Lily Love

by Maggi Myers

  “There is a moon garden in the center of the grounds. I come here when the weight of the world is too much and I need solace from the fray,” I ramble nervously.

  “Moon garden?” Tate asks as we walk along. I swear he can sense my nerves, because he starts to brush the back of my hand with his thumb. Back and forth. Ebb and flow. It stills the cacophony of my thoughts.

  Cement gives way to mulch where the sidewalk ends and the garden’s pathways begin. Fireflies light up the foliage with a whimsical glow as the path leads us through a canopy of weeping willows. Every step brings me closer to the peace of mind I always find here. The added tranquility of strolling hand in hand with Tate makes the anticipation even greater. He’s either going to love this place or hate it. There’s really no room for in-between.

  “It’s the only part of the gardens that blooms at night,” I explain. “They bloom in response to the moonlight, so it’s called a ‘moon garden.’ See?” I point ahead to a break in the trees, where the soft glow of the moon’s luminescence casts down on a sea of moody white flowers and shimmering greenery. Tate’s pace increases, and he grips my hand tighter. “I used to come here at night, after Lily’s bedtime, and just think. It was the only time of day when there was actual silence. Being here has always helped me find peace.”

  I sigh, coming to a standstill where two dimly lit lanterns, hanging from shepherd’s hooks, mark the entrance to the sacred space where I come to hide. I don’t tell people about this place, because I don’t want it polluted with the memories of others. It needed to be pure of the world I was hiding from. A space where the silence could swallow my cries, and where I could grieve in secret. Now I’ve brought Tate here, and I’m not even sure why.

  “Beautiful,” he whispers.

  I turn my head and find him looking at me. I mean really watching me, like I’m something to behold. I feel drunk from his wonderment, completely incapable of turning away, as he pulls me deeper into his eyes. The moonlight and fireflies work their ethereal magic, blocking out each of the hindering doubts I’ve clung to, leaving nothing but Tate and me. Without a single concern for the consequences, I rise onto my tiptoes and kiss him softly.

  “Caroline,” he breathes against my mouth, sending electricity crackling down my spine. He returns my kiss with reverence, worshiping every part of my mouth with his. Warmth engulfs my body as I lean into his embrace. Tracing a path along my spine, his hand comes to rest in the small of my back. He holds me firmly against him, careful not to crush my arm between us. Every move, every touch is amplified by the enchanted dominion of the lunar blooms lit up by moonshine and fireflies.

  I never gave much credit to those who talked about getting swept up in a kiss. It seemed irresponsible and dangerous to allow your baser urges take over without regard for the consequences. I’ve always thrived on being cautious and maintaining control—until now. Tate has complete power over me, stoking a yearning in me I never knew I had. Nothing matters to me in this moment except the way I feel in his arms. His mother’s illness, Lily’s diagnosis—all of it ceases to exist as I am consumed by his kiss.

  When our lips finally part, he keeps me close by tucking my head under his chin. Just when I’m about to ask him what he’s thinking, he utters the words that erase any doubt whether he feels the same way. “You make the rest of the world disappear.”

  I couldn’t have said it better myself. The world is but a speck of light beneath us on this tightrope. Whether there’s a net to catch me is no longer material. The fall is inevitable, and when it comes, I want to fall feeling just like this.

  windmills

  The hope taking root in my soul is dangerous. I know this, and yet here I am nuzzled up to Tate in the place most sacred to me. Somewhere deep in the coffers of my better judgment, my common sense is demanding an audience, and I couldn’t care less. I’ve spent my entire adult life being responsible, fastidious, tame, and wholly monotonous.

  You’re about twenty years late for anarchy, sister. You’re too old to start chasing windmills.

  “ ‘I know who I am, and who I may be, if I choose,’ ” I mutter to myself. Tate looks at me curiously, and it’s only then I realize I’ve spoken out loud. The moon glows just bright enough to illuminate the recognition on Tate’s face.

