Jem
I’M GOING INSANE. I know it was the right choice, to leave and never look back, but I’ve never felt this way in my entire fucking life.
Sure, I felt like shit seeing my mother slowly lose herself to the pills, but that was low dosages of disappointment over a long period of time. Until I became numb. But this particular kind of hurt—it’s unfamiliar. It’s a knife to the chest, over and over and over— and I fucking hate it. I want it gone.
I’m driving to the garage, because I need to make a couple more fixes to Trent’s car before I hand it back to him. It was a nice ride, but honestly, I’m glad I don’t have to keep it. Because every memory of it is now etched with the memory of Indigo, too. Like the ink in my skin.
And keeping this car any longer would mean seeing her again in my mind, on replay. See her asleep in the passenger seat. See her in the rear-view mirror, pulling on her sweater. See me stopping the car so she could get the flowers off the side of the road. I glance to the back. Those fucking flowers.
I pull into the garage, grabbing the stupid soda cup that house them. I’m crushing the cup in my fist and halfway to the trashcan when I stop. Take a breath. And look at the purple flowers one last time.
And I can’t do it.
I can’t throw this shit away.
Guess I’m keeping them. Which is great and all, except for one minor problem: I have no damn clue how to actually keep a plant alive. Yeah, I buy flowers for Ma, but she takes care of them after that. So keeping these flowers is just prolonging the inevitable. And I’m pretty sure watching them slowly wither and die is far more depressing than just chucking them away.
Eli notices me mid-deliberation at the entrance of the garage, and he wipes off his hands as he heads over. “What’s that?”
“Can’t you tell?” I mutter, glancing down at the flowers, that, despite the crushed paper cup, are unharmed. Then, lifting my gaze to him, I ask, “Do you know how I’m supposed to keep them alive?”
“Pfft.” Eli shoots me a disbelieving look. “No. I’ll ask Logan—”
“No,” I say, “Eli, don’t—”
But it’s too late. Eli’s already beckoning Logan over and then Ace is following Logan, and Mason is lifting his head from the other side of the garage to see what all the commotion is about, too. And before I know it, the entire garage is gathered around me like it’s a fucking parade.
“He wants to know how to keep flowers alive,” Eli murmurs.
They all stare quizzically at the smashed cup in my hand.
Logan frowns. “Just get fake ones. You won’t be able to tell the difference, man, trust me—”
“Since when are you a flower person?” Ace mutters.
“Do you have water?” I ask no-one in particular.
“I have Gatorade,” Ace mumbles.
I roll my eyes. “I can’t put Gatorade on them, Ace, Jesus. Fuck.”
“Actually, no,” Ace says, “I read somewhere that the electrolytes help.”
“You don’t even read,” Logan murmurs.
Ace contorts his features. “Yo, shut the fuck up?”
“All of you shut the fuck up,” I bark, “you’re useless and annoying. Get out of my face.”
Obviously, none of them actually listen.
“I work here,” Eli mutters.
“I’ve been reading up about vibes and shit,” Ace says, “and your aura is disgusting right now.”
YOU ARE READING
Fragile Little Things ✓
RomanceIndigo Gallagher was born with osteochondroma, a condition that leaves her physically fragile. Between shifts at her granʼs flower shop and her tumultuous relationship, all she wants is to get through her second year of pre-med unscathed. Although...
