The Gravity of Us
Page 7

After quick showers at the yoga studio, we headed outside, and when the summer sun kissed our skin and blinded us, Mari groaned. “Why the heck did we decide to ride our bikes here today? And why is six AM hot yoga even a thing we’d consider?”
“Because we care about our health and well-being, and want to be in the best shape of our lives,” I mocked. “Plus, the car’s in the shop.”
She rolled her eyes. “Is this the point where we bike to a café and get donuts and croissants before work?”
“Yup!” I said, unlocking my bike from the pole and hopping onto it.
“And by donuts and croissants do you mean…?”
“Green kale drinks? Yes, yes, I do.”
She groaned again, this time louder. “I liked you better when you didn’t give a crap about your health and just ate a steady diet of candy and tacos.”
I smiled and started pedaling. “Race you!”
I beat her to Green Dreams—obviously—and when she made it inside, she draped her body across the front counter. “Seriously, Lucy—regular yoga, yes, but hot yoga?” She paused, taking a few deep breaths. “Hot yoga can go straight back to hell where it came from to die a long painful death.”
A worker walked over to us with a bright smile. “Hey, ladies! What can I get for you?”
“Tequila, please,” Mari said, finally raising her head from the countertop. “You can put it in a to-go cup if you want. Then I can drink it on the way to work.”
The waitress stared at my sister blankly, and I smirked. “We’ll take two green machine juices, and two egg and potato breakfast wraps.”
“Sounds good. Would you like whole wheat, spinach, or flaxseed wraps?” she asked.
“Oh, stuffed crust pizza will do just fine,” Mari replied. “With a side of chips and queso.”
“Flaxseed.” I laughed. “We’ll have the flaxseed.”
When our food came out, we grabbed a table, and Mari dived in as if she hadn’t eaten in years. “So,” she started, her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. “How’s Richard?”
“He’s good,” I said, nodding. “Busy, but good. Our apartment currently looks like a tornado blew through it with his latest work, but he’s good. Since he found out he’s having a showcase at the museum in a few months, he’s been in panic mode trying to create something inspiring. He’s not sleeping, but that’s Richard.”
“Men are weird, and I can’t believe you’re actually living with one.”
“I know.” I laughed. It had taken me over five years to finally move in with Richard, mainly because I didn’t feel comfortable leaving Mari’s side when she got sick. We’d been living together for the past four months, and I loved it. I loved him. “Remember what Mama used to say about men moving in with women?”
“Yes—the second they get comfortable enough to take their shoes off in your house and go into your fridge without asking, it’s time for them to go.”
“A smart woman.”
Mari nodded. “I should’ve kept living by her rules after she passed away—maybe then I could’ve avoided Parker.” Her eyes grew heavy for a few seconds before she blinked away her pain and smiled. She hardly talked about Parker since he’d left her over two years ago, but whenever she did, it was as if a cloud of sadness hovered above her. She fought the cloud, though, and never let it release rain for her to wallow in. She did her best to be happy, and for the most part she was, though there were seconds of pain sometimes.
Seconds when she remembered, seconds when she blamed herself, seconds when she felt lonely. Seconds when she allowed her heart to break before she swiftly started piecing it back together.
With every second of hurt, Mari made it her duty to find a minute of happiness.
“Well, you’re living by her rules now, which is better than never, right?” I said, trying to help her get rid of the cloud above her.
“Right!” she cheered, her eyes finding their joy again. It was odd how feelings worked, how a person could be sad one second and happy another. What amazed me the most was how a person could be both things all within the same second. I believed Mari had a pinch of both emotions in that moment, a little bit of sadness intermingled with her joy.
I thought that was a beautiful way to live.
“So, shall we get to work?” I asked, standing up from my chair. Mari moaned, annoyed, but agreed as she dragged herself back out to her bicycle and started pedaling to our shop.
Monet’s Gardens was mine and my sister’s dream come to life. The shop was fashioned after the paintings of my favorite artist, Claude Monet. When Mari and I finally made it to Europe, I planned to spend a lot of time standing in Monet’s Gardens in Giverny, France.
Prints of his artwork were scattered around the shop, and at times we’d shape floral arrangements to match the paintings. After we signed our lives away with bank loans, Mari and I worked our butts off to open the shop, and it came together swimmingly over time. We almost didn’t even get the shop, but Mari came through with a final loan she tried for. Even though it was a lot of work and took up so much time I never even considered having a social life, I couldn’t really complain about spending my days surrounded by flowers.
The building was small, but big enough to have dozens of different types of flowers, like parrot tulips, lilies, poppies, and of course, roses. We catered to all kinds of functions too; my favorites were weddings, and the worst were funerals.
Today was one of the worst, and it was my turn to drive the delivery truck to drop off the order.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to do the Garrett wedding and you do the Russell funeral?” I asked, getting all the white gladiolus bulbs and white roses organized to move into the truck. The person who’d passed away must’ve been very loved, based on the number of arrangements ordered. There were dozens of white roses for the casket spray, five different cross easels with sashes that said ‘Father’ across them, and dozens of random bouquets to be placed around the church.
It amazed me how beautiful flowers for such a sad occasion could be.
“No, I’m sure. I can help you load up the van, though,” Mari said, lifting up one of the arrangements and heading back to the alleyway where our delivery van was parked.