THURSDAY ARRIVED WITH AN EXCLAMATION MARK! Gram was back at the helm, her smile adding a surreal light to the store. She was the colour of pink, like strawberry ice-cream on a hot summer’s day—welcome and refreshing. She stood at her workbench of flower imagination, creating bouquets of beauty and elegance with a natural flair that was impossible to emulate. She was most certainly in her element and habitual happy place, miles away from the trauma that had happened a couple of days ago, and I prayed would never happen again.

The doors opened at 8.30am, and Flowers for Fleur was filled with a stampede of people. More people than usual. More than the regular café coffee and tea junkies. More than the daily flower addicted people and browsers. People came to see if Gram was okay. She was a much-loved local store owner who had served the township of Tarrin for fifty years. I’m sure she knew everyone’s secrets.

‘Flowers, tea, coffee or books?’ It felt like the millionth time I had said it. I really needed to cut off the books word. No one came here to buy books!

The man standing before me lowered his head and gazed into my eyes, his pupils dilated. I stiffened as my heartbeat raced. He scanned me from my head to my waist, his eyes hovering over my chest for way too long before he made contact with my eyes again. He was the colour of flashing dark, dark red. He was a fist thumped on the piano keys, numerous times. I found it hard to breathe.

‘I did come to buy some flowers. But I think I found something better.’

I raised an eyebrow at him while panic raced through my veins, stinging me. ‘Flowers for your girlfriend?’ I asked, ignoring his insinuation, trying to be courageous. I swallowed.

‘They could be for you if you let me—’

‘Can I help you with your purchase, sir?’ It was Darcy’s deep voice. It was blunt. I breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Ah ... no. I was just asking for some flowers. Simple really.’

‘Is it?’ Darcy said. ‘I know the flowers that will do the job for you.’

‘You do. You like the same things as me?’ the man narrowed his eyes at Darcy.

‘No. But I know your type. I know what you need,’ said Darcy.

He raised his eyebrows at Darcy.

‘Men know men,’ Darcy elaborated.

‘Lead the way,’ he said, dipping his head.

I watched as Darcy led the customer away. I couldn’t call the customer a man, because real men don’t treat women as objects or play things. But Darcy ... he was my hero. I watched as he chose a bouquet of flowers and handed them to the person inhabiting a male body, then took the cash from him.

I served three more customers before I saw Darcy walking towards me.

‘How did you know?’ I asked when he handed over the money.

‘His foulness surrounds him like a visible stench. Men have radars for people like him and I could see you recoil at his presence.’

I closed my eyes and ran my fingers over my forehead trying to stop the flashbacks of three years ago.

‘I also told him you were mine,’ Darcy said, and smiled coyly.

‘You did?’ I said, raising my eyebrows.

‘It was a test for him.’

‘Did he pass?’

‘No. He’s bad news ... I’ll stay with you until you get into your taxi tonight.’

A shudder vibrated through me. I visualised my self-defense moves and wriggled my toes in my steel-capped boots. I knew exactly where to damage him should he attack. ‘Thanks, Darcy. You’re the best.’

‘I know,’ he said, and smiled at me. Not a smile of happiness though. It was a smile of pity. I hated the pity smile. It made me feel more damaged than I already was. Damn the bloody pity smile! I hated people knowing any part of my story—what had happened to me. He only knew one part because of necessity, to stop him from thinking I was insane. He’d found me mid-PTSD—when I was trying to wash the blood from my hands. The blood that wasn’t there. I was stuck in the loop of delusion and couldn’t break free. He had pulled me away from the tap and wrapped his arms around me from behind.

‘Stop, Yolande ... breathe,’ he had whispered. He took me to a table and sat me down, then made me a cup of tea. I told him a fraction of my story. Not everything. He had gone pale when I told him about the blood. He left the table and went to the café kitchen, leaned over the bench and drank two glasses of cold water.

