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The day I broke up with Jonagold I tore all the flowers out of my sink. I had been meaning to do it for ages; the metal basin was growing moss. Snapdragons were her favourite flower, she’d thought it was so terribly romantic when they sprouted up. If I kept them around, it was only at her request. I had never liked the flowers, myself. And they grew from my tears. They pushed their way up from the soapy water in the sink when I cried over the dishes. Really romantic.
A lot of things changed when she and I split. The apartment seemed so much bigger and more lonesome. I had almost nothing to do with my evenings anymore. I started to suspect that it was her influence that made me into a person at all. Without her there to play cards with or make dinner for, I found myself sitting on the couch and staring at the dark TV screen for hours. I didn’t even know what I liked to watch. And I was going to bed earlier and earlier. When Jonagold lived with me, sometimes we would stay up all night and look at the stars through the skylight above my bed. I hadn’t opened that skylight in months.
(It wasn’t because it hurt, or because it brought back memories. It was just that without Jonagold there, I almost didn’t care about looking at the stars. Which somehow hurt more.)
And I never grew flowers anymore without meaning to. I had always thought it was embarrassing when little peonies sprouted up from countertops and shelves where I laid my fingers, but now that it no longer happened, I felt like I was missing some part of myself. I might have been turning to stone, to ice. I might have been melting away. I was finding grey hairs at my temples, which I thought summed up how I was feeling pretty well. After a few weeks of the same sunrise, same sunset, same apartment, I started to consider the possibility that maybe I was a standee in someone else’s dream. And maybe I would be gone when they woke up.
But it got old real quick, the wallowing. It got so boring to drape myself on various surfaces around the apartment and wait for sleep to come. If I didn’t know what I wanted to watch on TV, I’d watch anything until I figured it out. It feels a bit hopeless trying to remember what sort of person you are after a long relationship. All I could think of as I flipped through channels was what movies Jonagold had liked. The Truman Show. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Big Jim Carrey fan, I guess. Fact check: I had never actually seen Eternal Sunshine. I wish I had.
I can’t say it got better, but it got slightly less hopeless. I went to work, I came home. I watched medical dramas on cable until I knew what Legionnaire’s and Guillan-barre were. I slept soundly and dreamlessly. I was not in despair anymore, but there was no joy either.
The morning was rosy pink, with golden clouds streaking across the sky. I twisted my fingers into the vines covering the brick buildings I made my way past, half-hoping that maybe they’d start to grow little hibiscus flowers or something. They didn’t, but it didn’t hurt to hope. It didn’t hurt to hope that the bus wouldn't be late, either, even though it always was. I sat down on the two-person bench under the transit shelter next to a man who looked to be about my age. He had an explosion of ruby-red hair and a curious face with milky pale freckles dotting his cheeks. I had never seen him waiting there before. Perhaps he was new in town, for he grasped a map in his spindly fingers, his eyes roving over it from under long lashes. His expression was one of concentration as he studied the map. I kept my gaze to myself, perching my hand on the wood of the bench.
“Excuse me,” he said after a moment. His voice was smooth but slightly unsure, as if he thought he might be bothering me. “Could you tell me what time the bus does this route?” I followed his eyes down to the map and he traced a winding blue line with his fingertips.
“Now, but it’s always late.”
“Ah, of course,” he replied, faultlessly polite. “I’ve never taken public transportation before. I’ve only just moved here and it’s my first day at work. I’m Macintosh, by the way.”
And he looked like it, with rosy cheeks and auburn hair. I smiled.
“Cameron,” I told him, and he returned the smile, flashing all of his teeth. Like he didn’t quite know how to move the muscles in his face. I felt my heart beat erratically against my chest. Tachycardia.
“So, where are you headed, Cameron?” he asked, studying me curiously.
“The book shop,” I answered. “I work behind the counter there.”
“Ah! And I work at the library. We’re both book vendors.” He blinked at me owlishly.
“I suppose we are,” I mused, more to myself than him. I never thought of myself as a bookseller rather than a cashier. I only took the money and stored it in the register.
He was quiet after that, and we sat in silence for a few moments more, waiting for the bus to arrive. Minutes ticked by on the analog clock set into the curve of the pavilion over our heads. The sun continued to paint the sky, gradually casting its light over Amber Falls, and finally, the bus arrived, flashing its blue and white lights at the two of us. The doors opened and Macintosh boarded immediately, throwing a small smile over his shoulder at me. My heart jumped again, and I noticed something odd when I stood; a handful of pink camellias had sprouted up where my hand rested on the bench.
