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“Okay, so next time you’re around her, don’t make it obvious, but just casually mention her height.”
It was a trick my dad had taught me long ago. In fact, it was how I’d ended up with Marigold’s number. Even if she had only been an inch shorter than me.
“Mention her height?” he asked, scrunching his nose.
“Yeah, look down at her and throw in a”—I cleared my throat and dropped down an octave—“you always been this short?”
“Dad.” He slumped against the seat and dropped his hands to his lap. “That doesn’t work anymore.”
I wasn’t that old, was I? Now that I thought about it, I guessed I’d made fun of my old man, too, when he was giving me tips about girls and dating. His were a little harsher, though. Things like Tell her you like her and Don’t forget to use a condom. I shivered at the thought of having that conversation one day. No matter what, even after they were out on their own and married, I couldn’t imagine not seeing them as babies.
“Oh yeah? How do you think I got your mom?” I flexed a little, which made him giggle and lightened the air a bit. “I didn’t have these muscles back in high school. I had to win her over somehow.”
With a nod, he shot me a smile. Then he unbuckled and snatched his backpack off the floorboard. With his hand on the door, he turned back to me and tilted his head, giving me a thorough assessment.
“Was Mom pretty in high school?”
I scoffed, and my heart panged. Pretty was an understatement. She was captivating. Her smile alone would cause me to stumble. Those sweet, soft doe eyes that looked up at me like I’d hung the moon had constantly left me reeling. She was always smiling, always sweet. Even now, she reminded me of orange groves and spring sunrises. Ferris wheels and cotton candy on late summer nights. And for the first time in a long time, when she’d let her guard down, I’d seen glimpses of that girl.
“You have no idea.”
Dallas smiled. “All right, I’ll give it a shot.” Then he was gone.
Stepping into Marigold’s backyard felt like taking a trip back in time.
I’d spent the whole drive thinking of our high school days, our first date, when I’d thought I would spontaneously burst into flames if I didn’t kiss her perfectly, late-night drives and texting each other when we should have been asleep.
I went from those memories to opening up the gate and finding her lying flat on her stomach, humming along to “No Scrubs,” pink paint smeared across her forehead, wearing a soft smile full of so much meaning. It was like stepping into a dream. So much so that I had to pinch myself.
For a long moment, I stayed put, leaning against the fence and taking it all in. The smell of freshly cut grass and honeysuckle filled my senses. Marigold’s tongue poked out a bit on one side as she held her left hand steady, focusing on the lines she had already prepared. A sense of pride bloomed inside me at the sight of her painting the wood I’d cut out for her. Suddenly, I’d become a weird, artistic caveman.
She kicked her feet back and forth in the air, bare legs on cut grass and a cool breeze flowing through the hair she had pulled back in a ponytail. Her denim shorts were snug, and she’d paired them with a giant white T-shirt that, judging by the random swipes of the rainbow across it, she had used for painting before.
Until this moment, I hadn’t realized how much I missed watching her paint. This was better than any football game or family game night, even when Crew flipped tables. Watching Marigold with a brush in her hand and paint on her skin was like watching a masterpiece come to life right in front of my eyes. Each brush stroke was more expressive than the last. I’d never really been interested in art museums, thought they were kind of silly, to be honest. But now, watching Marigold in her element, I wondered if maybe there really was a point to wandering through them.
Right now, she looked like the old Marigold. Although we were both irrevocably in love with our sons, having twins at such a young age had put a strain on us. On our marriage. There was a time when she was all smiles and running hugs when I came home. The days when I’d speed the whole way there, anxious to greet her at the door with a kiss.
The contrast to the days near the end of our marriage, when we didn’t even stop to say hello, when we were operating in survival mode, was stark. We’d become roommates by that point, and from there, I suffered the slowest, most painful heartbreak I’d ever known.
Yet that woman was the same one smiling to herself over her work, sometimes unwittingly crossing her eyes when she focused just right. The same one who’d stroked my beard a few nights ago and told me I smelled nice. She’d jumped me in the bathroom at the restaurant and blushed when we got too close. She’d nearly kissed me then too. As much as I knew I was supposed to forget it, I couldn’t.
If I could go back, could I have fixed us? It was a question that had plagued me for years. Since time travel was an impossibility, was there any way we could get it back? Or was it time I gave up on the thought that had niggled at the back of my mind since the day she walked out?
I stayed like that for a long time. It wasn’t until she was half-finished with the hippo that I shifted, accidentally making the gate creak.
Marigold’s head snapped my way, and she shouted, turning her paintbrush toward me like it was a weapon. When she registered my identity, she relaxed. “You can’t just sneak up like that.”
I shrugged. “I’ve been here a while. Was enjoying the view.”
A blush crept across her cheeks, and I smiled, waiting for the fire. But it never came.
Instead, her mouth curved in a small, shy grin. Sun rays peeking through storm clouds. A single wildflower in a field of weeds. A chocolate chip cookie mixed in with a batch of oatmeal raisin.
The tiniest bit of light surrounding the weight around us. No medicine or accidental touching required.
I really, really liked that smile.
“Get over here and start working on the giraffe.” She nodded to the cutout next to her, then she turned back to her work.
