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My skin was stretched too tight, and I itched to call Marigold.
To tell her that every hour since seeing her last had been more torturous than the last. I was desperate to face her, to touch her, hold her, kiss her. I wanted to tell her that we were going to be okay. Because we would have to be. I wouldn’t accept any other outcome.
I’d done it before. I’d sat by idly and let her slip from my grasp. I knew exactly what that regret felt like. I’d been wallowing in it for years. I refused to do it again. She could give up on this all she wanted, because I had enough hope for the both of us.
Every time my phone buzzed, I practically threw myself on top of it in hopes that it would be her. It was becoming pathetic. I even left a note with Melinda making sure she understood that if she heard anything from Marigold, or if, by some impossible chance, she happened to stop in randomly, then she was to cancel anything and everything.
What made my current state even more pathetic was that I’d see her tomorrow night, regardless. Last week, we’d talked about how excited we were for the boys to finally see all the hard work we’d pieced together for them. It wasn’t perfect. My cuts could have been straighter, and Marigold struggled to paint with her left hand. There were a few rough edges, and if we’d had a little more time, we could have touched up a few more imperfections. But the finished product really was incredible. It was concrete proof I could use to convince her to try again. At the end of this, I could point to it and say see? I told you we could make it.
Did I deserve her? No. Not even a little. But I would spend every day doing my best for her. I’d lost her once and it had broken my heart, along with hers. I refused to let it happen again. Even if I had to spend my every minute proving it to her, I would show Marigold that she and I were meant to be. We were more than partners, more than friends or allies or co-parents.
My phone buzzed once more, startling me out of my stupor.
With a groan, I leaned forward in my chair. “Come on, man. This is ridiculous,” I mumbled to myself.
I reached for it anyway, still hopeful. But when I got a look at the screen, my heart dropped.
Calla: Something happened. You need to come to the school now.
My lungs seized as my mind ran through all the worst-case scenarios. Were the boys hurt? Missing again? Marigold…was she okay? I pulled my keys out and ran to the door.
“Sir, is everything okay?” Melinda looked up from her desk as I rushed past her.
I opened my mouth and pointed to my phone. Was everything okay? No, Melinda, it certainly wasn’t. I looked from her to my phone to the elevator door, then to her again.
I was a basket case, trying to piece together a coherent sentence to explain. Calla would have called if it was really, really bad news, right? I was overthinking, exaggerating. Something happened was too vague. I didn’t even know where to start analyzing that statement.
“I-I. Emergency.” Heat bloomed in my chest and rushed to my face. My fingers were rattling as I combed a hand through my hair and tugged at the ends.
She nodded, clearly taking in my stricken expression, and waved toward the elevator. “Go, go. Call me if you need me.”
Me: Is it the boys? Marigold?
She would have called. I clung to that knowledge. If anything truly bad had happened, she wouldn’t have texted.
Calla: Everyone is okay but…you just need to get here.
At that, I could breathe finally. But I still took the stairs two at a time instead of waiting for the elevator. Whatever it was, I’d fix it, along with my relationship with Marigold. That knowledge kept me going.
Ruined. How could it be ruined?
Calla bit at her thumbnail. “You should have heard her, Liam. She was distraught. Heartbroken.”
I knew the feeling. My heart broke again as I surveyed it, imagining the moment Marigold stumbled upon the mess. The wood was warped and the paint smeared. The animals she’d painstakingly created were smudged messes. She’d put in so much time, effort, and energy, only to be left with a sopping-wet, destroyed mess. It was gut-wrenching.
The ballerina hippo’s once happy face now looked like a half-melted, sad clown. It felt symbolic of the moment.
The tarp was here, and there were sandbags around it. She’d covered it up like we talked about. But something must have gone wrong along the way. I should have been here. Why hadn’t I just taken the afternoon off to help her set it up? Once again, I thought giving her time would heal us. But just like before, I’d left her entirely on her own.
An image of Marigold’s shattered expression haunted me. The shock that must have taken over when she witnessed this first thing and the disappointment and devastation she’d probably felt as she left, all by herself. My chest constricted.
The guilt gnawed at me. I could have been here. I could have helped. Not that it would have stopped the eventual ruin, but then I could have taken the blame. I would have gladly taken the burden for her. Would have carried it on a giant sign over my head. Anything to relieve her of it. But I knew my Goldie. She was blaming herself for this.
It didn’t make sense, how so many sandbags could have shifted so far during the overnight storm. And it wasn’t fair that such a slight adjustment could ruin something we’d poured our hearts and souls into for weeks.
I looked down at my watch. It was nine a.m. The festival wasn’t until tomorrow afternoon. We still had time. I had time.
“I have to fix this.” I tugged on the fallen tarps and gathered them into a rough ball, mentally calculating the challenge in front of me. I’d need a miracle to pull this off. A miracle, and a whole lot of help.
