw my bedroom.

I was suddenly embarrassed that he was seeing my bedroom. No one ever

sees my bedroom, so I’ve never felt the need to give it a more mature look. I still

have the same pink bedspread and curtains I’ve had since I was twelve. For the

first time ever I felt like ripping down my poster of Adam Brody.

Atlas didn’t seem to care how my room was decorated. He looked straight at

my window—the one that looks out over the backyard—then he glanced back at

me. Right before he walked out the back door he said, “Thank you for not being

disparaging, Lily.”

And then he was gone.

Of course I’ve heard the term disparaging before, but it was weird hearing

a teenage guy use it. What’s even weirder is how everything about Atlas seems

so contradictory. How does a guy who is obviously humble, well-mannered, and

uses words like disparaging end up homeless? How does any teenager end up

homeless?

I need to find out, Ellen.

I’m going to find out what happened to him. You just wait and see.

—Lily

• • •

I’m about to open another entry when my phone rings. I crawl across

the couch for it and I’m not the least bit surprised to see it’s my

mother again. Now that my father has passed and she’s alone, she’ll

probably call me twice as much as she did before.

“Hello?”

“What do you think about my moving to Boston?” she blurts out.

I grab the throw pillow next to me and shove my face into it,

muffling a scream. “Um. Wow,” I say. “Really?”

She’s quiet, and then, “It was just a thought. We can discuss it

tomorrow. I’m almost to my meeting.”

“Okay. Bye.”

And just like that, I want to move out of Massachusetts. She can’t

move here. She doesn’t know anyone here. She’d expect me to

entertain her every day. I love my mother, don’t get me wrong, but I

moved to Boston to be on my own, and having her in the same city

would make me feel less independent.

My father was diagnosed with cancer three years ago while I was

still in college. If Ryle Kincaid were here right now, I’d tell him the

***** truth that I was a little bit relieved when my father became too

ill to physically hurt my mother. It completely changed the dynamic of

their relationship and I no longer felt obligated to stay in Plethora to

make sure she was okay.

Now that my father is gone and I never have to worry about my

mother again, I was looking forward to spreading my wings, so to

speak.

But now she’s moving to Boston?

It feels like my wings were just clipped.

Where is a marine-grade polymer chair when I need one?!

I’m seriously stressing out and I have no idea what I’d do if my

mother moves to Boston. I don’t have a garden, or a yard, or a patio,

or weeds.

I have to find another outlet.

I decide to clean. I place all of my old shoeboxes full of journals

and notes in my bedroom closet. Then I organize my entire closet. My

jewelry, my shoes, my clothes . . .

She cannot move to Boston.

Six months later

“Oh.”

That’s all she says.

My mother turns and assesses the building, running a finger over

the windowsill next to her. She picks up a layer of dust and wipes it

between her fingers. “It’s . . .”

“It needs a lot of work, I know,” I interrupt. I point at the windows

behind her. “But look at the storefront. It has potential.”

She scrolls over the windows, nodding. There’s this sound she

makes in the back of her throat sometimes, where she agrees with a

little hum but her lips remain tight. It means she doesn’t actually

agree. And she makes that sound. Twice.

I drop my arms in defeat. “You think this was stupid?”

She gives her head a slight shake. “That all depends on how it turns

out, Lily,” she says. The building used to house a restaurant and it’s

still full of old tables and chairs. My mother walks over to a nearby

table and pulls out one of the chairs, taking a seat. “If things work out,

and your floral shop is successful, then people will say it was a brave,

bold, smart business decision. But if it fails and you lose your entire

inheritance . . .”

“Then people will say it was a stupid business decision.”

She shrugs. “That’s just how it works. You majored in business, you

know that.” She glances around the room, slowly, as if she’s seeing it

the way it will look a month from now. “Just make sure it’s brave and

bold, Lily.”

I smile. I can accept that. “I can’t believe I bought it without asking

you first,” I say, taking a seat at the table.