I took a seat toward the front of the bus and spent the ride to work staring out the window, ignoring every bump and pothole in the road. The sky started to lose its dreamy pink palette and became an airy blue as the sun ducked behind the pale clouds. I studied the city as it passed me by, thinking about the pink camellias. Their appearance marked the first time in months I had grown something subconsciously. And they were in full bloom as well! I held out the palm of my hand and stared at it briefly, willing something to sprout. What I got was a tiny, sickly snapdragon. I crushed it in my fist and continued to stare out the window, my heart suddenly feeling very heavy.
The bus stopped by the library and Macintosh gave me a slight wave as he stepped off onto the curb. I spent the rest of the ride to work white-kunckling the plastic seat beneath me, but when I got up, I hadn’t grown anything. I forced myself to think of something else as I made my way to the space behind the counter of the book shop and opened the register, but it landed on Jonagold, which made everything worse.
Jonagold had thought my power was cute, but silly. She liked when I grew snapdragons without meaning to, because they were her favourite flower, and that meant it was a testament to my love for her. But she called it frivolous or even annoying when plants that I liked sprouted up around the apartment. It was as if she was never satisfied with me. If I worked a late shift, she complained I was wasting away in a dead end job. If I liked a song, she had to hate it. She would cup my face and tell me I would be so lovely if I dyed my hair, or if I had blue eyes instead of brown. I don’t know why I missed her, really. I just did.
The day was long and uneventful, and the bookshop was hardly bustling. I kept my hands rested on the wooden counter apart from during the few sales I made that day. I thought about taking up gardening again; I used to grow fruits and vegetables all over the apartment, way before Jonagold moved in with me. But it was more of a commitment than I was willing to make, especially off a random whim. I watched the sky turn from its late-afternoon blue to an evening lavender and then a twilight mauve, and I took the bus home but I didn’t see Macintosh.
That night I did something: I looked at the stars. I felt the urge as I channel surfed mindlessly and I made a mad dash for my room. I laid in bed, flat on my back, digesting the desire for what felt like hours. I gave the feeling plenty of space to burst forth, so I could be entirely sure I was experiencing it. Did I want something that wasn’t food? Did I long for something that wasn’t sleep? I opened the skylight for the first time in six months, and the stars twinkled above like kisses on the night sky’s vast cheeks. It only hurt a little bit.
I fell asleep gazing into the night sky, a mixture of emotions welling up in my chest. It rained a little that night, and I woke up drenched by the rainwater. From under my pillow and the corner of my headboard, thorny vines with little crimson buds had snaked their way up. I catapulted myself out of bed, scraping my hands on the vines and standing by the window, surveying my unconscious work. I struggled to remember what in my dreams constituted such a violent growth. The vines writhed over my mattress, seeking to grow stronger and healthier, and I felt a deep ache inside me. Of course they would grow after a night spent stargazing. It was like any time I tried to escape from the memory of Jonagold, she was there, pulling me back. Her deep blue eyes pleaded with me not to let go. I left my apartment in a rush, desperate to take my mind off of the vines and the stars and everything else. And I got my wish.
“Cameron!” Macintosh said when I sat down beside him. “Good morning.”
“Yeah,” I agreed half-heartedly. I was glad to see him, but Jonagold still lingered in the back of my thoughts. She would have taken great pleasure in my pain. She would have thought this was so beautifully tragic, and she would have swooned over my inability to stop loving her. She liked how I depended on her, and she knew she always had some sort of power over me. It was a wonder I had ever managed to break up with her. Even I wasn’t entirely sure how I’d found the strength within myself.
Sometimes, Jonagold made me so happy that I didn’t care she was always hurting me too. Sometimes she let me win when we played cards, and sometimes she let me pick the movie, and sometimes she peeled clementines and gave me the slices to take to work with me. And sometimes, we laid in bed, hair tangling and foreheads pressed together, and I told her how much she hurt me, and she apologised. Her whispered apologies melted my heart and I started to fall in love with the pain as well as the happiness. I took the good times, I’ll take the bad times. And it was almost a beautiful suffering; the kind that makes you think, at least we’re going down together. Hand in unlovable hand. I knew she depended on me too, and I comforted myself with that.
I was still lost in thought about her when the bus finally pulled to a stop in front of the little pavilion, and I followed Macintosh onto it absentmindedly, not noticing that he took the seat next to me until he spoke again.
“Um, so, Cameron,” he began, pulling me out of my memories. “Are you alright? You look a bit unwell.”
“I’m okay,” I said, shaking my head to clear it. I studied his reflection in the window for a moment, thinking. I didn’t frequently talk to people. I didn’t have many friends, and I wasn’t the type to go about making them. They had to come looking for me. And I was getting a distinct feeling that Macintosh was looking for me. He was trying to, at least. But we were almost perfect strangers, nothing more than acquaintances, even if I was being generous, and I didn’t quite know what to say.
