Romantic Flowers

My ex-wife Blythe says I became more affectionate after our divorce. Romantic was the term she used. Too romantic, she said—and not romantic about the two of us, but rather about her and her boyfriend.

I started sending gifts to them on occasion. “Get Well Soon” cards when they were sick, holiday cards, flowers for their first anniversary as a couple. They thought it was weird. One day, Blythe’s boyfriend Trey confronted me about it. He said, “Look, we appreciate what you’re doing, but you don’t need to send us anything. Really.”

And that Really at the end told me his statement wasn’t a suggestion, but a proclamation. Don’t send us anything, he was saying, because it weirds us out.

I get it. It’s not every day your loner ex-husband/lover/former-friend sends flowers to his ex-wife on her anniversary with somebody else. But she got it right when she called me “romantic”—though calling me too romantic was a bit of an insult.

Trey died a few weeks after their first anniversary, the one where I’d sent the flowers. He was stopped at a red light on his motorcycle when an SUV came screeching down the road and plowed right into him in the dead of night. Turned out to be a hit-and-run, with no other cars on the road. The SUV that hit him, I later found out, was stolen from a Mickey McConnell who lived nearby, taken right from his driveway for a high-speed joyride at midnight. They never found the guy who hit him. He took off right after the impact and the only witness was a nineteen-year-old kid named Frankie Benevici, who managed to see the guy’s silhouette as he sprinted away.

Trey survived the impact somehow. I sent flowers to Trey’s hospital room the minute I found out, knowing they were more for Blythe’s comfort than for Trey’s. Though, as a courtesy, I wrote, “Get well soon, Trey. I’m rooting for you!”

He died of further complications (organ failure) a day later. Poor guy. Poor Blythe…

What a tragic world we live in.

Understandably, Blythe was broken up beyond words. The afternoon of Trey’s funeral, just hours after he was lowered into the ground, I stopped by her house with more flowers and a bottle of wine. A party of supporters occupied her living and dining rooms with food platters and brownies, apparently with the same idea in mind: be there for the grieving loved one. Blythe smiled at me, thanked me for being so considerate, and then kindly dismissed me, saying she didn’t think she could take one more familiar face consoling her today.

I politely left.

It wasn’t the first time something like this happened. Five years ago, shortly after my previous love interest Katrina Yessemna broke things off with me (including our engagement), she said she’d been seeing some guy named Guy (ha-ha, funny) who drowned in a lake (not funny).

I went to Katrina’s house a few days after Guy’s funeral. She said she felt so alone in her house without him there. She said she was glad I was around. She kissed me on my neck. Then on my mouth. Soon, she was unbuttoning her blouse and we were going to bed. And just like that, we were back together—for a while.

A couple months later, once Katrina decided she’d had enough of me for the second time, she disappeared in the middle of the night, and I never saw her again—and neither has anyone else.

***

I wait a week after Trey’s funeral, then I go back to Blythe’s house. She’s wearing sun-faded running pants and a tank top with no bra underneath. She covers up as if I’ve never seen this side of her, as if I’m a stranger and it’s indecent.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m a mess.” Tears threaten to fall down her cheeks, but she stops herself. “Would you like to come in, Dorian?”

I thank her and walk into a living room with unwashed clothes strewn about the floor and furniture. She asks me to kindly excuse the mess, she hasn’t been up to cleaning lately.

“That’s understandable,” I say. “I can help, if you’d like.”

“No, that’s okay,” she says. “You’re sweet, though. Can I get you some coffee?”

“That would be lovely.”

We sip hot beverages together and she pours her heart out to me. “Trey and I learned so much about each other in that brief year together. It’s like he’s become a part of me already. A part that transcends the body and touches the spirit. You know? Do I sound crazy?”

“Not at all.”

She stares off into some distant realm by my right fingertips, a crumpled Kleenex dabbing at her wet nose as she sniffles. “I don’t know what I’ll do without him. We connected more than anyone I’ve ever been with.” She stops for a moment, realizing who she’s talking to. She gives me an embarrassed smile. “Sorry.”

I shake my head and gesture for her to go on, even though I don’t really want her to.

She asks, “Have you been with anyone since me, Dorian?”

I tell her no, I haven’t.

“That’s a shame. I wish you knew what it feels like to have… to have what me and Trey…” Then she bursts into loud, gasping sobs, the Kleenex becoming a soaked, useless mass in her hand. She leans into me and continues crying. I know it isn’t because she wants my comfort; she would just as soon use a pillow or a dog or an Amazon box for something to lean on were it in my place.