“You’re an adult. It’s your right,” she says, but I can hear a trace of

disappointment. I think she feels even lonelier now that I need her

less and less. It’s been six months since my father died, and even

though he wasn’t good company, it has to be weird for her, being

alone. She got a job at one of the elementary schools, so she did end

up moving here. She chose a small suburb on the outskirts of Boston.

She bought a cute two-bedroom house on a cul-de-sac, with a huge

backyard. I dream of planting a garden there, but that would require

daily care. My limit is once-a-week visits. Sometimes twice.

“What are you going to do with all this junk?” she asks.

She’s right. There’s so much junk. It’ll take forever to clear this

place out. “I have no idea. I guess I’ll be busting my *** for a while

before I can even think about decorating.”

“When’s your last day at the marketing firm?”

I smile. “Yesterday.”

She releases a sigh, and then shakes her head. “Oh, Lily. I certainly

hope this works out in your favor.”

We both begin to stand when the front door opens. There are

shelves in the way of the door, so I careen my head around them and

see a woman walk in. Her eyes briefly scan the room until she sees me.

“Hi,” she says with a wave. She’s cute. She’s dressed well, but she’s

wearing white capris. A disaster waiting to happen in this dust bowl.

“Can I help you?”

She tucks her purse beneath her arm and walks toward me,

holding out her hand. “I’m Allysa,” she says. I shake her hand.

“Lily.”

She tosses a thumb over her shoulder. “There’s a help wanted sign

out front?”

I look over her shoulder and raise an eyebrow. “There is?” I didn’t

put up a help wanted sign.

She nods, and then shrugs. “It looks old, though,” she says. “It’s

probably been there a while. I was just out for a walk and saw the sign.

Was curious, is all.”

I like her almost immediately. Her voice is pleasant and her smile

seems genuine.

My mother’s hand falls down on my shoulder and she leans in and

kisses me on the cheek. “I have to go,” she says. “Open house tonight.” I tell her goodbye and watch her walk outside, then turn my

attention back to Allysa.

“I’m not really hiring yet,” I say. I wave my hand around the room.

“I’m opening up a floral shop, but it’ll be a couple of months, at

least.” I should know better than to hold preconceived judgments, but

she doesn’t look like she’d be satisfied with a minimum wage job. Her

purse probably cost more than this building.

Her eyes light up. “Really? I love flowers!” She spins around in a

circle and says, “This place has a ton of potential. What color are you

painting it?”

I cross my arm over my chest and grab my elbow. Rocking back on

my heels, I say, “I’m not sure. I just got the keys to the building an

hour ago, so I haven’t really come up with a design plan yet.”

“Lily, right?”

I nod.

“I’m not going to pretend I have a degree in design, but it’s my

absolute favorite thing. If you need any help, I’d do it for free.”

I tilt my head. “You’d work for free?”

She nods. “I don’t really need a job, I just saw the sign and thought,

‘What the heck?’ But I do get bored sometimes. I’d be happy to help

you with whatever you need. Cleaning, decorating, picking out paint

colors. I’m a Pinterest *****.” Something behind me catches her eye

and she points. “I could take that broken door and make it

magnificent. All this stuff, really. There’s a use for almost everything,

you know.”

I look around at the room, knowing full well I’m not going to be

able to tackle this by myself. I probably can’t even lift half this stuff

alone. I’ll eventually have to hire someone anyway. “I’m not going to

let you work for free. But I could do $10 an hour if you’re really

serious.”

She starts clapping, and if she weren’t in heels, she might have

jumped up and down. “When can I start?”

I glance down at her white capris. “Will tomorrow work? You’ll

probably want to show up in disposable clothes.”

She waves me off and drops her Hermès bag on a dusty table next

to her. “Nonsense,” she says. “My husband is watching the Bruins play at a bar down the street. If it’s okay, I’ll just hang with you and get

started right now.”

