CHAPTER 8
1178 Words
LILLIAN
I woke up to an empty bed and reached for the alarm clock. 6:15 a.m. The sheets beside me were cold, proof that Joe had already left.
He’d mentioned an early appointment last night, but the least he could’ve done was wake me up, kiss me on the forehead, and say goodbye. Anything. A scrap of decency would have been nice.
I threw the covers aside. No point wasting time thinking about him. There’s no time to sulk all day. It’s almost 6:30. And besides, it was my one work-free day this week. I needed air. I need to go jogging.
The bathroom tiles were chilly under my feet, making me wince as I moved quickly. I splashed cold water on my face, and it made me blink rapidly, finally shaking off the last traces of sleep. I brushed my teeth, then yanked my hair into a tight ponytail. I slipped into my active wear and running shoes—minutes later, I was stepping outside, the chilled morning air hitting against my cheeks.
Jogging had started three years into my marriage, back when Joe made comments about me gaining weight. At first, I ran to prove him wrong. But later, it became mine. Running always cleared my head and loosened the tightness in my body.
Today, I needed it more than ever.
Two miles later, sweat ran down my neck, and my legs felt heavy but good. I eased into a walk, hands braced on my hips, eyes tilted towards the morning sunrise as I let the quiet morning sink in and for the first time since I woke up, I felt like I could breathe.
But it never lasts for long.
Today was Thursday—my supposed day off. Except nothing about it felt ‘off’. Thursday meant another session, another day of not knowing what to do or feel.
It had only been two days since the last one, and I still felt uneasy. Two days of forcing a smile on my face while, inside, I was searching for an escape route. A way to run far to the ends of the earth.
I went into my painting room, wanting to keep my head in a positive headspace. It always does the trick of settling my thoughts. It always gives me something to focus on when my mind wants to spiral.
By midday, I had a canvas covered in messy strokes of red and gray. Vivian and I had planned to spend the day together—celebrating her five years with her agency—but her schedule had changed since her agency wanted to throw her a party.
Typical Vivian, juggling casting, fitting, and interviews. I couldn’t be upset. I was proud of her. She was doing so well, and I love that for her.
I still hadn’t told her how counseling went. I didn’t want her worrying about me when she already had a full day to plan for Saturday.
I was rinsing the brushes when a knock startled me.
That’s strange. Nobody ever knocked here.
My chest tightened with curiosity. Vivian had canceled, maybe she’d changed her mind and wanted to surprise me? That thought made me drop the brush, wiping paint from my palms on a rag as I hurried to the door.
I swung it open—and froze.
A wall of red roses greeted me. A bouquet so large, it nearly blocked the deliveryman’s face.
My curiosity knotted instantly into confusion. Making my stomach flip.
“Hello, ma’am.” The man said, shifting the weight of the flowers in his arms. “Delivery for Lillian Calloway?”
“Uhn…” My throat felt tight. “I think you’ve got the wrong address.”
He lowered the bouquet enough to glance at his clipboard. “Says right here. Lillian Calloway. That’s you, right?”
“Y-yes,” I stammered, my voice laced with hesitation.
He nodded. “There’s a card attached on here,” he looked at the bouquet, then looked back at me as he stretched out the clipboard. “I’ll need your signature right here.” He pointed to the line where my name was written.
“Does it say who it’s from?” The deliveryman looked at me, confused, not understanding what I meant. I cleared my throat. “I mean the card. Does it say who it’s from?”
“No ma’am.” His tone faltered, like my unease was sipping into him. “I can take it back if it makes you feel uncomfortable. Or toss them.”
I hesitated, a cold feeling crawled over me, making the hairs on my skin rise. Then I exhaled. “No. It’s fine. I’ll take them.” My voice sounded defeated in my ears. “Where do I sign?”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
I scribbled my name and accepted the weight of the bouquet, the roses brushing against my chin as I closed the door behind me.
The cool air in the kitchen washed over me as I stepped inside. I grabbed a glass vase and began arranging them, trying to shake off the unease curling in my gut. Maybe Vivian had lied about being busy. Maybe this was her way of congratulating me on my first day of counseling.
But when I pulled the small white card from the bouquet, all it read was:
Have a beautiful day.
No name. No handwriting I recognized. Just those four words.
A chill swept down my spine.
I hurried to my room, feet slapping against the cold floor as I snatched up my phone. My thumb flew across the screen, searching for Vivian’s name.
Me: I love you, but you know how much I hate surprises.
The phone vibrated almost instantly, her reply lighting up the screen.
Vivian: What surprise?
My brows drew together, my mind stumbling over the pieces that didn’t add up.
Me: The roses you sent.
I paced around the room, impatience biting into me as I tapped the phone against my palm. When it finally pinged again, the message drained the color from my face.
Vivian: I’m so sorry, Lil. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I promise I didn’t send you roses.
My stomach dropped.
Another ping.
Vivian: Hey… maybe it’s from Joe?
I let out a sharp, bitter scoff. In five years of marriage, Joe hadn’t brought me flowers. Not once. And these? These were red roses. My favorite. I’m one hundred percent sure he doesn’t even know that.
Still, a voice inside whispered for me to ask him.
Reluctantly, I pulled up his contact.
Me: Did you send flowers to the house?
The reply came in minutes later.
Joe: No. I didn’t. Busy. Don’t message me back.
The words blurred as I read them, my heart sinking low, heavy and cold.
I turned back to the kitchen, to the pretty roses now sitting on the kitchen island. Its scarlet petals looked too perfect, too delicate.
If they weren’t from Vivian.
If they weren’t from Joe.
Then who?
- Writer
