I Love You to Death(53)

It’s Luke who finally does something. "Ash, we ahh…" he continues, "we have a show this weekend, it’s um…it’s kind of a big deal." His hand runs over his head again. I know now this is something he does when he’s nervous or not sure what to say. "Will you come along?"
As I stand there watching him, all I can think about is what it would be like to kiss him, what it would be like to run my hands over his hair. How soft would it be? What would his lips feel like, what would he taste like, if I kissed him? Whether he would kiss me back? My fingers are tingling at just the thought of touching him.
"Ash?" He says again. "Will you come and watch us?"
I nervously swallow. It feels like my throat has been pulled shut. I blink. "Yes, I will come along Luke," I force out.
He takes a sip of his coffee and I can’t help myself. I watch his mouth, his lips as he drinks, his throat as he swallows. I really want to touch his lips. With my fingers, with my tongue, with my lips.

Kiss me.

His hand reaches out. His thumb hovers just in front of my cheek and for a second I think he will.
"Thank you," he says quietly, slowly pulling his hand back. "I really want you to be there."
∞

By the time Grandma died, my Grandad had been gone nine years. I know she missed him terribly, although she did continue to live her life, never wallowing in her sadness. She still lived up in Maine in that same old farmhouse, so I didn’t see her as often as I liked, although by the time I moved to Boston it was a little easier. Sometimes, she even came down and visited me and Sam.
I used to send her flowers every year on the anniversary of his death. I can’t remember exactly when I started doing it because I was only twelve when Grandad died, but whenever it was, I know why I started it. Guilt. Even if it was subconscious to begin with, maybe there was a part of me that always knew I’d been the reason he died. I don’t know. All I do know is that I sent them to her for years before it happened.
I always used the same florist and I always sent the same flowers. Red peonies, because at the time, I thought they were beautiful, the kind of thing she would like. Years later I learnt they can represent shame, but of course, at the time I didn’t know that.
Every time I sent them to her, she would always call me to say thank you and how sweet of me to remember and that honestly I didn’t need to keep sending them.
"It’s okay Grandma," I would always say back. "I want to."
"Thank you Asha, they are as always, beautiful my sweet girl."
If nothing else, it was a small piece of joy that I could give to her on a day that would otherwise be filled with bad memories. Then one year, when I was about twenty-one and living in Boston with Sam, I sent the flowers as I usually did and I didn’t get a phone call. I remember thinking it strange she hadn’t called me, but that maybe the florist had forgotten to send them. When I called to confirm the order had gone out, I was told yes they’d been delivered and the report also said they’d been received.
That afternoon when I called Grandma, I got no answer. I called my Dad then and asked if he knew if she was away or something.
"Not that I know of Ash, I was planning on going up there in a week or so and she never mentioned she would be away. I’ll try her tomorrow if you like and let you know."
"Okay Dad, thanks, please keep me posted alright?"
"Will do Ash, love you kiddo."
"Love you too Dad."
I was at work the next day when he called me back. I remember seeing his name light up on my cell and thinking to myself why would Dad call me and not Grandma? I don’t know why, but seeing his name there made me think the worst and when I answered the call, that’s exactly what it was.
I don’t remember everything Dad said except that he hadn’t been able to reach Grandma and he’d called her friend Marge and asked if she knew what was going on, whether Grandma was away. Marge had said no, she’d seen her the previous morning and everything was as normal. It was after that, my Dad got worried. He called the police and asked them to go and check on her. Apparently when they arrived Grandma was inside, collapsed on the floor. She was already dead by then and there was nothing the police or the paramedics could do when they got there. Nobody knew what had happened; I think initially they thought it was a heart attack.
It was only once they got to the hospital that they discovered she’d had an anaphylactic reaction. They found the cause, a wasp sting. We never even knew she was allergic to them, I don’t ever remember her saying anything about it, maybe even she didn’t realise. But when Dad arrived in Maine at her house all he found was a vase of spilled flowers on the floor, right next to where her body had been found.
It didn’t take much to work out where the wasp had come from and it took even less for me to work out whose fault it was.
I know I said I was a tiny bit happy at her now being reunited with my Grandad, but it still didn’t make the pain at what I’d done any easier to bear. After all, I’d been the reason they were separated in the first place. Being the reason why they were now together didn’t make that any more excusable.
∞

When I walk into work today, I find Luke out the front making coffee. When he looks up at me and smiles, it literally stops me in my tracks. All at once my stomach feels like it’s full of all those damn butterflies again, and they’re all simultaneously trying to escape. My heart is racing and my skin feels like it’s on fire. It shocks me, this sudden complicated reaction I have to a simple smile.