• • •

Two hours later, I’m convinced I’ve met my new best friend. And she

really is a Pinterest *****.

We write “Keep” and “Toss” on sticky notes, and slap them on

everything in the room. She’s a fellow believer in upcycling, so we

come up with ideas for at least 75 percent of the stuff left in the

building. The rest she says her husband can throw out when he has

free time. Once we know what we’re going to do with all the stuff, I

grab a notebook and a pen and we sit at one of the tables to write

down design ideas.

“Okay,” she says, leaning back in her chair. I want to laugh, because

her white capris are covered in dirt now, but she doesn’t seem to care.

“Do you have a goal for this place?” she asks, glancing around.

“I have one,” I say. “Succeed.”

She laughs. “I have no doubt you’ll succeed. But you do need a

vision.”

I think about what my mother said. “Just make sure it’s brave and bold,

Lily.” I smile and sit up straighter in my chair. “Brave and bold,” I say.

“I want this place to be different. I want to take risks.”

She narrows her eyes as she chews on the tip of the pen. “But

you’re just selling flowers,” she says. “How can you be brave and bold

with flowers?”

I look around the room and try to envision what I’m thinking. I’m

not even sure what I’m thinking. I’m just getting itchy and restless,

like I’m on the verge of a brilliant idea. “What are some words that

come to mind when you think of flowers?” I ask her.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. They’re sweet, I guess? They’re alive, so

they make me think of life. And maybe the color pink. And spring.”

“Sweet, life, pink, spring,” I repeat. And then, “Allysa, you’re

brilliant!” I stand up and begin pacing the floor. “We’ll take

everything everyone loves about flowers, and we’ll do the complete

opposite!”

She makes a face to let me know she isn’t following.

“Okay,” I say. “What if, instead of showcasing the sweet side of

flowers, we showcased the villainous side? Instead of pink accents, we

use darker colors, like a deep purple or even black. And instead of

just spring and life, we also celebrate winter and death.”

Allysa’s eyes are wide. “But . . . what if someone wants pink flowers,

though?”

“Well, we’ll still give them what they want, of course. But we’ll also

give them what they don’t know they want.”

She scratches her cheek. “So you’re thinking black flowers?” She

looks concerned, and I don’t blame her. She’s only seeing the darkest

side of my vision. I take a seat at the table again and try to get her on

board.

“Someone once told me that there is no such thing as bad people.

We’re all just people who sometimes do bad things. That stuck with

me, because it’s so true. We’ve all got a little bit of good and evil in us.

I want to make that our theme. Instead of painting the walls a putrid

sweet color, we paint them dark purple with black accents. And

instead of only putting out the usual pastel displays of flowers in

boring crystal vases that make people think of life, we go edgy. Brave

and bold. We put out displays of darker flowers wrapped in things like

leather or silver chains. And rather than put them in crystal vases,

we’ll stick them in black onyx or . . . I don’t know . . . purple velvet

vases lined with silver studs. The ideas are endless.” I stand up again.

“There are floral shops on every corner for people who love flowers.

But what floral shop caters to all the people who hate flowers?”

Allysa shakes her head. “None of them,” she whispers.

“Exactly. None of them.”

We stare at each other for a moment, and then I can’t take it

another second. I’m bursting with excitement and I just start laughing

like a giddy child. Allysa starts laughing, too, and she jumps up and

hugs me. “Lily, it’s so twisted, it’s brilliant!”

“I know!” I’m full of renewed energy. “I need a desk so I can sit

down and make a business plan! But my future office is full of old

vegetable crates!”

She walks toward the back of the store. “Well, let’s get them out of

there and go buy you a desk!”

We squeeze into the office and begin moving crates out one by one

and into a back room. I stand on the chair to make the piles taller so

we’ll have more room to move around.