When she’s done, she apologizes profusely and excuses herself to the bathroom. When she returns, she says, “Dorian, I’m sorry, but I don’t think now is a good time for company.”

I politely leave again, listening to her wail as I take slow, deliberate steps away from the house.

***

When Blythe and I first started dating, I believed it was a more sophisticated relationship than the one I shared with Katrina. Blythe and I were young, but not too young; we’d both been through our share of break-ups, and we’d grown past them. We knew this relationship could end at any time, so we would arm ourselves and prepare to work through the worst of times.

Well, the worst of times happened, and we weren’t as prepared as we thought. We let issues from our past relationships get the better of us—she was clingy and I was distant, so our marriage counselor said. I needed to make more room in my life for her, and she needed to let me have room for myself. It was a balancing act, we were told.

But as our issues festered like invisible pustules, she started to grow distant. She left me because she felt I wasn’t there.

“I’m here now,” I remember telling her. “I promise. I’m trying.”

She gave me a sad look and whispered, “I believe you.”

Then she left.

Now, I’m checking in with her every day, sending flowers and chocolates and pies while she’s off work. She accepts them at the door, then says she needs her space. I oblige and leave.

Once, however, she lets me inside, overcome with grief. “I just don’t get it,” she tells me. “How can the police not have found the guy by now? I mean, isn’t it their fucking job to find people and arrest them?”

I shrug. “I don’t know, B.”

“It’s so confusing. I mean, what are the odds that he’d be the only one on the road and get hit like that?” She shakes her head. “It’s like the bastard did it on purpose, I swear to God. But maybe that’s just me having too much time to think…”

I place a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Have you gotten enough rest? Been out of the house?”

She shakes her head. “Neither.”

“How about we go out for coffee? I’ll buy whatever you want.”

“You’re sweet, but…” Then she breaks down into hysterics again, leaning on me like she did the other day.

I let her finish, then say, “I’m here for you. Always. I know things ended between us, but that doesn’t mean you’re out of my life.”

I remember using that line on Katrina, how it led to her ripping off her panties on that wannabe-leather love seat, how we shared not just that intimate moment but several more following. I want, want that with Blythe, so badly that I feel if I just reach out my hand to touch her, maybe we will.

My hand lifts tentatively. She takes it into her own.

“You’re sweet,” she says. “I don’t want coffee, but I appreciate you stopping by.”

And that’s my signal to leave. I stand up, offering her a brief, friendly hug. “Enjoying the chocolates?” I ask, standing halfway in the doorway.

“I haven’t opened them yet.”

I nod. Then I leave.

***

Two weeks later, from across the street, I see a black Escalade pull into her driveway and a man in a suit approaches the door. Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome bears a bouquet of flowers, not unlike the ones I’ve been sending to Blythe. I watch her open the door and invite the man inside.

From the bushes, I can see them chatting on the sofa, seemingly making small talk by the expressions on Blythe’s face. She’s calm, relaxed—more relaxed than I’ve seen her since Trey died. She’s smiling, laughing, perhaps even when the man says something that isn’t funny.

She’s wearing a nice velvet dress—the one I got her for our second wedding anniversary, I note—and her face is powdered to make her look like a doll. The two of them sip wine and chat, and I watch, waiting.

Then, abruptly, Blythe hikes up one leg, swings it over his lap and there are no panties on underneath the dress that I bought her. I take in every movement, every detail of their love-making (on the sofa that I bought for Blythe, mind you), observing the man as he leans his head back, taking in the pleasure of something that used to be mine. Does she even know him? Or is he just some random fuck?

They finish, and a few minutes later, after he’s cleaned himself up in the upstairs bathroom, he exits. I watch from the bushes as he gets in his car, backs out of the driveway, and hopefully disappears for good.

In the living room, Blythe is crying again.

***

Blythe hasn’t called or texted me. God knows I’ve extended the courtesy to her every day since Trey’s death. I’ll be there if you want me to, just say the word, I write, but there’s no response. I wonder if she even notices my flowers anymore.

Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome’s name is Pete Umphrey, manager of a department store Blythe used to work at when we were dating. So she does know him. I sit outside her house every evening, waiting for him to show up.

Three weeks pass and Pete has shown up to Blythe’s house three times. I follow Pete home one night post-coitus. To say Pete lives in a mansion would be an understatement; his house is a palace. How the CEO of a shitty outlet like Ron’s Shoe Department can be swimming in that much cash is beyond my comprehension. He has a wife, Tori, and a son in high school, Samuel. I wonder how Tori would feel if she found out her husband is cheating on her. Maybe she already knows and they’re just circling the shitty-marriage drain, content to ride it out for the kid’s sake.

