Page 48 of Smoke and Roses

Holding it up, she looks at me with question marks in her expression.

“Somebody left it on a job site in Leadville.”

As Lindsey flips through it, the pages spread where a blue columbine is pressed flat.

She whispers, “You pressed a flower.”

I never thought of it like that. Not like I was collecting them.

“It was growing out of a pile of rebar. Didn’t seem right to leave it there.”

When I look up from the stack of dish towels in my hand, she’s watching me with her bottom lip caught in her teeth. She sets the book on the windowsill next to her roses, gently, columbine and all.

“I’m worried,” she says quietly. “You’re going to ruin me, you know that?”

“Not trying to.”

“That’s the worst part.”

I’m not sure how to respond, not that I’d be able to speak. It seems like my throat is having a reaction.

Lindsey grins and goes back to the boxes. The tape on the miscellaneous box has already been cut.

She comes up with an old blue flannel shirt, worn so soft the elbows are almost see-through. “Why wasn’t this one packed with your clothes?”

“Because it accidentally got left out and this box was the only one left.”

Not even bothering to look guilty, she puts it on over her sweater and rolls up the sleeves four times.

“That’s mine,” I say, with no bite.

A one-word answer comes back. “Was.” She buttons it to the collar.

Her phone alarm goes off. “Crap. I’ve got a funeral spray due at three.” She scrambles up and stops at the bedroom door. “I’ll be up at six.”

I watch as she goes downstairs in my shirt. The weird sensation stays in my throat long after she’s gone.

Lindsey’s not the only one at risk here.

After staring at the open door a while, I get back to it.

At the bottom of the box marked ARMY there’s an envelope. I know what’s in it. Always do.

The photo is a little girl, maybe five, in a pink tutu and a sparkly crown, on a stage in front of a red curtain. She’s mid-spin with her arms over her head. On the back, in Joey’s handwriting: Sofia’s first recital!!! You owe me twenty bucks, she didn’t freeze up, Sarge.

I sit on the floor of my bedroom with that picture until the sun has dropped. The only light left coming in is the orange of a sunset I didn’t watch.

When Lindsey comes up the stairs at 1900 with a bag of takeout from Marlene’s, she stops in the doorway and looks around my apartment. Plates in the drying rack. Books on the sill.

Then she sees the picture, propped against her roses on the windowsill. She walks over and looks at it without asking.

“That’s Joey’s daughter,” she says. “She’s beautiful.”

“Sofia. She’s twelve now.” I clear my throat. “I owe her dad twenty bucks.”

Lindsey glances from the picture to me, sitting on my couch in my newly unpacked apartment.

“You really unpacked,” she says.