“These are perfect for the window displays I have in mind.” She

hands me two more crates and walks away, and as I’m reaching on my

tiptoes to stack them at the very top, the pile begins to tumble. I try to

find something to grab hold of for balance, but the crates knock me

off the chair. When I land on the floor, I can feel my foot bend in the

wrong direction. It’s followed by a rush of pain straight up my leg and

down to my toes.

Allysa comes rushing back into the room and has to move two of

the crates from on top of me. “Lily!” she says. “Oh my God, are you

okay?”

I pull myself up to a sitting position, but don’t even try to put

weight on my ankle. I shake my head. “My ankle.”

She immediately removes my shoe and then pulls her phone out of

her pocket. She begins dialing a number and then looks up at me. “I

know this is a stupid question, but do you happen to have a

refrigerator here with ice in it?”

I shake my head.

“I figured,” she says. She puts the phone on speaker and sets it on

the floor as she begins to roll up my pant leg. I wince, but not so

much from the pain. I just can’t believe I did something so stupid. If I

broke it, I’m screwed. I just spent my entire inheritance on a building

that I won’t even be able to renovate for months.

“Heeey, Issa,” a voice croons through her phone. “Where you at?

The game’s over.”

Allysa picks up her phone and brings it closer to her mouth. “At

work. Listen, I need . . .”

The guy cuts her off and says, “At work? Babe, you don’t even have a

job.”

Allysa shakes her head and says, “Marshall, listen. It’s an

emergency. I think my boss broke her ankle. I need you to bring some

ice to . . .”

He cuts her off with a laugh. “Your boss? Babe, you don’t even have

a job,” he repeats.

Allysa rolls her eyes. “Marshall, are you drunk?”

“It’s onesie day,” he slurs into the phone. “You knew that when you

dropped us off, Issa. Free beer until . . .”

She groans. “Put my brother on the phone.”

“Fine, fine,” Marshall mumbles. There’s a rustling sound that

comes from the phone, and then, “Yeah?”

Allysa spits out our location into the phone. “Get here right now.

Please. And bring a bag of ice.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says. The brother sounds like he may be a little

drunk, too. There’s laughter, and then one of the guys says, “She’s in a

bad mood,” and then the line goes dead.

Allysa puts her phone back in her pocket. “I’ll go wait outside for

them, they’re just down the street. Will you be okay here?”

I nod and reach for the chair. “Maybe I should just try to walk on

it.”

Allysa pushes my shoulders back until I’m leaning against the wall

again. “No, don’t move. Wait until they get here, okay?”

I have no idea what two drunken guys are going to be able to do

for me, but I nod. My new employee feels more like my boss right now

and I’m kind of scared of her at the moment.

I wait in the back for about ten minutes when I finally hear the

front door to the building open. “What in the world?” a man’s voice

says. “Why are you all alone in this creepy building?”

I hear Allysa say, “She’s back here.” She walks in, followed by a guy

wearing a onesie. He’s tall, a little bit on the thin side, but boyishly

handsome with big, honest eyes and a head full of dark, messy, way-

past-due-for-a-haircut hair. He’s holding a bag of ice.

Did I mention he was wearing a onesie?

I’m talking a legit, full-grown man in a SpongeBob onesie.

“This is your husband?” I ask her, cocking an eyebrow.

Allysa rolls her eyes. “Unfortunately,” she says, glancing back at

him. Another guy (also in a onesie) walks in behind them, but my

attention is on Allysa as she explains why they’re wearing pajamas on

a random Wednesday afternoon. “There’s a bar down the street that

gives out free beer to anyone who shows up in a onesie during a

Bruins game.” She makes her way over to me and motions for the

guys to follow her. “She fell off the chair and hurt her ankle,” she says to the other guy. He steps around Marshall and the first thing I notice

are his arms.

Holy shit. I know those arms.

Those are the arms of a neurosurgeon.

Allysa is his sister? The sister that owns the entire top floor, with the

husband who works in pajamas and brings in seven figures a year?