Pete likes to swim in his pool. Well, not swim but lounge on his floating raft drinking margaritas and taking phone calls. I think back to Katrina’s boyfriend Guy, how he drowned in a lake all those years ago. How his death brought us back together, at least for a while. How easily Katrina took to my romantic gestures, and how stubborn Blythe is being about accepting them now.

Too romantic, she’d said.

Pete goes back to Blythe’s tonight and I watch them ascend the stairs to the bedroom. I don’t see what they do in the bedroom (in a bed that I also bought), but I hear them. The whole neighborhood can hear them with those windows cracked. Blythe has always wanted to be noticed, adored.

Pete descends the stairs and leaves. Blythe doesn’t follow him; she stays in her room, perhaps looking at old photographs of her and Trey on her phone.

I follow Pete a few more times, seeing where he frequents between work and family and fuck nights with Blythe. He and Tori attend marriage counseling sessions once a week at a place called Running Waters, always at three PM on Thursdays. After that, Tori goes to a yoga class while Pete goes to pick up Samuel from school. Oddly, it is also on Thursdays that Pete goes to Blythe’s house. Couples therapy for adultery, then straight on to the adultery.

I watch as he exits his palace this Thursday night, climbs into his shiny black Escalade, and careens down a residential street at a pace much too fast for the speed limit. Maybe the marriage counseling isn’t going well and he can’t wait to release all of his pent-up frustration at Blythe’s house. Or maybe he’s just a shitty driver.

A short time later, the leak in his tire—a very small one the size of a nail—becomes noticeable enough that Pete has to pull off the road. He gets out of the car to inspect the situation. I see his arms wave in outrage.

I pull up behind him just as he’s taking out his phone to call in a tow truck. I get out of the car I’ve stolen. “Car trouble?” I ask, moving fast, crowbar in hand.

Pete has barely enough time to register that I’m there. I swing the thick metal crowbar I’d bought the day before against his temple and watch his body crumble. With some effort, I pick him up, prop him against the side of his car, and issue one more hard thwack to the head. He falls over, blood dripping down his cheek and chin, splatters of blood tainting his polished blue suit.

I get back in the stolen car, looking around. A woman across the street is peering out her window. It’s dark, so there’s a chance she can’t see me in my black outfit and ski mask. But on the chance she saw everything, I have about a minute tops before she calls the police.

I drive away, my heart pounding in my chest like engine pistons firing. He should be dead. He must be dead after a solid beating to the noggin like that.

I ditch the car outside of town, hidden along a dirt path in the mountains I discovered months ago while I was hiking. I take the time to bury the crowbar a mile away, just in case.

***

Pete’s obituary is posted in the paper following an article titled Brutal Murder of Shoe Department CEO Stuns Town, Leaves Residents Uneasy. Sounds like the title of a tabloid. Funny thing, no one I’ve run into is even talking about poor Petey Boy’s murder, so they must not be too uneasy.

I think back to Guy drowning in the lake, and of Katrina’s disappearance thereafter. I think of Trey’s motorcycle accident. Now, there’s Pete.

What a tragic world we live in, right?

A few days later, I knock on Blythe’s door. “Oh, Dorian. I wasn’t expecting you,” Blythe says.

“Sorry, I should have called.”

“No, that’s okay.”

“May I come in?”

She looks unsure at first, but concedes. “Sure. Can I get you something to drink?”

I go inside.

Blythe brings me a glass of wine and we catch up. She admits to seeing another man—“The one who was killed,” she says shyly—and I’m proud of her for being honest with me. She’s letting me in. It’s like her secrets are unfolding in front of me and the tension between us is lessening.

I go to her house the next day, and the day after. I bring her flowers and chocolate. “You’re so sweet.”

She sighs, then smiles. “It’s strange,” she tells me. “I feel like you’re the only one who’s been here for me through all of this craziness.”

She kisses me for the first time in years. We make love—in our bed, and then again on our sofa—and that makes me happy. We are an “us” again. Not an official “us,” per se, but we are intertwined physically and emotionally, bonded by grief and pain and love.

And there’s no Trey or Pete to get in the way.

I do feel sorry for Pete’s family. I wonder if he was a decent father. Maybe he was even a decent husband, cheating aside. Who knows?

We sit down on the sofa and Blythe snuggles up to me, resting her head on my chest the way she used to in our married days. “Thank you for coming by, Dorian,” she says. “I didn’t know how much I needed you tonight.”

Needed you.



How romantic.