It Ends With Us (5 page)

In between looking out the window and checking the clock, I was filling up one of my old backpacks with stuff. Food that didn’t need refrigerating, a couple of my
father’s T-shirts, a pair of jeans that were probably going to be two sizes too big for him, and a change of socks.

I was zipping up the backpack when he emerged from the hallway.

I was right. Even wet, I could tell his hair was lighter than it looked earlier. It made his eyes look even bluer.

He must have shaved while he was in there because he looked younger than he did before he got in the shower. I swallowed and looked back down at the backpack, because I was
shocked at how different he looked. I was scared he might see my thoughts written across my face.

I looked out the window one more time and handed him the backpack. “You might want to go out the back door so no one sees you.”

He took the backpack from me and stared at my face for a minute. “What’s your name?” he said as he slung the pack over his shoulder.

“Lily.”

He smiled. It was the first time he’d smiled at me and I had an awful, shallow thought in that moment. I wondered how someone with such a great smile could have such
shitty parents. I immediately hated myself for thinking it, because of course parents should love their kids no matter how cute or ugly or skinny or fat or smart or stupid they are. But sometimes
you can’t control where your mind goes. You just have to train it not to go there anymore.

He held out his hand and said, “I’m Atlas.”

“I know,” I said, without shaking his hand. I don’t know why I didn’t shake his hand. It wasn’t because I was scared to touch him. I mean, I was
scared to touch him. But not because I thought I was better than him. He just made me so nervous.

He put his hand down and nodded once, then said, “I guess I better go.”

I stepped aside so he could walk around me. He pointed past the kitchen, silently asking if that was the way to the back door. I nodded and walked behind him as he made his
way down the hall. When he reached the back door, I saw him pause for a second when he saw my bedroom.

I was suddenly embarrassed that he was seeing my bedroom. No one ever sees my bedroom, so I’ve never felt the need to give it a more mature look. I still have the same
pink bedspread and curtains I’ve had since I was twelve. For the first time ever I felt like ripping down my poster of Adam Brody.

Atlas didn’t seem to care how my room was decorated. He looked straight at my window—the one that looks out over the backyard—then he glanced back at me.
Right before he walked out the back door he said, “Thank you for not being disparaging, Lily.”

And then he was gone.

Of course I’ve heard the term
disparaging
before, but it was weird hearing a teenage guy use it. What’s even weirder is how everything
about Atlas seems so contradictory. How does a guy who is obviously humble, well-mannered, and uses words like
disparaging
end up homeless? How does any teenager end up
homeless?

I need to find out, Ellen.

I’m going to find out what happened to him. You just wait and see.

—Lily

• • •

I’m about to open another entry when my phone rings. I crawl across the couch for it and I’m not the least bit surprised to see it’s my mother again. Now that
my father has passed and she’s alone, she’ll probably call me twice as much as she did before.

“Hello?”

“What do you think about my moving to Boston?” she blurts out.

I grab the throw pillow next to me and shove my face into it, muffling a scream. “Um.
Wow
,” I say. “Really?”

She’s quiet, and then, “It was just a thought. We can discuss it tomorrow. I’m almost to my meeting.”

“Okay. Bye.”

And just like that, I want to move out of Massachusetts.
She can’t move here.
She doesn’t know anyone here. She’d expect me to entertain her every
day. I love my mother, don’t get me wrong, but I moved to Boston to be on my own, and having her in the same city would make me feel less independent.

My father was diagnosed with cancer three years ago while I was still in college. If Ryle Kincaid were here right now, I’d tell him the naked truth that I was a little bit relieved when my
father became too ill to physically hurt my mother. It completely changed the dynamic of their relationship and I no longer felt obligated to stay in Plethora to make sure she was okay.

Now that my father is gone and I never have to worry about my mother again, I was looking forward to spreading my wings, so to speak.

But now she’s moving to Boston?

It feels like my wings were just clipped.

Where is a marine-grade polymer chair when I need one?!

I’m seriously stressing out and I have no idea what I’d do if my mother moves to Boston. I don’t have a garden, or a yard, or a patio, or weeds.

I have to find another outlet.