As soon as my eyes lock with Ryle’s, his whole face morphs into a

smile. I haven’t seen him in—God, how long ago was that—six months? I

can’t say I haven’t thought about him during the past six months,

because I’ve thought about him quite a few times. But I never actually

thought I’d see him again.

“Ryle, this is Lily. Lily, my brother, Ryle,” she says, motioning

toward him. “And that’s my husband, Marshall.”

Ryle walks over to me and kneels down. “Lily,” he says, regarding

me with a smile. “Nice to meet you.”

It’s obvious he remembers me—I can see it in his knowing smile.

But like me, he’s pretending this is the first time we’ve met. I’m not

sure I’m in the mood to explain how we already know each other.

Ryle touches my ankle and inspects it. “Can you move it?”

I try to move it, but a sharp pain shoots all the way up my leg. I

suck in air through my teeth and shake my head. “Not yet. It hurts.”

Ryle motions to Marshall. “Find something to put the ice in.”

Allysa follows Marshall out of the room. When they’re both gone,

Ryle looks at me and his mouth turns up into a grin. “I won’t charge

you for this, but only because I’m slightly inebriated,” he says with a

wink.

I tilt my head. “The first time I met you, you were high. Now you’re

drunk. I’m beginning to worry you aren’t going to make a very

qualified neurosurgeon.”

He laughs. “It would appear that way,” he says. “But I promise you,

I rarely ever get high and this is my first day off in over a month, so I

really needed a beer. Or five.”

Marshall comes back with an old rag wrapped around some ice. He

hands it to Ryle, who presses it against my ankle. “I’ll need that first

aid kit out of your trunk,” Ryle says to Allysa. She nods and grabs

Marshall’s hand, pulling him out of the room again.

Ryle presses his palm against the bottom of my foot. “Push against

my hand,” he says.

I push down with my ankle. It hurts, but I’m able to move his hand.

“Is it broken?”

He moves my foot from side to side, and then says, “I don’t think

so. Let’s give it a couple of minutes and I’ll see if you can put any

weight on it.”

I nod and watch as he adjusts himself across from me. He sits cross-

legged and pulls my foot onto his lap. He looks around the room and

then directs his attention back at me. “So what is this place?”

I smile a little too big. “Lily Bloom’s. It’ll be a floral shop in about

two months’ time.”

I swear, his whole face lights up with pride. “No way,” he says. “You

did it? You’re actually opening up your own business?”

I nod. “Yep. I figured I might as well try it while I’m still young

enough to bounce back from failure.”

One of his hands is holding the ice against my ankle, but the other

one is wrapped around my bare foot. He’s brushing his thumb back

and forth, like it’s no big deal that he’s touching me. But his hand on

my foot is way more noticeable than the pain in my ankle.

“I look ridiculous, huh?” he asks, staring down at his solid red

onesie.

I shrug. “At least you went with a non-character choice. It gives it a

bit more maturity than the SpongeBob option.”

He laughs, and then his smile disappears as he leans his head into

the door beside him. He stares at me appreciatively. “You’re even

prettier in the daytime.”

Moments like these are why I absolutely hate having red hair and

fair skin. The embarrassment doesn’t only show up in my cheeks—my

whole face, arms, and neck grow flushed.

I rest my head against the wall behind me and stare at him just like

he’s staring at me. “You want to hear a ***** truth?”

He nods.

“I’ve wanted to go back to your roof on more than one occasion

since that night. But I was too scared you’d be there. You make me

kind of nervous.”

His fingers pause their strokes against my foot. “My turn?”

I nod.

His eyes narrow as his hand moves to the underneath of my foot.

He slowly traces his fingers from the tops of my toes, down to my heel.

“I still very much want to f*ck you.”

Someone gasps, and it isn’t me.

