In the Language of the Flowers

| 2 |

✾ Daffodil ✾

"This is it?" The annoyance was clear in my voice. "You're really an artistic genius," I deadpanned.

Ren smiled and walked up to the canvas. "Thank you. It's not much now, I know. But it will be. Trust me. It's a work in progress."

"In progress?" I asked, walking up beside Ren and touching the canvas. "It's literally blank."

He nodded. "Full of potential."

I frowned. "That's one way to look at it. The other is that it's full of absolutely nothing."

Ren crossed his tattooed arms over his chest. "I like my way more."

"But seriously," I said, "why did you bring me here?"

Ren smirked. "Is 'I didn't want you to die' a good enough answer for you?"

I sighed. "It should be."

"Fine, then," Ren said. "I brought you here to ask you a question."

"What?" I asked, but Ren mimicked zipping his lips and throwing away a key. I groaned. "What is it this time?"

"Let me make you coffee," he said.

"It's seven at night."

"Tea?"

"I hate tea."

Ren grimaced. "But you're underage. I can't just..."

"Doesn't matter," I said, walking away and letting myself fall down onto Ren's couch. "Not like anyone's looking." The words no doubt meant more to me than they did to him. No one was looking at me, out for me. I doubted anyone ever would be again.

Ren nodded and disappeared for a moment. When he came back, he had two beers in his hand. "So," he said, plopping down beside me, "what's your story, Copper?"

I grabbed the cool beer and took a sip. I'd never liked the taste of beer, but I needed something to distract me. One, from everything that was going wrong in my life. And two, from how intoxicating the feeling of Ren's leg touching mine was. Both were hard to ignore. "My story?"

"Well first, where are you from?" he asked, staring at me. I shifted under his gaze.

"Florida. Next question." I hadn't had much alcohol before, besides a few sips of mom's beer or wine on special occasions. So, needless to say, I was a lightweight. I'd barely started and I felt different...or maybe it was psychological. I wanted to feel different so badly that I did.

"I lived in Florida once," Ren said with a grin. "What's your last name?"

"Bryant. And my middle name is Oscar."

"Bryant!" Ren said. "That's horrible. Your initials are literally BOB." I nodded and frowned.

"Like I said, my mom was crazy," I answered. Was. I got it right that time, but apparently the alcohol was already making me drop my guard. I couldn't keep a straight face. He noticed.

"Was?" he asked. He'd leaned forward. I stiffened. This man was practically a stranger. No, actually he was a stranger, despite how comfortable I felt next to him, waltzing into his apartment.

But I could blame it on the drink. Quiet relief. He was listening. "She died two weeks ago."

Silence. I was almost afraid to look at Ren and to see that pitying look I got from people. But when I finally worked up the courage to turn my head, I didn't sense that slimy false sorrow most people displayed. There was a spark in his dark eyes that made it seem like he had a secret. "What?" I asked. "Why are you looking at me like that?"