She did not know from whence it came. Nor, in that moment, did she care.
She plucked the marigold from the vase and tucked it in her hair.
A breeze from the open window reminded her that time was still progressing. Alone in her room, Abigail studied herself in the vanity mirror and adjusted the flower until it sat just so, checking to make sure it matched the rest of her outfit.
It didn't.
Brady had given her a dozen roses before dinner last night -- the very ones languishing in their vase in the afternoon sun. They were perfect; the quintessential romantic gesture. Everything about being with Brady was a quintessential romance straight off the silver screen.
And yet...
She missed him.
Not Brady -- not that 'him.'
She missed the other 'him.'
There's always another 'him,' as we play through life's charades: The one who got away. The one who you swore you were going to marry, but didn't. The one who broke your heart and refused to give it back.
Abigail sat abstracted, staring at the marigold in her hair. She had another date that night with Brady. He was going to take her to a movie -- the one she had mentioned wanting to see a couple weeks prior, to boot.
It then occurred to Abigail that the marigold had had no place in that vase of roses. There should have only been a dozen roses. That was all the bouquet Brady had given her had contained.
Where had the marigold come from?
Her mother knocked on her door, seeking entrance. Abigail absently gave her permission, to which her mother responded by waltzing in as care-free as could be, gushing about the roses and how oh-so-charming Brady had been when he'd met the family last Sunday. Abigail smiled a rather sad smile, though she knew it shouldn't have been.
Her mother deposited fresh, clean laundry onto her bed and gave her a final once-over before nodding her approval at Abigail's attire. She left with a glimmer in her eye, winking just as the door closed behind her.
Abigail turned back to the vanity and studied the marigold in her hair once more.
It was wilder than a rose. And plainer, in a way. Certainly not as romantic as a rose -- not even close.
And yet she loved it all the more so.
She took it out of her hair and twirled it in her fingers, wondering still how it had ended up in her room. She poked her head out the window, memories of midnight trysts and stolen gifts left on her windowsill flooding her heart. Every whisper and every glance and every ache was as clear in her mind as if it had happened yesterday.
After all this time...
The roar of an engine filled the neighbourhood. Brady came ripping down the street, pulling into the driveway, revving the engine to signal his arrival. He strutted out with the air of a model, glancing up at Abigail and smiling the smile he only smiled for her.
Abigail felt nothing. But she smiled just the same.
Brady made his way up the front porch steps and rang the doorbell. The sound of her mother rushing to answer it, ushering in who she was certain would be her future son-in-law, her pitch as high as her expectations...
The hollowness only grew. Wider and deeper.
But Abigail was stronger than that. She had to be. She didn't know why, but she had to be. So she did what she always did: she swallowed her hesitation and put on a dash of lipstick, hoping it would hide the lie she had to make in every word and every kiss.
She looked down at the marigold in her hand. She wanted to wear it tonight. But she didn't dare.
She looked back at the vase in the window. It would start wilting if she didn't put it back in that vase; it was already beginning to look parched.
Another breeze blew through her window, brushing against the curtains. Her heart crashed furiously against her ribcage, the impossible idea of sneaking out from the second story and running off into the night gripping her will. Just like they'd always dreamed they'd do one day. Together.
Instead, she turned to leave. She grabbed her purse and placed the marigold down on her dresser on her way out.
She opened her door to the sound of mirth wafting up from downstairs. Everyone -- even her father -- sounded so excited and contented at the same time.
She gave the marigold one final, longing look before switching her light off, shutting her bedroom door quietly behind her.
The last she saw of it were its petals:
They were golden.
About the Creator
Melissa
Staring up at the stars that aren't there anymore.
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