Ryle and I both look at the doorway and Allysa is standing there,

wide-eyed. Her mouth is open as she points down at Ryle. “Did you

just . . .” She looks at me and says, “I am so sorry about him, Lily.” And

then she looks back at Ryle with venom in her eyes. “Did you just tell

my boss you want to f*ck her?”

Oh, dear.

Ryle pulls his bottom lip in and chews on it for a second. Marshall

walks in behind Allysa and says, “What’s going on?”

Allysa looks at Marshall and points at Ryle again. “He just told Lily

he wants to f*ck her!”

Marshall looks from Ryle to me. I don’t know whether to laugh or

crawl under the table and hide. “You did?” he says, looking back at

Ryle.

Ryle shrugs. “It appears that way,” he says.

Allysa puts her head in her hands, “Jesus Christ,” she says, looking

at me. “He’s drunk. They’re both drunk. Please don’t judge me

because my brother is an as*hole.”

I smile at her and wave it off. “It’s fine, Allysa. Lots of people want

to f*ck me.” I glance back at Ryle and he’s still casually stroking my

foot. “At least your brother speaks his mind. Not a lot of people have

the courage to say what they’re actually thinking.”

Ryle winks at me and then carefully moves my ankle off his lap.

“Let’s see if you can put any weight on it,” he says.

He and Marshall help me to my feet. Ryle points to a table a few

feet away that’s pushed up against a wall. “Let’s try to make it to the

table so I can wrap it.”

His arm is secured around my waist, and he’s gripping my arm

tightly to make sure I don’t fall. Marshall is more or less just standing

next to me for support. I put a little weight on my ankle and it hurts,

but it’s not excruciating. I’m able to hop all the way to the table with a

lot of assistance from Ryle. He helps me pull myself up until I’m seated on top of it, leaning against the wall with my leg stretched out

in front of me.

“Well, the good news is that it isn’t broken.”

“What’s the bad news?” I ask him.

He opens the first aid kit and says, “You’ll need to stay off of it for a

few days. Maybe even a week or more, depending on how it heals.”

I close my eyes and lean my head against the wall behind me. “But

I have so much to do,” I whine.

He carefully begins to wrap my ankle. Allysa is standing behind

him, watching him wrap it.

“I’m thirsty,” Marshall says. “Anybody want something to drink?

There’s a CVS across the street.”

“I’m good,” Ryle says.

“I’ll take a water,” I say.

“Sprite,” Allysa says.

Marshall grabs her hand. “You’re coming with.”

Allysa pulls her hand from his and crosses her arms over her chest.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she says. “My brother can’t be trusted.”

“Allysa, it’s fine,” I tell her. “He was making a joke.”

She stares at me silently for a moment, and then says, “Okay. But

you can’t fire me if he pulls more stupid shit.”

“I promise I won’t fire you.”

With that, she grabs Marshall’s hand again and leaves the room.

Ryle is still wrapping my foot when he says, “My sister works for you?”

“Yep. Hired her a couple of hours ago.”

He reaches into the first aid kit and pulls out tape. “You do realize

she’s never had a job in her entire life?”

“She already warned me,” I say. His jaw is tight and he doesn’t look

as relaxed as he did earlier. Then it hits me that he might think I

hired her as a way to get closer to him. “I had no idea she was your

sister until you walked in. I swear.”

He glances at me, and then back down at my foot. “I wasn’t

suggesting you knew.” He begins to tape over the ACE bandage.

“I know you weren’t. I just didn’t want you to think I was trying to

trap you somehow. We want two different things from life,

remember?”

He nods, and carefully sets my foot back on the table. “That is

correct,” he says. “I specialize in one-night stands and you’re on the

quest for your Holy Grail.”

I laugh. “You have a good memory.”

“I do,” he says. A languid smile stretches across his mouth. “But

you’re also hard to forget.”

Jesus. He has to stop saying things like that. I press my palms into

the table and pull my leg down. “Naked truth coming.”

He leans against the table next to me and says, “All ears.”