  “Tilting at windmills?” he murmurs, cocking his head to the side. How does he do that? How does he always know what to say? It’s the most unsettling thing I’ve ever felt.

  I break free from Tate’s arms and sit on the bench, burying my face in my hands. I feel too exposed, my heart too accessible for comfort. The seat bows with Tate’s weight as he sits next to me. The soft chirping of crickets punctuates the silence building between us, but words just won’t come. I feel foolish, but I find myself afraid to speak. Each time I do, whether I intend to be heard or not, Tate burrows himself a little deeper under my skin. I thought I was the one who got to set the pace. It doesn’t feel that way to me at all.

  The bench creaks in protest when Tate shifts his weight toward me. “Where did you go?”

  I know I’m not being fair, and Tate is patiently waiting for me to clue him in. My hesitation stems from this adverse fear of sharing too much, too soon. How can I explain without exposing more than I’m ready to?

  “You surprised me,” I finally offer. “I was not expecting you to know, let alone reference, Don Quixote.” I stifle a giggle when he looks at me, shocked and slightly affronted. As quickly as anxiety had me by the throat, it slinks its way back to the shadows.

  “I’ll pretend not to be insulted by your flagrant lack of confidence in my notable quotables.” He sniffs.

  For just a brief moment I’m sickened to think I may have truly offended Tate. I steal a peek at him, and that’s when I catch him smirking.

  “You ass.” I laugh, and playfully swat his arm.

  “Gotcha.” He chuckles, tilting his head toward the sky. He closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath. When he lets it out, he turns his face toward me and I’m struck by the vulnerability I see reflected back at me. His tone is filled with uncertainty when he speaks again. “I don’t know what to do when you pull away like that. I’m scared, too, you know.” He reaches for me.

  “I’m sorry.” I try to turn away, but Tate cups my face in his hand, gently turning me back toward his concerned gaze.

  “I don’t want you to be sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “I want you to talk to me. If I do something wrong, if I say something that scares you, I just want the chance to fix it.” His eyes pin me with their sincerity, and it sets my doubt free, flooding my thoughts and words in one big rush.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong, Tate,” I promise him. “It’s nothing that you can fix. I don’t want you to be anything less than who you are. It’s just every time I show you a piece of myself, you show me your perfect mirror image of it. How can that be?” My voice soars up an octave as full-blown hysteria kicks in. “You can’t possibly be real. There has to be something wrong with you. Good God, no one can be that perfect; it’s unnatural. The only other man I’ve ever heard quote Miguel de Cervantes was my English professor my freshman year of college. He was older than dirt and had a face like Droopy Dog. He spoke, and drool would slide down the creases of his jowls and drip off the bottom of his chin. It was disgusting …” I’m aware that I’m rambling, but I can’t seem to stop the stream of consciousness, now that it’s exploded out of my brain.

  “Hold on,” Tate interjects. I freeze midsentence, with his hand still holding on to my face. I clamp my mouth shut and start to squirm in my seat, waiting for him to speak. “Did you just compare me to your ancient English prof who drooled and grossed you out?” When he says it like that, it really does sound terrible.

  “I didn’t mean that you were like him physically, just that you were similar in your literary references,” I defend myself.

  “So I don’t physically remind you of Professor Spittleton, but my literary prowess brings him to mind? I fail to see
how that’s an improvement,” he says, dropping his hands from my face.

  I try so hard not to laugh, it ends up coming out as an undignified snort. The look on his face only makes me laugh harder; mixing with Tate’s guffaws, we fill the garden with our merriment.

  “I have the propensity to ramble,” I say between snickers. “I didn’t mean to sound like I was drawing a comparison. Honest.”

  “I love the way you ramble.” Tate smiles. “It’s adorable, and no one can make me laugh like you do.”

  “That’s me,” I say. “Calamity Caroline, comic relief.”

  “Captivating Caroline,” Tate responds. “I don’t see anything calamitous about you. A bewitching enigma, but never a calamity.”

  I stare at him, blank-faced for a moment, before the weight of what he’s said settles in.

