It takes all my strength, but I move. I get my legs working, and then I’m running toward it.
His garden.
His rose garden.
I almost scrape my bare knees dropping to the ground. I snatch my glasses off and stare at the dead flowers.
The shrubs are bare and thorny, with hardly any leaves hanging on. The red and pink petals are scattered on the ground, warped into themselves.
As soon as I touch a curled-up bloom still attached to the stem, it crumples.
“Oh, poor babies,” I whimper.
No one has been taking care of them.
He is not taking care of them. They are forgotten and neglected, thrust into a little corner in his backyard.
Just like this house and him.
Mr. Edwards has always been so meticulous about his roses. So careful and religious about looking after them.
Once Brian told me that Mr. Edwards drove two counties over to get the right brand of peat moss for them because the one they had at our local store wouldn’t let the moisture seep through the way that he wanted.
God.
My heart is breaking in a million ways right now and I have to find him.
Not tomorrow. Not an hour later. But right now.
I have to find him right this second.
I have to see him with my own eyes. I have to look at him, ask him about his roses. I have to ask him so many things. I have to say so many things to him.
The next thing I know I’m in my car and I’m driving away. I’m flooring it.
I’ve never driven this fast in my life. Not even on the night I was running away. I go back to the town that I’d only passed through on my drive in.
I literally have no idea what I’m going to do once I get there. But I can’t not do anything. Not after what I’ve seen.
Oh God, the roses.
I’m aware that I’m losing my mind over a bunch of plants. But they’re not just plants. They are… his plants.
I still have the petals from all the dying roses I stole from him over those two years. I kept them safe between the pages of my journals. The old ones, the ones with my dreams: The Diary of a Shrinking Violet.
Forty-five minutes later, I reach the main part of the town. It’s kind of a tiny place with a few stores, office buildings and restaurants probably covering about four to five blocks in total. I find a parking spot on one of the streets and jump out of the car with my large hobo bag – that I literally can’t go anywhere without – and my disguise on.
I don’t even know if he’s here. Maybe he’s out of town. Maybe he’ll come back next week.
But I can ask.
Yes, I’m aware that talking to strangers isn’t my forte anymore but it’s going to be okay. I’ll do anything to find Mr. Edwards.
I will.
And my weird hang-ups won’t stop me.
It’s a small town. I bet someone will know where to find him. My plan is to go to the bars first and ask about him and –
“Holy shit,” I breathe out and halt in my tracks.
Someone bumps into me from behind but I don’t move or pay attention to their mumbled apology and my anxious heartbeats.
Because I’ve found him.
I’ve found Mr. Edwards.
Or at least, his truck. His black truck is parked across the street, and like a lunatic, I run toward it.
It’s definitely his truck.
There’s the Connecticut plates – which apparently, he hasn’t changed – and that’s his plate number that I could recite even in my dreams.
It’s parked right in front of a bar. There’s a window to the side, a big window, and without thinking about it, I approach it.
The interior is neon-y and dark. The walls are made of dark wood and there are leather booths to the side, along with a few free-standing tables in the back.
The place is somewhat crowded, and I scope through it, looking for him. For that one man for whom I drove thousands of miles and crossed multiple state lines.
And in a rush of breath, I find him.
My legs stagger a bit when I see him sitting in one of the leather booths close to the window.
“Holy fucking shit,” I whisper. “Mr. Edwards.”
He’s here.
I found him.
And God, he’s glowing.
Something is illuminating the contours of his body. Even through the tint of my sunglasses, I can tell its sparkly and bright.
It’s something out of a dream.
Thousands and thousands of dreams that I’ve had. Some drunk, some electric. Some psychedelic and stoned. Some lonely and horny.
But all of them about him.
I press my hand even more aggressively on the glass window, probably leaving the print of my fingers and palms.
In fact, I give my entire weight to the thick glass as I watch Mr. Edwards.