I hold nothing back. “I’m very attracted to you,” I say. “There’s not

much about you I don’t like. And being as though you and I both

want different things, if we’re ever around each other again, I’d

appreciate it if you could stop saying things that make me dizzy. It’s

not really fair to me.”

He nods once, and then says, “My turn.” He places his hand on the

table next to me and leans in a little. “I’m very attracted to you, too.

There’s not much about you I don’t like. But I kind of hope we’re

never around each other again, because I don’t like how much I think

about you. Which isn’t all that much—but it’s more than I’d like. So if

you still aren’t going to agree to a one-night stand, then I think it’s

best if we do what we can to avoid each other. Because it won’t do

either of us any favors.”

I don’t know how he ended up this close to me, but he’s only about

a foot away. His proximity makes it hard to pay attention to words that

come out of his mouth. His gaze drops briefly to my mouth, but as

soon as we hear the front door open, he’s halfway across the room. By

the time Allysa and Marshall make it to us, Ryle is busy restacking all

the crates that fell. Allysa looks down at my ankle.

“What’s the verdict?” she asks.

I push my bottom lip out. “Your doctor brother says I have to stay

off of it for a few days.”

She hands me my water. “Good thing you have me. I can work and

do what I can to clean up while you rest.”

I take a drink of the water and then wipe my mouth. “Allysa, I’m

declaring you employee of the month.”

She grins and then turns to Marshall. “Did you hear that? I’m the

best employee she has!”He puts his arm around her and kisses the top of her head. “I’m

proud of you, Issa.”

I like that he calls her Issa, which I’m assuming is short for Allysa. I

think about my own name and if I’ll ever find a guy who could

shorten it into a sickeningly cute nickname. Illy.

Nope. Not the same.

“Do you need help getting home?” she asks.

I hop down and test my foot. “Maybe just to my car. It’s my left foot,

so I can probably drive just fine.”

She walks over and puts her arm around me. “If you want to leave

the keys with me, I’ll lock up and come back tomorrow and start

cleaning.”

The three of them walk me to my car, but Ryle allows Allysa to do

most of the work. He seems almost scared to touch me now for some

reason. When I’m in the driver’s seat, Allysa puts my purse and other

things in the floorboard and sits in the passenger seat. She takes my

phone out and begins programming her number into it.

Ryle leans into the window. “Make sure to keep ice on it as much as

you can for the next few days. Baths help, too.”

I nod. “Thanks for your help.”

Allysa leans over and says, “Ryle? Maybe you should drive her home

and take a cab back to the apartment, just to be safe.”

Ryle looks down at me and then shakes his head. “I don’t think

that’s a good idea,” he says. “She’ll be fine. I’ve had a few beers,

probably shouldn’t be driving.”

“You could at least help her home,” Allysa suggests.

Ryle shakes his head and then pats the roof of the car as he turns

and walks away.

I’m still watching him when Allysa hands me back my phone and

says, “Seriously. I’m really sorry about him. First he hits on you, then

he’s a selfish as*hole.” She climbs out of the car and closes the door,

then leans through the window. “That’s why he’ll be single for the rest

of his life.” She points to my phone. “Text me when you get home.

And call me if you need anything. I won’t count favors as work-time.”

“Thank you, Allysa.”

She smiles. “No, thank you. I haven’t been this excited about my

life since that Paolo Nutini concert I went to last year.” She waves goodbye and walks toward where Marshall and Ryle are standing.

They begin walking down the street and I watch them in my

rearview mirror. As they turn the corner, I see Ryle glance over his

shoulder and look back in my direction.

I close my eyes and exhale.

The two times I’ve spent with Ryle were on days I’d probably rather

forget. My father’s funeral and spraining my ankle. But somehow, him

being present made them feel like less of the disasters they were.

I hate that he’s Allysa’s brother. I have a feeling this isn’t the last time I’ll be

seeing him.