  “A what?” I ask, amazed at his choice of words.

  “An enigma.” His lips pull up at one corner, giving him the look of a shy boy. “A mystery.”

  “I know what it means.” I tilt my body, tucking my legs beneath me to face him. “I’ve always used that word to describe Lily.”

  He drapes his arm across the back of the bench, brushing my arm. “Do you think you’re any less of a puzzle?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “I haven’t spent a lot of time thinking about myself at all, honestly.”

  His eyebrows pinch together in deep thought. It makes me crazy when he looks at me like that. It’s impossible to know what he’s thinking, only that he’s churning out some interpretation of my craziness.

  “The fact that you haven’t is the biggest mystery of all.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and lets his fingertips brush my cheek.

  “I’m not some puzzle you can solve, Tate.” I look at him warily. Pedestals are for falling off of, and if he elevates me any higher I’m going to get a nosebleed.

  “I don’t want to,” he responds without hesitation. “ ‘Solving’ implies there’s a problem, and there isn’t a thing I would change about you, Caroline.”

  I arch my brow slowly, pursing my lips in suspicion.

  “Not one thing?” I challenge. My bullshit meter is measuring off the charts. I’m all for a genuine compliment, but I don’t need sunshine blown up my ass just because it sounds good. No, thank you.

  “Well, maybe one thing.” He grins wide and mischievously. Jerk.

  “Really?” My voice drips with sarcasm as I fold my arms.

  Tate only smiles wider and closes the last of the gap between us. My breathing becomes erratic as our thighs brush against each other, but I fight to maintain my outward annoyance. He takes it all in stride as he leans closer.

  “I would only change how much you doubt me,” he whispers against my neck.

  My eyes flutter closed at the feel of his breath across my skin. It soothes and stokes me at the same time, until I’m certain I’ll combust from the tension. Just as I’m sure I can’t take another second of his slow torture, he pulls back and levels me with the warm intensity of his eyes.

  “Trust is something earned, Tate.” I mean it to be a warning about his lofty expectations, but my voice is weak and uncertain. It comes off sounding like something I question more than I believe. His eyes hold me with the promise of their sincerity, and I want so badly to get lost in them, to trust that he’s worthy of my faith. But I can’t. Not yet.

  “I will earn it, you can count on it.” He smiles, completely unshaken by my caution. Dimples winking, eyes shining, he’s irresistible.

  Oh, man. I’m in so much trouble.

  somewhere only we know

  Somewhere between stolen moonlight kisses and secret garden promises, I find myself growing less guarded. My boundaries are becoming more pliant to the possibility that Tate is an exception to the rules by which I live and breathe. In particular, the one where I promised myself to take my time and not rush into anything. The more time I spend in his space, the more enthralled I become with the man he’s showing me he is. I don’t want our evening to end—but I know that the time is drawing near for me to take him back to the hospital.

  There’s no way to predict what tomorrow will bring with it; I only know that what’s growing between us cannot take precedence over the realities we’re facing. I have a daughter who needs me to advocate for her, and a divorce agreement that needs finalizing. Tate’s mother has only a few months left to live. These are not circumstances that any kind of relationship flourishes under. The logical part of my brain knows this. Still, my heart yearns for Tate with a ferocity I can’t ignore or deny. Nor do I want to.

  “The next time we come out here, I need to bring my camera.” Tate’s voice pulls me back from my wandering thoughts. Leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees, he’s studying one of my favorite flowers.

  “I’m glad you like it here; I wasn’t sure what you’d think.” I smile as pleasure stains my cheeks. “Do you like photography?” I ask curiously.

  “It’s my passion,” he murmurs as he studies the landscape of blooms. I can picture him here, squatting with his camera, adjusting the lens, framing his shot.

  “Are you any good?” I tease, but somehow I already know he is.

  “I hope so.” He shrugs. “It would be a shame for the people who hired me if I sucked.” A professional photographer, too. Mother of pearl, this man just keeps getting hotter. What else don’t I know? He reaches out to test the texture of the flower petals, smoothing them between his fingers.