But I was open to it. I was okay with it if Macintosh wanted to know me more. I wanted to know him more as well, actually. I liked his slightly nervous bravery, as if he were always afraid he was bothering people when he spoke to them, but he did not let that fear stop him from doing it. I turned back to him.
“Did you say you were new in town?” I asked. He nodded.
“I grew up all around the suburbs of Amber Falls,” he explained. “And then I did a bit of college out-of-state. But I moved here a few months ago, because I wanted to be close to home without having to go back home, exactly. Is that nonsensical?”
“No. The suburbs are like a different world compared to the city.”
“That, they are,” he sighed, sounding content. I looked back out the window, eyes trained on the brick buildings as the bus whizzed past them. The sky was a delicate blue that morning, the wispy clouds swirling around the sun like a shroud.
“Will I see you everyday now?” Macintosh asked after a moment of silence. I felt a funny jolt in my stomach.
“Yes,” I told him. “Hopefully.”
We sat quietly for the rest of the ride, which passed in a blur. The day was uneventful after that, until the evening, when something kind of remarkable happened.
I was doing the dishes after cooking dinner (which is remarkable, but it isn’t the remarkable thing), and something sprouted up in the soapy water. At first, I was filled with a kind of dread. All I could see was Jonagold’s frosty blue eyes and her delighted grin, the look of ecstasy on her face as she inhaled the sweet scent of the snapdragons. But they weren’t snapdragons. It wasn’t a flower at all, actually. Roots burst from deep down in the drain and snaked their way up to rest on the window sill. They twisted around each other until they formed a healthy young tree trunk above my sink. My heart leapt, and I was filled with a strange sort of joy. This was something beautiful and healthy, that I had grown without meaning to. It didn’t hurt me or prick me; it was a fruit tree.
I let out a wild peal of laughter, strong emotions flooding my chest. I had almost forgotten this sort of thing could happen. I gripped the edge of the sink, my knuckles turning white, and I urged the tree to continue growing, even though it was starting to force its way through the window now. I felt verifiably insane, but in a very freeing way. The earthy green leaves of the tree burst forth, and I threw my head back, watching its growth as the energy surged from my hands into its roots. It was magnificent.
I was almost certain I was too wired to sleep after that, but when I went upstairs, the thorny vines which had cut me earlier retreated from my bed, shrivelling into themselves, and I practically collapsed onto the cool sheets. I slept soundly, dreaming of the kind of fruit that would grow from the tree bursting through my window downstairs. I hoped it would be oranges. Or maybe peaches. Anything but apples.
I woke up the next morning feeling refreshed, an exceedingly rare occurrence for me, and I encountered Macintosh at the bus stop again.
“Good morning,” he offered. “You look very happy.”
“Do I?”
“I think so.” He studied me for a moment, and although my face flushed, I didn’t feel exactly uncomfortable under his gaze.
“Do you talk to all strangers like this?” I inquired, looking down.
“Just the ones I think won’t mind it. Sometimes I’m wrong, though. And they do mind. Do you?”
“I don’t,” I assured him. Beneath my hand, I felt something soft and delicate spring up.
“Ah, good,” he said, blushing. “I didn’t really know if you would, see. I just sort of hoped you wouldn’t.”
I looked down at the bench under my fingers; a red carnation glared up at me. I plucked it and squished it in my fist.
“I quite like talking with you,” he said generously. I knew I wasn’t the most lively of conversation partners. “I really haven’t got many friends. None, around here, actually. The ones I do have are scattered to the winds far from me. Is that too personal?”
“Not for me.”
“I’ve always found it a bit difficult to make friends, you see. It’s very tricky to get to know someone. People have always got something more important going on, I’m hardly able to say more than two words to people before they’re gone.”
“People can be fleeting like that,” I agreed, peering off into the distance. It was a chilly, fresh sort of morning, the kind that felt like springtime was smiling upon the city. The bus rolled to a halt before us.
“I don’t want you to be fleeting,” he blurted as I stood. I looked at him curiously. “Do you want to meet for drinks sometime?”
“I would like that,” I said slowly. I moved to board the bus, aware that my cheeks must have been very pink.
“After work tonight?” he suggested, following me onto the bus. I didn’t take my usual seat; I stood near the middle of the bus, holding onto the cool metal pole for support as the vehicle began rumbling down the street. It bounced over every pothole, and Macintosh held the bar as well, his hand just above mine. “I’ve found a nice place just near the library, we could go there tonight! Would you like to?”
