Once in the car, I let myself wonder where he is.
I tell myself it’s not worry I feel, but it doesn’t change the ugly truth. Trent is religious about his volunteer work. There have been a handful of times he hasn’t gone, and it’s usually planned out ahead of time. Not sudden like this.
The drive takes less time than usual, or maybe it just feels quicker because I don’t have to deal with Trent giving me dirty looks.
Technically, it’s way more peaceful—and spacious. His large presence and ego in a car are almost too much for the space. But it’s also a stormy experience, with my brain working in overdrive to convince myself I’m not worried.
We arrive about twenty minutes later.
Doesn’t matter how many times I’ve come here, my breath still leaves my body from how beautiful this place is.
It’s not a home.
It’s a sanctuary.
Peaceful and calm.
Flowers and fountains greet me as soon as my body leaves the car.
Even the fragrance is different in Cresthill.
It’s as if I’m walking through a field of lilies. A floral scent, rich and sweet. Too strong to be anything but natural.
Like always, my coiled-up muscles relax as I make my way through the large lobby. I head straight in and see Margret.
She doesn’t spot me at first.
No, her gaze is looking in the opposite direction.
I follow it.
That’s when I see Trent.
He’s not alone.
Nope.
He’s with a man who looks to be in his late thirties.
I’m confused. He’s way too young to be a resident, and I’ve never seen him visiting or volunteering.
I continue to watch them walk, and it’s when they walk up to Henry that my heart starts to rattle in my chest.
Oh, Trent. You didn’t . . .
They stop at the table in front of Henry. Henry hasn’t seen them yet, but when he does, my world shifts on its axis.
He did.
Henry’s jaw trembles first. Then his hands. They shake uncontrollably as he reaches out to the man. Small tremors wrack out of him until a pair of strong arms reach out and help him stand.
Tears roll down his cheeks, and then the man, the one I don’t know, is hugging him.
“W-who . . .”
I can’t speak.
My throat feels like it’s closing.
I know who it is, but I refuse to believe it.
Margret steals the words from my mouth.
“His son.” Her voice cracks. She, too, is feeling the weight of this moment.
My own eyes start to feel heavy, and I know what’s coming.
“I’ll be right back,” I blurt out, needing space.
Without another word, I walk out and head in the opposite direction. The tears I have been trying to hold back fall regardless.
I finally stop in an enclosed garden.
The ceiling is high and made of glass. I didn’t even know this was here. The last light of the day shines in the space with three clear walls. During the full light of day, I can imagine that it’s bright and refreshing with all the greenery. A planned, repeating design to the plants turns into a sort of boxed garden I’ve seen in movies with English houses. A private oasis in the middle of a building surrounded by the city.
My tears start to dry as I take deep inhales of oxygen. It’s fresher in here. I have the plants to thank for that. The calming space relaxes me, offering me a connection after feeling unmoored after seeing Henry with his son.
That’s when I realize I’m not alone.
In the corner of a space, kneeling next to a plant, is a woman. She must hear me because she turns over her shoulder.
Then she’s walking toward me.
Her face has mud on it. Her eyes are a crisp shade of blue. She looks familiar, but I can’t place her.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I just—” I stare at a freesia nearby, unable to meet her eyes. I finally turn to her. “Have you ever wondered if everything you know about a person is wrong?”
She looks at me with sad, knowing eyes. “Yes. All the time.”
“How do you deal with that?”
“I find that gardening helps.”
“How can a garden help me figure out what I’m missing?”
Her fingers trail along the path of flowers. I follow her.
She stops at one, adjusting the stems. “Do you know that, to most people, a dandelion is just a weed? Something to be plucked and pulled from the yard and flower beds. But in the spring, when the flowers are just starting to wake from winter, the dandelion is the first bloom available for the bees.” She looks off into the distance like she can see that bee now.
“I had no idea.”
She plucks the flower she’s holding and offers it to me. It’s a dandelion. “A weed is but an unloved flower. And people are the same way until you can see around their mistakes and watch them bloom.”