The daisy is the first thing I see when I
wake up a second time. The stem’s just beginning to droop in the
early morning light, and most of the water in the glass has
evaporated, no wonder the flower’s dying. I almost want to press
the petals between the pages of a book, or maybe in my folder full
of cowboy ads, anything to keep it. But I don’t need just the
flower: I have the boy who gave it to me, and he’ll give me a
hundred more if I only ask. As long as they’re not from Kent’s
garden, I think, smiling wryly at myself as I throw the covers
back and climb out of bed.
Luke’s shirt is still on my bedroom floor.
I’m tempted to pull it on, it’s mine and probably smells like him,
I could wear it and feel him holding me again. But I think of
Kent—he’ll notice the shirt, he’d recog