I decide to clean. I place all of my old shoeboxes full of journals and notes in my bedroom closet. Then I organize my entire closet. My jewelry, my shoes, my clothes . . .

She cannot move to Boston.

Six months later

“Oh.”

That’s all she says.

My mother turns and assesses the building, running a finger over the windowsill next to her. She picks up a layer of dust and wipes it between her fingers. “It’s . . .”

“It needs a lot of work, I know,” I interrupt. I point at the windows behind her. “But look at the storefront. It has potential.”

She scrolls over the windows, nodding. There’s this sound she makes in the back of her throat sometimes, where she agrees with a little hum but her lips remain tight. It means she
doesn’t
actually
agree. And she makes that sound.
Twice.

I drop my arms in defeat. “You think this was stupid?”

She gives her head a slight shake. “That all depends on how it turns out, Lily,” she says. The building used to house a restaurant and it’s still full of old tables and chairs.
My mother walks over to a nearby table and pulls out one of the chairs, taking a seat. “If things work out, and your floral shop is successful, then people will say it was a brave, bold,
smart
business decision. But if it fails and you lose your entire inheritance . . .”

“Then people will say it was a
stupid
business decision.”

She shrugs. “That’s just how it works. You majored in business, you know that.” She glances around the room, slowly, as if she’s seeing it the way it will look a month
from now. “Just make sure it’s brave and bold, Lily.”

I smile.
I can accept that.
“I can’t believe I bought it without asking you first,” I say, taking a seat at the table.

“You’re an adult. It’s your right,” she says, but I can hear a trace of disappointment. I think she feels even lonelier now that I need her less and less. It’s been
six months since my father died, and even though he wasn’t good company, it has to be weird for her, being alone. She got a job at one of the elementary schools, so she did end up moving
here. She chose a small suburb on the outskirts of Boston. She bought a cute two-bedroom house on a cul-de-sac, with a huge backyard. I dream of planting a garden there, but that would require
daily care. My limit is once-a-week visits. Sometimes twice.

“What are you going to do with all this junk?” she asks.

She’s right. There’s so much junk. It’ll take forever to clear this place out. “I have no idea. I guess I’ll be busting my ass for a while before I can even think
about decorating.”

“When’s your last day at the marketing firm?”

I smile. “Yesterday.”

She releases a sigh, and then shakes her head. “Oh, Lily. I certainly hope this works out in your favor.”

We both begin to stand when the front door opens. There are shelves in the way of the door, so I careen my head around them and see a woman walk in. Her eyes briefly scan the room until she sees
me.

“Hi,” she says with a wave. She’s cute. She’s dressed well, but she’s wearing white capris. A disaster waiting to happen in this dust bowl.

“Can I help you?”

She tucks her purse beneath her arm and walks toward me, holding out her hand. “I’m Allysa,” she says. I shake her hand.

“Lily.”

She tosses a thumb over her shoulder. “There’s a help wanted sign out front?”

I look over her shoulder and raise an eyebrow. “There is?”
I didn’t put up a help wanted sign.

She nods, and then shrugs. “It looks old, though,” she says. “It’s probably been there a while. I was just out for a walk and saw the sign. Was curious, is
all.”

I like her almost immediately. Her voice is pleasant and her smile seems genuine.

My mother’s hand falls down on my shoulder and she leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “I have to go,” she says. “Open house tonight.” I tell her goodbye and watch
her walk outside, then turn my attention back to Allysa.

“I’m not really hiring yet,” I say. I wave my hand around the room. “I’m opening up a floral shop, but it’ll be a couple of months, at least.” I should
know better than to hold preconceived judgments, but she doesn’t look like she’d be satisfied with a minimum wage job. Her purse probably cost more than this building.

Her eyes light up. “Really? I love flowers!” She spins around in a circle and says, “This place has a ton of potential. What color are you painting it?”

I cross my arm over my chest and grab my elbow. Rocking back on my heels, I say, “I’m not sure. I just got the keys to the building an hour ago, so I haven’t really come up
with a design plan yet.”

“Lily, right?”

I nod.

“I’m not going to pretend I have a degree in design, but it’s my absolute favorite thing. If you need any help, I’d do it for free.”

