The bleak cream walls of our foyer seem to be closing in around me as I stare at the offensive offering Grayson is holding in his hand. I refuse to take them.
“I’m sorry. Is something wrong?” he asks, confusion saturating his words.
“I don’t want them.” I slowly shake my head. My chest heaves in pain.
Grayson takes his free hand and runs it through his hair. “Okay,” he says wearily. “I’m sorry. They’ve always been your favorite.”
“I don’t want to smell them. Throw them away. Outside. Now,” I say urgently, my voice shaking with suppressed emotions.
Grayson walks out the door, taking the evil bouquet of lilies with him.
I wrap my arms around my middle, attempting to hold myself together. I fall to my knees. I’m breaking—or maybe I’m already broken. I can’t take the pain, the memories.
