Love You Better (Better Love 1)

“Wait,” she blurts out, then her eyes grow wide, and she looks around at the flower garden. “You didn’t.”

“I definitely did.”

I stop her at a concrete bench and gesture for her to sit, then I head to the crop of blue flowers.

“So, Sunday night, I rode my bike here and picked a bunch of these blue flowers. I didn’t know what they were at the time, but they reminded me of your eyes.” I hear a small gasp escape her, and I snap one of the flowers low on the stem. “Then I rode my bike back to my house, put the flowers in a Mountain Dew bottle filled with water, and had every intention of giving them to you Monday at school.”

I sit down next to her and hand her the single stem. She brings it to her nose and takes a deep inhale of the tiny bloom.

“What happened? Why didn’t you?” Ivy is twirling the flower in her fingers, staring like she finds it fascinating.

“What happened was I was an idiot.” I shrug and sigh. “Monday morning, I was all set to bring the flowers to school, but when Preston showed up to ride with me, he started giving me shit about them.”

“Oh no. He embarrassed you?”

“Hell no, I told him to fuck right off. But then he goaded me into racing him, and I was a dumb kid and felt like I needed to prove myself just a little to make up for carrying a froufrou bouquet of flowers to school, and I ended up crashing. Crushed the bouquet to pieces and scraped my elbow to shit, too.”

“I remember that morning. I made you go to the nurse.”

“That’s the one. I was gonna pick you some more after school, but then Preston wouldn’t shut the fuck up about the flowers all day, and by last bell, I was doubting myself and feeling stupid, so I just forgot about it.”

“Dang.” Ivy’s voice is quiet and contemplative, and we sit in silence for a moment. She’s still sniffing and twirling the flower, when she asks, “so what is it?”

I take the flower from her and smell it.

“I learned in my 10th grade Intro to Agriculture class that this is a blue cornflower, also known as the Bachelor’s Button.”

“Bachelor’s Button?”

“Mmhmm. Apparently, in folklore, the blue cornflower was worn by bachelors who had fallen in love, and if the flower wilted quickly, it meant the one he’d fallen for did not return his feelings.” I hold her gaze for a moment, letting her search my eyes for whatever emotion or secret she’s trying to find. When she bites her lip, I lower my attention back to the flower and continue.

“It also has a lot of different symbolic meanings, but in some cultures, the cornflower is believed to symbolize hope and resilience.” I flick my eyes back to her and add playfully, “and in ancient Egypt, they were used as décor for mummies. So basically, I tried woo you with ancient grave flowers.”

Ivy rolls her eyes and laughs with me, but then she places her hand on my thigh, her penetrating blue eyes laying me completely bare—seeking my secrets and inner most desires—and I hold eye contact, because I want her to know everything. When she leans over to press a soft kiss on my lips, I accept it gratefully.

I stand and pull her up with me, then we make our way back to the truck. “Where to next?” she questions, and I get another zing at how dreamy she sounds.

“Now, we eat.”

Walking into Maria’s Pizza, the smell of garlic and tomato sauce makes my mouth water and fills my mind with yet more memories, all of which star the amazing woman beside me.

“I haven’t been here in years!” I watch as Ivy looks around the place, letting her g

orgeous blue eyes flit from the red-checkered tablecloths to the canvas paintings of Italy on the walls. “It hasn’t changed at all.”

“I know. It’s nuts. Like walking into a time warp. I should be wearing my letterman jacket and skinny jeans.” I flash her a grin, and she groans comically.

“Not the skinny jeans. Remember when you frosted your tips?” She scrunches up her nose and raises her eyebrows. “That was not a good look.”

“It wasn’t,” I admit with a laugh. “But at the time I thought I was fucking cool as shit. Almost as cool as you thought you were with those jeans with all the little patches on them.”

“Hey, I loved those jeans.” She sighs wistfully. “I’d still wear them if I could.”

“The Dr. Who patch.”

“That one was my second favorite. The patch with Rainbow Bright was my first favorite.”

“Those jeans were basically rags by 12th grade. More patches than actual denim,” I say on a laugh. Those jeans were a mess.