“Okay!” I sputtered, feeling sparklers fizzing in my stomach. For a moment, I hadn’t a care in the world; there was only joy and splendid chance for connection right across from me, our fingers inches apart on the same metal pole.
“Oh, you’d better be careful,” he said gleefully, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Your face might stick like that.”
I was about to ask what he meant, but I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window of the bus and saw it – a vibrant pink carnation had grown on my cheek, blossoming brilliantly against my pale skin. It was so bizarre I almost laughed. But I didn’t. I reached my hand up and gently caressed the flower, its delicate petals crumbling under my fingertips. After a few moments I tore my gaze away from my reflection in the window and looked back at Macintosh. His eyes were dreamy as he surveyed the scenery out the window. Then an indulgent thought struck me – maybe he wasn’t looking out the window at all. Maybe he was looking at my reflection.
When the bus reached the library, Macintosh bade me farewell and promised he’d see me that evening before stepping off. I watched him go, feeling slightly dazed. Once he was gone, I allowed myself a moment to think. Was it a date we had found ourselves on? Or just a casual outing for acquaintances to progress toward friendship? I couldn’t deny the tension present in our interactions, especially not that morning. It must have been a date.
And yet, if it wasn’t, I’d look like a fool. A sentimental fool with carnations growing from her cheeks. There was a sort of humiliating pain that came with thinking a relationship was more than it was. I had felt it often with Jonagold.
But Macintosh wasn’t like Jonagold; at least, I hoped he wasn’t. I put the idea out of my mind and rested my forehead on the window. As the city whipped by, I allowed myself to feel more excited about the prospects that evening held.
The rest of the day slipped by forgettably as I drummed my fingertips on the counter at work. Before I knew it, twilight had fallen upon the city and the violet sky was dotted with stars out the window of the cafe. I was seated across from Macintosh, swirling a glass of wine as he gazed down at his own drink. Once we’d received our drinks the conversation had slowed to a lull, and I wracked my brain furiously for something to say.
“I thought of you at the library today,” he said after a few moments of silence. “The clock struck noon and a cardinal flew past the window at the same moment, and I thought of you. Is that weird?”
“It’s nice,” I admitted. “These things happen to other people.” That was more to myself than to him, but he still heard it.
“What things?”
“I don’t know. Nice things.”
“Like going out with a stranger?”
“Sort of,” I said. “Like not being afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” he answered quickly. “Are you?”
“Not of you.”
“Can I ask you something?” he said after a brief pause.
“Yeah, yes,” I said, leaning forward. His eyes were locked onto mine.
“What’s your gift?” he questioned. I blushed and looked down.
“You can’t laugh,” I said. “You’ve already seen it a little bit before.”
“I won’t laugh,” he assured me.
“I can do this,” I said, holding out my hand. He peered down at it, watching as a small bluebell sprouted up from the open palm. He met my gaze with wonder painted in his eyes and a blush creeping across his cheeks.
“It’s a flower,” he breathed, almost to himself. “You made that, from nothing?”
“Yeah,” I said, the words wrapped in an exhale. “What can you do?” He looked slightly embarrassed, as if he thought his power might look weak next to mine. I carefully arranged my face, deciding already that I would respond with wonder regardless of what his power was. Bashfully, he reached his hand forward and interlocked his fingers in mine. For a moment, we sat like that, fingers laced together, and nothing happened.
“You had a cut on your fingertip,” he told me after a few seconds. “Now you don’t.”
I did. I thought back to the thorny vines growing in my bed and the burst of blood. I searched my hands for the scratches that should have been still healing, and they were nowhere to be found. I stared at him in awe.
“Is that your power? You’re a healer?”
“Just minor injuries,” he said, cheeks going pink. “And not very well. Broken bones don’t heal right when I do it. And I can’t do it to mys–”
“That’s stupendous,” I interrupted, feeling a kind of warmth all over my body. “Humanity feeds on the pain of others! But we also have you, and your power is the kindest, most generous ability someone could ever have, that’s marvelous.” I knew my cheeks must have been flushed. He laughed it off, embarrassed, but I saw the glint of passion in his eyes.
“Can I tell you a secret?” he asked a few rounds later, his cheeks rosy with laughter and drink. I nodded.
“Anything.”
“They made a mistake on my birth certificate,” he told me, grinning and resting his head on the palm of his hand, digging his elbow into the wood of the table. “A boy, Macintosh, born in the township of Matthew, New Jersey. That’s what they wrote.”
“Your parents didn’t correct them?”
“My mother died in labour, and I didn’t have a father.”
