My Blossoming Redemption

TWENTY-SEVEN

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'Are you coming to visit today?' I stare at the message from Joel. I could be honest and say that I'm instead going on a lunch date with his nurse, but that would rub it in and cause another argument.

Instead, I put: 'I thought we could do with some time apart to digest yesterday. I'll come in tomorrow if you want, for ten?'

He messages back immediately: 'That would be great. We need to talk some more.'

I don't respond to him. He was upbeat yesterday; we were getting on. His tone seems so snappy now. If he was in a good mood, there'd be tons of emojis and jokes about visiting. But now, he's so snappy and not one emoji in sight. Something's up.

But I don't have time to care right now. I take one last look at my reflection: the combination of jeans and a blouse coupled with makeup and the hair I've styled just doesn't feel me. Only because I don't remember the last time Joel and I went on a date; I don't remember the last time I actually dressed up and cared about my appearance.

Marriage takes the excitement out of random things like dates. Being forced into a marriage with someone you have to learn to love sucks all of that energy out – you go straight for acceptance and not caring.

The doorbell rings, and like a child being told they're going to Disneyland, I run to the door, bag in hand and open it to see those golden curls. Seeing him out of that nurse's uniform and in jeans, a dark shirt and a leather jacket does awful things to my heart, and as we both stare at each other, I swear my breath is stolen.

'Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil; cling to what is good.'

"For you." He hands out a handful of daisies. "Daisies mean a new beginning and true love."

"Thank you." I put them in water before he leads me to his car.

"So... I made a reservation already. I just hope you like Italian," Nick says as he starts the car.

I chuckle. "Who doesn't like Italian?"

He raises his eyes. "You'd be surprised! By the way, you look... stunning, my daisy."

The radio kicks in, and I notice he listens to the local channel.

"Anyone who doesn't like Italian food... well, they're weird," I retort.

He chuckles. "I agree."

I arch an eyebrow. "What would you have said if I didn't like Italian?"

"I'd open the car door and show you back into your house," he jokes. "Joking. I would've cancelled the booking and told you to pick the place. But you'd be weird."

I laugh. "Lucky I do, then!"

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