Dania chewed on her lip. “How old do I look?”

Huh?

“Uh, I don’t know. Seventeen maybe,” I hedged.

Dania grinned, her mood changing on a dime. “Awesome! I just got a fake ID that says I’m twenty-one. Do you think I could pass for twenty-one?”

Yeah, she definitely could. This girl seemed way older than me.

I shrugged. “Sure,” I replied.

“I’m fourteen,” she stated, putting her hands on her hips and striking some sort of pose. Who the hell was this girl?

“Yeah, me too,” I said. Weren’t we just talking about my new foster dad, the pervy Mr. Beretti? Now we were talking about Dania’s fake ID? I couldn’t keep up.

“Cool. Well, I’ve got to start my chores before Mrs. Beretti comes up here looking for me.” Dania started to leave my room before turning back to me.

“You have my back, I’ll have yours, ‘kay?”

I frowned. I didn’t entirely trust this girl to have anyone’s back. She seemed to have a few screws loose. But I figured it was easier to agree than to start an argument.

“Sure,” I answered.

“Good,” Dania said, smiling.

**

Murphy came bounding toward me as I walked inside. His tongue lolled out of his mouth and I laughed at his efforts to get me to pet him.

“Yeah, okay. Attention now,” I cooed, dropping to my haunches and scratching him behind the ears. There was music playing and I stood up and walked into the living room looking for Flynn. I had seen his car out front so I knew that he was home.

I didn’t yell for him because I knew it bugged him when I did that. He didn’t like shouting and loud noises so instead I walked around looking for him. I recognized The Cure playing on the stereo and shook my head. If I didn’t love Flynn so much I’d burn each and every one of his Cure CDs. I had been cured of my own questionable Cure obsession now that I was subjected to it daily.

I checked the kitchen and found it empty. Though I was surprised to see several unopened Styrofoam to-go boxes on the counter, as well as a bottle of white wine on the table with two glasses. That was pretty unusual. Flynn wasn’t a drinker. Thinking about it, I had never seen him drink anything other than water or fruit juice.

What was he up to?

I walked down the hallway, Murphy padding behind me. I pushed open our bedroom door and found Flynn fiddling with flowers in a vase on my bedside table.

“Whatcha doin’?” I asked softly. Flynn didn’t look up. He was too busy sorting the bright yellow flowers.

“They won’t stay where I want them to,” he mumbled, rearranging the flowers over and over again.

I came up behind him and carefully put my arms around his waist. “Those are pretty. Are they Black-eyed Susans?” I asked. Flynn was clearly getting frustrated with the less than cooperative flowers. Every time he arranged them, he’d grunt and start over again. There were petals all over the table and floor from his rough handling.

“There won’t be any flowers left if you don’t leave them alone,” I teased.

“I want them to be perfect. They’re your favorite. I just want them to look nice,” Flynn remarked, sounding annoyed.

“They’re for me?” I asked, wondering what the special occasion was. Flynn wasn’t what you would call a romantic guy. I was beyond surprised.

“I wanted to get something nice for you. Leonard says I should do things that make you happy. That in order to have a healthy relationship, we have to make each other feel good. And you make me feel good all the time. I want to make you feel good too,” Flynn said, finally giving up on arranging the flowers and dropping his hands to his sides.

“It seems I’m discussed a lot between you and Leonard,” I said lightly. Flynn had brought up my coming with him to see his counselor many times since I had moved in. I refused to commit one way or another. Therapy had always been a sore subject with me. And I felt a little weird knowing I was the source of a conversation I wasn’t privy to.

“We talk about you a lot,” Flynn responded without compunction. As though discussing our relationship with other people was no big deal.

I swallowed down my flare of anger and instead focused on the pretty flowers beside the bed. No sense in starting an argument when he was trying to be sweet. We’d discuss the whole talking about Ellie in therapy another time.

“Where did you get them? I figured they’d all be dead this time of year,” I said, my voice a little strangled as I, less than deftly, changed the subject.

Flynn patted my arm that was still wrapped around his middle before pulling away. “I got them from the flower shop in town. Maureen grows them in the green house for me.”

I touched the delicate petal with my finger. “Oh yeah? Why is that?” I asked.

“I get some every week when it’s cold out and they don’t grow in the garden anymore,” Flynn answered, not really answering anything.

I cocked an eyebrow, a smile on my face. “Every week? Really? I didn’t think you were the flower kind of guy,” I commented.

Flynn shoved his hands in the pockets of his khakis and shrugged. “I liked to keep them around because they reminded me of you.” He said it like it didn’t matter.

But it mattered. Dear god, it mattered.

I walked towards him. “They remind you of me?”

Flynn nodded, looking at me almost shyly, as though he had confessed something he hadn’t meant to.