  “It’s a Casablanca Lily,” I say. “It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?”

  “Breathtaking,” he replies, clearing his throat when his gaze returns to me. “Sorry, I get carried away when I find portrait ideas for my portfolio.”

  “No apologies.” I shake my head. “You’re passionate about your craft, and you just zeroed in on my favorite moon bloomer. Nothing to be sorry for at all.”

  His face lights up at my praise. “I don’t do portrait shoots,” he explains. “I sell limited copyrights to most of my catalog for stock-photo use, so I can make a living and then shoot what I really want to in my free time.”

  “Wait, didn’t you say you studied engineering?” I distinctly remember him saying that he and Laura had been in the same engineering program together.

  “I did,” he confirms. “I have a bachelor’s degree in mechanical engineering. I worked in the field for a few years, but it just wasn’t for me. I’ve always been passionate about photography; I just didn’t think I could make a career out of it. After a while, I realized I could be safe and bored as an engineer, or I could take a leap of faith and see what happened. Best thing I ever did.”

  Leap of faith. Yes, I’m learning a thing or two about those.

  “That’s very inspiring. We should all be so brave where our dreams are concerned. Maybe you could show me some of your stuff sometime,” I suggest. I frown at my watch, suddenly wishing I hadn’t checked. “Wow, it’s already ten fifteen.”

  He winces. “I really should get back to the hospital. I’m surprised Tarryn hasn’t started lighting up my phone.”

  With a heavy sigh, I take in a final scan of what is now my shared sanctuary. All the wanting in the world couldn’t keep the evening from coming to a close, but I cling just a little longer, holding on to Tate’s hand as we stroll back to my car.

  The drive back to the hospital is quiet, making me more anxious with every mile closer we get. For all the talking we did, we haven’t discussed where things go from here. Was this just a nice distraction for a night? Are we friends? Are we more? Are we crazy? Well, of course we are. Duh.

  The stoplight ahead flashes yellow, and I mentally flip the mocking “yield” warning the bird. If I had any restraint I would be yielding, thank you very much. Although some would argue that I’m an adult and should have more self-control than a hormonal teenager, I’m clearly just a slave to my traitorous heart. At least I haven’t slept with him … yet.

  Oh, Lord. If that is the last shred of dignity I can cling t
o, I’m in really bad shape. I let out an audible sigh, and Tate reaches out and puts his hand on my knee. It makes my skin flush with heat, and I find myself gripping the steering wheel tighter.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” He starts encircling my knee with his fingertips. It’s my kneecap, for chrissakes, and you’d think he was encircling my nipples, the way they’re pushing through my shirt right now.

  “Are you cold?” he asks, showing his concern by rubbing my knee up to my midthigh. He’s warming me up, all right. “You’ve got goose bumps.” Yeah, thanks for noticing.

  “Yeah,” I lie. “I guess I’m a little chilly. Night air and all.” I should be telling myself that I want him to stop, but what I really want is for his hand to drift a little higher …

  Tart.

  Oh hush. Who asked you, anyway?

  “I was just thinking that we talked about so many things, but we didn’t talk about if we wanted to see each other again.” I feel so lame. Is this what I’ve really relegated myself to, a blatant fishing expedition?

  Do you like me? If yes, check here.__ If you think I’m a pathetic loser, check here.__

  “I mean, I know I want to see you again, and I know you’d like to see me,” I quickly correct. “It’s just that we’ve got a lot going on, and I don’t want you to feel obligated to call me. I get it.”

  I really don’t want him to feel like he’s got to take time away from being with his mother. If anything, I’d like to know how I can ease his burden, not amplify it. After all the time I’ve spent submersed in just my own problems, it’s shocking to find myself willing and wanting to be involved with someone else’s. I don’t want to blow this, but every time I open my mouth I’m sticking my foot in.

  “Caroline.” One word, and by the tone I can tell that I’m not going to like what’s coming. “I don’t know what the next few months are going to look like for me.”