Except I can’t remember the last time he touched me first when someone else was there.
The thought arrives quietly.
Uninvited.
I push it away before it can settle.
Chapter 11
Christina
The retirement home smellslike furniture polish and overcooked vegetables.
Not unpleasant. Just specific. Familiar now in a way it hadn’t been when I first started bringing the weekly arrangements. The same woman sits in the armchair near the window, knitting something that never seems to grow. The same radio plays somewhere down the corridor, permanently tuned to a station that exists slightly outside of time.
I balance the box of flowers against my hip and sign my name in the visitors’ book.
“Morning, Liam.”
He looks up, smiling.
“Christina. You’ve brought colour with you.”
I glance at the plastic arrangement on the side table.
“I’m trying to undo some crimes against nature.”
He laughs.
“They’ll appreciate it.”
I carry the box through the corridor, past open doors and familiar faces. Someone waves. Someone else calls myname and asks if the yellow ones are real. I stop, answer, promise to come back next week.
The conservatory doors stand open at the end of the hall.
I step inside.
Arthur sits in his wheelchair near the window, his blanket folded neatly over his knees like he’s agreed to it rather than needed it.
He looks up.
His face brightens.
“Well,” he says. “If it isn’t my favourite visitor.”
“Charmer,” I reply, setting the box down beside him. “You say that to all the women.”
“Only the ones who bring pretty stuff.”
I start unwrapping the stems, trimming them before placing them into the vase on the small table beside him.
Arthur watches me for a moment.
Then his mouth twitches.
“Well,” he says casually, “what do I hear about you?”
I glance up.