My chest felt like it was flooding. Cold despair rushed through me.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I stuttered out. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said, blinking back the shimmer in his eyes. He reached his hand up and brushed a stray hair away from my face. Then he rested his hand on my cheek, and it was so warm.
“It’s not just minor injuries, is it?” I whispered. “You can make people feel better, too.”
“I think you just have a crush on me,” he said softly, and then we were kissing and it was very warm as well, and sweet. When we broke apart, he was panting slightly.
“You’re wonderful.”
“I’m just a quilt of everyone else,” he breathed back.
The night bore on, and by the time we were ready to leave, the bus wasn’t coming by the cafe anymore. Macintosh offered to walk me home, so the two of us set off toward my apartment building, silver stars twinkling above us.
“Do you ever stargaze?” Macintosh asked me as we stumbled down the sidewalk. A sweet breeze swept around us and I saw him shiver slightly.
“I used to,” I said. Then I felt a slight jolt in my stomach. “I did the other night, actually. First time in months.”
“Why’d you stop at all?”
“I don’t know,” I muttered, partly because I didn’t want to talk about Jonagold. I felt a kind of pit open up in my stomach as I thought of her. I suddenly didn’t want to be talking about the stars with Macintosh at all.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Why?”
“I think I’m bothering you.”
“You’re not,” I said automatically. It was the most obvious thing in the world to me. “You’re not bothering me.”
But he was silent after that, and I could tell he felt silly. I felt a bit silly too. I was tired of stepping all over my words or being worried I was going to say something stupid. We’d been drinking together and the night was cool and fresh, and suddenly all I cared about was putting a smile on his face. I took his hand and laced my fingers through his.
“We need to do this again sometime,” I told him. “Go out again.”
“I’d like that,” he said, almost to himself, and I saw his lips twitch slightly. We walked for a few moments more before reaching my apartment building, and when we did, I almost felt a slight pang at the prospect of leaving Macintosh, even if only for the night.
“Shall I walk you up?” he asked. “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”
“I should kill thee with much cherishing,” I muttered, and I knew he must have heard it, because he laughed slightly even as a particularly chilly zephyr passed over us and he shivered again. “Yes, you should walk me up. I’m on the fifth floor.”
“Oh,” he gasped, looking up. “Is that your window?” He pointed up at the side of the building, and I shot him a confused look; how could he guess something like that? I followed his gaze up to the window and gasped as well. The tree I had grown the night before had burst upward and was clinging to the brick building, snaking up toward the roof in an explosion of green leaves. That was certainly new.
“Yeah,” I breathed. “Come on, come on, I’ll show you how it looks from the inside!” He followed me into the building and up to my apartment, stumbling up the stairs behind me. I threw open the door and found myself in the kitchen, the tree bursting through the window above the sink in all its gargantuan glory.
“Holy hell,” Macintosh gasped as he caught up to me, his chest heaving. He stared at the tree in awe, his eyes wide as dinner plates. I caught his eye as we both admired the growth and he dropped his jaw at me, eyes shining. But when I looked back at the tree, I noticed something new; it was growing fruit. Little round apples with golden skin and pink streaks. My heart leapt in my chest.
“Apples,” I whispered. “It’s an apple tree.”
“An apple tree?” Macintosh said, his eyes glittering. He squinted at the fruits, an incredulous half-smile pulling at his lips. “Are those…?”
Please don’t be jonagolds, I thought. Please be anything else. Please let this mean something good.
“Mcintoshes?”
And I realised he was right. They were mcintoshes. I felt a sort of weak happiness sweep over me, and my knees buckled. He rushed to me, a worried frown taking over his features. I put my hand on his shoulder to steady myself.
This is the truth: I’m not strong. I was never strong enough to break up with Jonagold. One night, I told her to get out of my apartment and she did. It was a moment of weakness, if it was anything. I regretted the outburst immediately after it happened, but it was too late. Once she was through the doorway she was gone from my life. And I missed her before the door even closed. The truth is, I was never even strong enough to hate someone who made me hate myself.
But this tree was strong. And I had grown it. It had to mean something, because everything meant something to me. When I was with Jonagold, I had been scared to put too much meaning into anything for fear that she’d laugh at me or call me a child. But I didn’t feel like that anymore; especially not around Macintosh. He thought a cardinal flying by his window at noon was meaningful! So I knew he would understand when I laughed and collapsed into his arms.
“I think I love you,” I told him gleefully. The worry etched on his face dissipated as he met my gaze.
“And I, you,” he assured me. “I think.”
“You don’t have to be sure yet,” I whispered, reaching my hand up and caressing his cheek.
“I will be soon,” he said, and then we were kissing again, and I felt as though flowers were growing in my chest.