The Cherryhill Tree: Perfect Petals
The month of July sat on the Cherryhill tree like a butterfly. It was early evening, and the setting sun shone like liquid gold over the horizon. The gilded air of the atmosphere seeped along the blossoms of the tree, making the flowers appear far more vibrant. Just overhead, a dove sailed across the sun. The winged shadow rippled through the tree branches until the dove disappeared beyond the light of day.
Jack was perched beneath the tree as he always was. His tall, muscular body was at a lean against its trunk. He brushed a hand along the scruff of his chin, hearing Jack Sr. pestering him to shave in the back of his mind. His father taught him to shave on his thirteenth birthday, though, he never quite liked it, and now that his chin bristles were stiff and dark, he wished he would have never started. All the females of his sophomore class seemed to like his five o'clock shadow, but he never payed any mind to their girlish chatter. He only sported his scruff because Liv liked the contrast between the soft blossoms and the roughness of Jack when she tickled his chin with the petals.
Jack's hand wandered to the picnic blanket beneath him, and he absentmindedly tugged at its corner. He was anxious. Anxious of whether or not Liv would like it. He checked the wicker basket beside him six times just to make sure that Violet packed the right sandwiches. Liv was picky; she only ate turkey sandwiches with mild cheddar cheese on sourdough bread without the crust. The last time they went out to eat, a waitress misunderstood Liv's order, and brought her a turkey sandwich with sharp cheddar on rye bread with crust. Liv declared that she would spit on the establish and tarnish its name. She was only teasing, but the waitress was horrified. Liv believed that, Jack being her best friend, it was his duty to remember such trivial details of her existence, and if he got her sandwich wrong, she would hold him down and shove the cheese up his nose. She had done that once when they were eleven.
Liv was always like that. An oddity, but so alive. She wasn't like any other girls Jack had ever known, and according to Jack's dating history, he knew a lot of girls. Liv never owed a purse in her entire life; she preferred to stow things in her bra, and often called her chest a treasure trove. Her hair was perennially wind-swept, even at the apex of August's humidity. If you caught her stealing, she wouldn't confess. She always got what she wanted, but never when she wanted it. She loved babies, but hated toddlers. On the days she knew she would walk the most, she wore her highest heels. She only drank coffee at 3 AM, and she tended to laughed when the moment was not right. Her mother claimed she was too thin, but, god, did she ever know how to work her curves. Most of all, she hated being alone despite her tendency of shutting everyone out. Everyone but Jack, that is.
Jack, bundled up in a mass of pulsating nerves, was inclined to smoke the lonesome cigarette flaking its innards in his pocket. But he remembered that Liv hated it, and the last thing he wanted to do was ruin her day. He'd never forget the first time she saw him smoke around six months ago; she yanked it from his mouth and threw it in old Mrs. Mulberry's yard, where one of her hydrangeas caught fire. Liv watched the blaze with triumph. When Jack thought she would beat him mercilessly, she turned to him and said, "Cigarettes are a dumbass's best friend, and you're not a dumbass. You're my guy, so don't go dyin' on me."
"Hello," Liv said.
Jack caught his breath as he watched her scamper across the grassy hill to join him beneath their cherry blossom tree.
No matter how long Liv was under the sun, it was almost as if she never darkened. Her skin remained as pale as the first breath of winter, and Jack thought it was absolutely lovely. Her dark tresses tumbled in long waves passed her shoulders, and her green eyes reflected the daylight. She wore a pair of little jean shorts that rose over her belly button, and an old, plaid shirt she had snatched from Jack's room, although she cut off the sleeves and trimmed the bottom just enough to meet her shorts. She was thin. She had always been thin, but her hips and chest filled out curvaceously after her fourteenth birthday, and Jack never looked at her as innocently since.
