In the Language of the Flowers

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✾ Bachelor Button ✾

My phone sang its usual birdsong in my pocket. I tugged it out and stared at the screen. The emotionless letters made my heart sink. Won't be home for dinner. Sorry.

Ok. There were worse things. But I still felt anxious seeing that text. Ren and I hadn't seen each other as often as we had before. Sure, I still saw him every day. But we didn't see each other, stop and really talk. Not really since the last time I'd gone to him with tears in my eyes.

Maybe it was my fault. Maybe it was because I was so busy nowadays with work and school. But I still missed sitting on the couch, eating Chinese food, and watching The Office or something dumb like that. I really missed it.

I thought about the blank canvas Ren had once showed me, the promise that lingered between us. It no longer stood in the corner of the living room. I wondered where it was. When had Ren taken it down? Why?

I opened my book up again. Passions of the Soul. Descartes.

"Gratitude is a species of love, excited in us by some action of the person for whom we have it, and by which we believe that he has done some good to us, or at least that he has had the intention of doing so."

I thought of Ren, as always. His name clung to my lips. His voice echoed in my ears. He lingered behind my eyelids, the way he looked so tiny on the sidewalk when he'd called out to me on the night my life stopped stuttering like a broken record and started again. I could always feel his hand in my hair whether I was in class, at home, or walking down the busy streets of New York.

I was curled up in a large chair in the corner of the library, the book sandwiched between my legs and my stomach. I was losing sunlight now, which meant I'd have to find a new study spot soon. I'd strategically placed myself in a warm patch of sunlight when I'd arrived, but my surroundings had changed. I'd watched students come and go, minding their business, perusing the shelves. Some of them searched with intent, their faces glowing with expressions of satisfaction when they found what they were looking for. Some searched aimlessly, walking up and down the library's aisles without really stopping or going anywhere.

I absently fiddled with a curl. What if the reason Ren was being distant was because Sallie had told him that I was gay? I didn't want to believe that. If he knew, would he have talked to me about it? I trusted Ren. Maybe he thought it was none of his business. If he did, he might not have spoken to me about anything. This explanation for Ren's acting like a stranger wasn't probable, but it wasn't impossible. I guess I just didn't want it to be my fault. I didn't want to be the one pulling away. If I was, I didn't know how to stop and fix it.

"Beau!" A French accent. I blinked awake. "Hello, beautiful!"

I held a finger to my lips. "This is a library, Amory."

His shoulders went to his ears and he looked around guiltily. "My bad. I forgot," he whispered, sitting beside me in the opposing armchair.

"How could you forget?" I asked, unfurling my legs and stretching. "You're surrounded by books and silence."

He watched me stretch in that way he always watched me, with a sharp keenness that sliced through the papery air between us like an arrow. No one else had ever looked at me like that. "I always forget where we are when I see you," he said, propping his head on his fist. His hair was tied up, but some of it still ran in wild rivers around the frame of his face.

"Are you ready to learn about Descartes?" I asked, shrugging off the rippling warmth beaming from his eyes. But damn, I did enjoy hearing him flirt with that accent.