His Deceptive Possession

Freedom it turns out, tastes remarkably like Earl grey and damp pavement.

Edinburg smells like rain today.  

Soft drizzle turning city silver, the cobblestones shine, the old buildings look even older, and the wind carries the faint scent of wet earth and coffee.

I wrap my coat tighter around myself. Five years ago, the weight on my shoulders was a different kind of heavy, it was suffocating silk of a life I didn’t chose. Now, it’s just the damp chill of a Scottish Tuesday.

I catch my reflection in a shop window and for a split second, I don’t recognize the woman looking back. My hair tumbling mess of honey-blonde that reaches below my waist. My eyes are brighter and I’m free.

“Morning, El! Or should I say, the guest of honor?”

I turn to see Jamie leaning against the brickwork of The Thistle and Bloom. He’s wearing the lopsided grin and a jacket that’s definitely too thin for this weather. Jamie is solid, like the basalt under our feet. He doesn’t carry a gun but a sketchbook and a constant scent of linseed oil.

“I’m hardly the guest of honor, Jamie,” I laugh. “I’m just the person making sure twenty toddlers don’t eat the centerpieces.”

“Right. The most important job there is.” He steps closer to open the shop door for me, his hand lingering just a second too long near the small of my back. I step inside, oblivious to the way his eyes trace the line of my jaw. “You look mice today. That blue… it suits you.”

“It’s just denim, Jamie. But thank you.”

I focus on the flowers. The shop is an explosion of scent, damp earth, crushed stems, and the sharp, spicy kick of carnations. I reach out to touch a bundle of white lilies, but my fingers recoil before I can graze the petals.

White lilies.

The scent of my mother’s parlor. The scent of a funeral for a girl who wasn’t dead yet.

I swallowed hard, the phantom taste of espresso and expensive cigars coating the back of my throat for a heartbeat. I blink, and the memory dissolves into the gray stones. I am not there. I am here.

“I’ll take the sunflowers,” I say instead. “And the lavender. Lots of it.”

“You’re doing sunflowers again?” Jamie asks, his voice dropping an octave as he steps behind the counter to help me bundle the stems. “You’re predictable, El. Though, I suppose sunny and bright is a better brand than the moody, rain-soaked aesthetic I’ve got going on.”

“It’s for the kids,” I lean my hip against the wood, watching his hands. They are calloused and stained with charcoal at the cuticles. “Sunflowers don’t ask for much, but they give everything. I think the children need to see something that stands tall even when wind is howling.”

Jamie stops, a piece of green twine caught between his fingers. He looks at me with that intensity that usually makes me want to look away. “You’re always thinking about what people need. When was the last time you brought a flower just because it looked nice?”

“I like lavender,” I deflect, pointing to the purple sprigs. “It smells… quiet.”

“Quiet is your favorite flavor, isn’t it?” he smiles and I chuckle.

Before I can answer, the bell above the door chimes. A whirlwind in a leather jacket and a bright red beanie bursts in, shaking a dripping umbrella onto the floor.

“If I have to spend one more minute in that drizzle, I am moving to Spain! Jamie, tell me you have the peonies for the gala or I’m stealing your car and driving south until I hit the Mediterranean.”

Jamie groans. “Good morning to you too, Mairi. And you can’t steal my car, the alternator is held together by a prayer and a chewing gum.”

Mairi, Jamie’s younger sister and a professional chaotic force, marches over and pulls me into a one-armed hug. “El, thank God you’re here. Tell my brother he’s a brooding hermit with weeds.”

“They aren’t weed, they’re artisanal botanicals,” I joke, sliding a stray stem toward her.

“Whatever they are, they’re overpriced,” Mairi retorts, sticking her tongue out at Jamie. She turns back to me, her eyes scanning my face. “You look peaky. Are you sleeping? Or just staying up till 3:00 AM reading those dusty history books?”

“I’m fine, Miri. Just excited for the orphanage event.”

“She’s lying,” Jamie chimes in, his green eyes looking with disappointment. “She was staring at the lilies as if they’d bite her five minutes ago.”

Mairi’s expressions softens. “I don’t know what happened in your past, but it’s a bad neighbor, El. Don’t let it knock the door,”

I smile, assuring her Jamie is just over-exaggerating.

But what I do not tell her, is I still remember everything. The silence so think you could choke on it. The way my mother would love me, the protection my fathers provided me, the love and hate relationship with my siblings. Like how her and Jamie’s bickering remind me of Judas, Zayne and Anya.

I miss the idea of home, the warmth of Mama’s cooking, the love my fathers gave me. but then I remember the blood on the marble. I remember the gold cage. The grey eyes. The unspoken name. the man who ruined me.

No.

This is better, even if nights come with nightmares. The rain is cold, the flowers die. But I am the one holding the scissors. There’s no one to dictate my life. I am not Krystina Romanovski, I am Elena.

“Earth to El,” Jamie says softly, holding out the finished bouquet. The sunflowers are bright against the brown craft paper. “You okay? You went somewhere else for a second.”

“Just thinking about the centerpieces,” I lie, reaching for the bouquet. Our fingers brush, his warm and rough and mine cold. I pull away quickly, missing the way his smile falters.

“Let’s go,” I say, heading for the door. “The kids are waiting.”

The drive to St. Jude’s is a chorus of Mairi’s indignation over the weather and the rattling of Jamie’s rusted-out hatchback. As I stare out the window at the blurred grey-green of the Meadows, I realize how much my life has become a collection of these small noisy, imperfect moments.

I met Jamie three years ago in a draughty community center basement. I was taking an art therapy certification course, trying to find a way to turn my fractured pieces into something useful for others. He was the instructor, his apron smeared with charcoal, looking like he’d just stepped out of a Renaissance sketch. I remember dropping my palette and while others stared, Jamie had simply knelt and wiped the paint from my shoe with a rag, and whispered.

“It’s just color. It doesn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful.”

He’d introduced me to Mairi, and then to the rest of the misfit brigade as he called them. Callum, a soft spoken giant who ran a local woodshop, and Sarah, a nurse who ha