I tilt my head. “You’d work for free?”

She nods. “I don’t really need a job, I just saw the sign and thought, ‘
What the heck
?’ But I do get bored sometimes. I’d be happy to help
you with whatever you need. Cleaning, decorating, picking out paint colors. I’m a Pinterest whore.” Something behind me catches her eye and she points. “I could take that broken
door and make it magnificent.
All
this stuff, really. There’s a use for almost everything, you know.”

I look around at the room, knowing full well I’m not going to be able to tackle this by myself. I probably can’t even lift half this stuff alone. I’ll eventually have to hire
someone anyway. “I’m not going to let you work for free. But I could do $10 an hour if you’re really serious.”

She starts clapping, and if she weren’t in heels, she might have jumped up and down. “When can I start?”

I glance down at her white capris. “Will tomorrow work? You’ll probably want to show up in disposable clothes.”

She waves me off and drops her Hermès bag on a dusty table next to her. “Nonsense,” she says. “My husband is watching the Bruins play at a bar down the street. If
it’s okay, I’ll just hang with you and get started right now.”

• • •

Two hours later, I’m convinced I’ve met my new best friend. And she really is a Pinterest whore.

We write “Keep” and “Toss” on sticky notes, and slap them on everything in the room. She’s a fellow believer in upcycling, so we come up with ideas for at least 75
percent of the stuff left in the building. The rest she says her husband can throw out when he has free time. Once we know what we’re going to do with all the stuff, I grab a notebook and a
pen and we sit at one of the tables to write down design ideas.

“Okay,” she says, leaning back in her chair. I want to laugh, because her white capris are covered in dirt now, but she doesn’t seem to care. “Do you have a goal for this
place?” she asks, glancing around.

“I have
one
,” I say. “Succeed.”

She laughs. “I have no doubt you’ll succeed. But you do need a vision.”

I think about what my mother said. “
Just make sure it’s brave and bold, Lily
.” I smile and sit up straighter in my chair. “Brave and
bold,” I say. “I want this place to be different. I want to take risks.”

She narrows her eyes as she chews on the tip of the pen. “But you’re just selling flowers,” she says. “How can you be brave and bold with flowers?”

I look around the room and try to envision what I’m thinking. I’m not even sure what I’m thinking. I’m just getting itchy and restless, like I’m on the verge of a
brilliant idea. “What are some words that come to mind when you think of flowers?” I ask her.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. They’re sweet, I guess? They’re alive, so they make me think of life. And maybe the color pink. And spring.”

“Sweet, life, pink, spring,” I repeat. And then, “Allysa, you’re brilliant!” I stand up and begin pacing the floor. “We’ll take everything everyone
loves about flowers, and we’ll do the complete opposite!”

She makes a face to let me know she isn’t following.

“Okay,” I say. “What if, instead of showcasing the
sweet
side of flowers, we showcased the
villainous
side? Instead of pink
accents, we use darker colors, like a deep purple or even black. And instead of just spring and life, we also celebrate winter and death.”

Allysa’s eyes are wide. “But . . . what if someone wants
pink
flowers, though?”

“Well, we’ll still give them what they want, of course. But we’ll also give them what they don’t
know
they want.”

She scratches her cheek. “So you’re thinking
black
flowers?” She looks concerned, and I don’t blame her. She’s only seeing the darkest
side of my vision. I take a seat at the table again and try to get her on board.

“Someone once told me that there is no such thing as bad people. We’re all just people who sometimes do bad things. That stuck with me, because it’s so true. We’ve all
got a little bit of good and evil in us. I want to make that our theme. Instead of painting the walls a putrid sweet color, we paint them dark purple with black accents. And instead of only putting
out the usual pastel displays of flowers in boring crystal vases that make people think of life, we go edgy. Brave and bold. We put out displays of darker flowers wrapped in things like leather or
silver chains. And rather than put them in crystal vases, we’ll stick them in black onyx or . . . I don’t know . . . purple velvet vases lined with silver studs. The ideas are
endless.” I stand up again. “There are floral shops on every corner for people who love flowers. But what floral shop caters to all the people who
hate
flowers?”