When Gemma peers around the white-painted screen door, I duck behind the box hedge. She
rubs the edges of the door as if expecting a note, and she reaches toward the yard. Can she see
me?
Calm down, Peeping Tomasina.
I should have left the flowers and run, or I should have summoned the guts to knock on
her door the way I did yesterday. I practiced the lines inside of my head, the ones I never dare to
say.
Hi, Gemma. These flowers are for you. The cookies didn’t work, helping you with church
projects for the past year didn’t work, and brushing a hand against yours didn’t work. Are
flowers enough to make you see me as a potential suitor and not a work group buddy?
At last, she tilts her head toward the front step, stiffening and looking around in shock.
She stares at the flowers once more, as if she expects them to disappear. Will she find the card?
No, she isn’t touching the flowers. Why won’t she touch the flowers? Does she think they’re
poisonous?
Yes! She picked up the card! Does she recognize the blue sky, the heaven? Celine,
meaning “Heavenly.” I wait for recognition to wash over her face, but fear crosses her features
instead. Does she fear me? Does she consider me crazy to drop flowers in front of her house like
a lovesick, out-of-season, May basket girl? No, that’s not it. She looks spooked or unnerved. As
foolish as I feel for watching her from afar, curiosity overcomes me. When she retreats but
leaves her front door open, I take it as an invitation.
Heck, it’s not as if another year of waiting will make her notice me.
“Hi, Gemma!” Think fast. What would explain showing up at her house now? Knocking
on her door, I clear my throat in an effort not to squeak. I can keep calm and confident at work or
in my daily life, but Gemma’s starry eyes reduce my knees to jelly every time I see her. I dream
about her at night, and I think about her all the time.
I’ve tried to give in to this silly crush, but I don’t know how. I tell myself that a good
friend is better than a bad ex, but my heart thumps with delight and my arms ache to hold her.
Idiot. Grow up and act thirty-three instead of thirteen.
“Oh, Celine! You startled me!” Gemma glances up from her computer, and her slight
frown relaxes into a smile. “Sorry, you wanted the lesson plans for Sunday. Thanks for taking
the adult forum this week. Pastor Mark said to stick to the lectionary. Every time we try to bring
up something topical, Nate gets on his soapbox.”
Indeed he does. Milly’s husband has an opinion about everything and wisdom about
nothing. He is certain immigrants are ruining America, kids these days are spoiled brats, and
everything would be solved by returning to good old-fashioned times when everyone knew the
rules. “Poor Milly. She loves him so much and yet at every class she wants to stuff a sock into
his mouth.” As long as I focus on Milly and Nate, I can keep calm. I try, but I can’t help fishing
for a response. “Oh, you got flowers!” I don’t say how pretty they are.
“Yes!” Gemma’s eyes light up before she frowns once more. “I wish I knew who they’re
from. I just sent a…” She blushes.
My heart leaps in my chest. “What did you send?” Did she know it was me? Did she send
an email already? Had she guessed my intentions? I want to shake my head at my overeager,
pathetic desperation. No wonder Gemma doesn’t notice me. If I ever earn her respect, I need to
stand strong and confident. Gemma likes powerful women. She’s not as intimidating in real life
as she is online, but she’s unapproachable in a different way.
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