Between the Perennial Blooms || Paul Lahote

Twenty Five | Baby's Breath

"look: let's go and splinter the stars.
let's run until we can fit the light in our bodies and teach it not to escape anymore. let's run until we can find our way home again,
until we realize home has been inside of us the whole time,
waiting for us to return."
—a.c. | how to be whole again

• • •

"I'm sorry," Paul spoke suddenly.

Bailey looked up at him from her perch on the couch. She had been sitting there atop the cushions for nearly an hour now after he had ushered her inside quickly come the end of their conversation outside on the front porch that had faded to no more than an uncomfortable and tense silence. After the two of them had entered through the front door with a significant amount of space left between their bodies, Paul had directed Bailey to the sofa with strict orders to make herself at home whilst he all but sprinted away from her with a call over his shoulder that stated he was going to take a shower. He hadn't looked in her direction once, and she had thought his behavior strange — why did he need to bathe when she could already smell the fresh detergent wafting off of his navy t-shirt? More importantly, why was he in such a hurry? He looked an awful lot like he was running away from her — like her mere presence hurt him; like it was too much.

Like he could barely stand her.

Her heart had clenched at the taunting thought and she had settled for busying herself with holding back tears and taking the time to stew in the sadness that plagued her for reasons she would never admit to him aloud. Past insecurities crept up on her quietly and without warning — so much so that she had no opportunity to halt the painful memories in their tracks. Perhaps if she had been granted a bit of warning she might have been able to. Perhaps then she might have been able to save herself from her fate. But as was said once before, she was naught but a luckless girl, and when it came to little Bailey Swan, it seemed there was no saving her from her fate.

"Hey, Gran?" Six year old Bailey called from her place at the dinner table, lips parted around a half-chewed mouthful of spaghetti and fingers poised to raise a crumbling piece of garlic bread to nibble on next once her noodles had been swallowed. It was a Tuesday night in January — cold and dark as was the standard set for New Mexico winters — that marked the end of a two week passing in which Bailey had last seen her Mother and Bella. Just an hour prior, Bailey had helped her Gran in the kitchen by stirring the noodles methodically from her perch on the countertop and sprinkling the garlic powder on the toasted pieces of bread under careful and steady watch of her grandmother who warned her not to be 'too heavy-handed' lest she 'let one loose from the overload and get snot all over the best part of the whole darned meal'. So with her tongue poking out from between her teeth and a look of uttermost concentration, Bailey had taken her words to heart. Then, once the garlic powder had been sprinkled to what she deemed absolute perfection, she had begged her Gran to invite old man Jodie over for sup — claimed he was lonely and 'full of sad stuff' down at the Snake Shack because one of his prized rattlesnakes (of whom he had affectionately name Marta) had just passed away in a daredevil-esque tank-escape gone wrong. 'Oh, sweet child. You're too observant for you're own good,' her Gran had replied with a huff, wiping her flour covered hands on the front of her apron before turning to meet Bailey's pleading gaze. 'Jodie-Lynn isn't sad about some slimy old snake,' her Gran told her. 'Today's the anniversary of his wife's passing and he's mourning, baby.' She then fixed Bailey with a look and upturned her aged lips in a smile full of bittersweet sorrow. 'Now you'll learn more about this later on in life, Bailey-Wren, but men are prideful creatures. They don't like to be told they're wrong, don't like to be told their meat's undercooked, and they especially don't like to be seen crying — makes them feel like they're weak or something as equally ridiculous,' she scoffed. 'So no matter how genuine you ask him, Jodie-Lynn isn't gonna accept your invitation to supper — not tonight, at least.' She chuckled lightly at Bailey's pout and tapped her on the nose with a flour covered finger. 'Now you turn that frown upside down and go on and set the table so we can eat. We'll save a Tupperware dish of leftovers in the fridge and I promise you can bring them over to him tomorrow.' Then, with only a hint of a pout still left on her lips, Bailey proceeded to grab two terracotta plates from the cupboard and two plastic forks from the drawer.