Page 136 of The Temporary Bride
Alongside the bouquet is another note.
Chloe,
I’m sending you these because I wanted you to know how much I miss you. I’ve been watching all those movies you told me about—ones you said made you laugh, cry, and feel everything in between. I thought if I could watch them too, it might help me feel closer to you, to understand you better. It’s been oddly comforting, although nothing compares to being with you.
I’m counting the moments until I can make things right. I miss you so fucking much.
Forever yours,
Tristan
Predictably, by this point, yet another delivery of roses arrives the next day. It’s almost surreal. The condo is practically overflowing with them. There are so many that they crowd every available surface, their colors and heady fragrance filling the space.
I’m stunned as I unpack the latest batch. The roses spill out of their boxes, the petals ink-black and perfect, mixed with bright yellow and gold. I find another note tucked among the blooms, and I’m almost afraid to read it.
But when I unfold the paper and read Tristan’s handwriting, something in my chest pulls tight.
Chloe,
I’m not stopping. I meant every word when I said I’m not giving up on us. I’ll keep sending these roses, keep trying, and keep fighting for you—until you believe it, until you see that I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. I’ll do this for as long as it takes because you’re worth every moment.
—Tristan
Ivy walks into the foyer, a mug in her hands. She stops short at the sight of the latest rose shipment. She dunks her teabag, pursing her lips like she’s trying not to laugh.
“We’re going to run out of space,” I say weakly.
“Well, you’ve got to give him credit for persistence,” she says, a teasing lilt in her voice.
I nod, unable to stop a small, wistful smile. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
The next evening, I’m settled on Ivy’s couch, a blanket draped over my legs and a bowl of ice cream in hand. The room is cozy, the soft glow of the lamp casting a warm light over us.
My body is healing, and while that’s a relief, there’s a dull ache in my heart that’s not so easily mended. I’m currently unemployed, which is something I’ll need to address soon. But for now, all I can do is focus on healing and try to reclaim a sense of normalcy, even if it’s just through shared moments like this.
I look over at Ivy, who’s sitting cross-legged next to me, her bowl of ice cream half-finished. “So. You’re sure you’re voting for The Hangover?”
She spoons pistachio ice cream into her mouth and shrugs. “Sure. Why not?”
“Because it’s a terrible movie, that’s why not.”
“It’s fun,” Ivy protests. “It’s way funnier than any of your picks—”
A knock at the door interrupts her, and a slow smile spreads across her face. She sets her ice cream bowl on the coffee table.
“I bet I know what that is,” she declares in a sing-song. “Although honestly, I’m running out of places to put all these flowers.” She jumps up from the couch with a smirk and heads toward the door. “I’ll get it. Maybe this time they’ll come with a singing telegram. Do those even still exis—”
She breaks off as she turns the doorknob and sees who’s outside. Her mouth falls open, and she casts a glance back in my direction, her eyes wide and worried.
That’s when I hear his voice. God, I’ve missed that voice.
“I’m here for my wife.”
Ivy looks flustered. She starts to shake her head, but now that he’s here, so close, I can’t bear the idea of not seeing him. I catch her eye, giving her a small nod to indicate that it’s fine.
She steps back, clearly trying to melt into the wall, as Tristan enters the room. He’s holding another bouquet, a dozen roses—six black, six gold. His expression holds both determination and vulnerability, and the sight of him makes my pulse jump.
Ivy gives us a knowing look before excusing herself, leaving Tristan and me alone. As the door closes behind her, his eyes lock onto mine, pinning me in place. It’s as if he’s seeing me for the first time in ages, and his gaze sweeps over me like he’s checking me over for any sign of harm.
