“Do you want me to put those in a vase?” Mom asked as I walked in, a huge smile on her face.
“No, it’s okay,” I told her. If we’d put them in a vase in the living room, they would have been everyone’s flowers.
I wanted them to be my flowers. I went to my room but didn’t change.
I brushed my hair and teeth and put on some lip gloss and the smallest possible dab of perfume.
I kept looking at the flowers. They were aggressively orange, almost too orange to be pretty.
I didn’t have a vase or anything, so I took my toothbrush out of my toothbrush holder
and filled it halfway with water and left the flowers there in the bathroom.
When I reentered my room, I could hear people talking, so I sat on the edge of my bed for a while and listened through my hollow bedroom door:
Dad: “So you met Hazel at Support Group.” Augustus: “Yes, sir. This is a lovely house you’ve got. I like your artwork.”
Mom: “Thank you, Augustus.” Dad: “You’re a survivor yourself, then?”
Augustus: “I am. I didn’t cut this fella off for the sheer unadulterated pleasure of it,
although it is an excellent weight-loss strategy. Legs are heavy!”
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