There were only five other people who knew limited fragments of what happened on that terrible day of the scars—my parents, grandparents, and my psychologist, Dr Jones. No one else would ever hear the story from my lips. Ever. There was no use digging up the past. It was dead and buried ... like ...

I knotted my fingers together then smoothed down my apron. I had jobs to do. And so did Darcy. ‘Let’s knock off early tonight—5.30! Deal?’ I said and took a deep breath.

‘Deal,’ Darcy said, and gave me a thumbs-up. He returned to the coffee machine and slipped back into his role as the kind-hearted barista.

Flowers for Fleur was insanely busy and I found it hard to catch a breath between customers. I had just served the tenth person and entered the sales data into the account book when I looked up at the next patron, and there he stood. Xander.

‘9am. Like you said.’ He gave me a crooked smile and lowered his head, his dark hair falling over his blue eyes. Today he was dressed in a long-sleeved, pale blue button-up shirt, and trousers the colour of stone. My heart skipped a beat.

‘I ... didn’t think you’d come ... after you left the other day—’

‘It’s not about me.’ He frowned. ‘You did read the letter, didn’t you?’

‘Yes ... I did.’ Why did he make me feel so self-conscious? ‘Follow me.’

I left the sales desk and walked over to Gram. She was humming one of Grampapa’s songs while she worked on a creation of flowers. My heart warmed. She looked up at me and then over my shoulder at Xander, where her eyes remained.

‘Gram. I’d like you to meet Xander. Xander, this is my grandmother, Fleur Lawrence.’

Xander leaned forward and held out his hand to Gram. ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs Lawrence. I trust you’re feeling better today,’ Xander said.

I frowned at Xander and his formal words.

Gram took Xander’s hand and held his eyes in hers for longer than necessary. Did she know him? ‘Yolande, darling, please ask Darcy to make me a pot of tea, and Xander, what would you like?’

Xander turned to me. ‘Coffee, please ... Yolande,’ he said, and raised his eyebrows while he said my name.

I narrowed me eyes at him. He only knew me as Andi. It was only natural for him to react that way with my full name. ‘Of course, Gram. Would you like to sit at one of the tables?’ I asked, before I went to order their tea and coffee.

‘Most certainly,’ she said, filled with enthusiasm.

I left them to their conversation while I kept the wheels of the flower shop turning. Each time I glanced over at Gram and Xander at the cafe table, they were in deep conversation.

Forty-five minutes later, while I was tidying Gram’s workbench, I heard my name called. I looked up to see Xander standing by the entrance. Gram was beside him, smiling. What had she done? Gram gestured for me to join them. I put down the loose rose petals, brushed my hands down my apron, checked that my chest scar was covered and walked over to them.

‘Andi ... I have agreed for Xander to borrow my bicycle for Sunday, on one condition, which he has agreed to,’ Gram said, touching Xander’s arm.

‘And that would be?’ I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice. Gram had never trusted anyone with possession of her bike, not even me.

‘That you accompany Xander to his mother’s celebration to ensure the safety of my bicycle.’

BOOM! Right then and there my world darkened, and anxiety reached its ugly hands up to my throat to stop me from breathing. ‘But, Gram, I—’

‘It’s all organised. Xander will meet you here at 1pm Sunday.’

‘But, Gram, I—’

‘I, what, dear?’ Gram asked with both eyebrows raised at me. Her look told me that no excuse would do.

‘I’ll be here ...’ I said in a quiet voice. I looked at Xander. ‘Email me the details,’ I said with the last of my breath, then turned on the heel of my steel-capped work boots and hotfooted from the store via the back exit.

I leaned against the brick wall and sucked in a sharp breath, then bent over, overcome with nausea from anxiety. ‘No,’ I whispered. ‘I can’t go to the party. I won’t feel safe ... I won’t be safe ...’ 

Footsteps crunched on the gravel then stopped. The shoes I could see belonged to Gram.

‘I know what you’re thinking. It’s been three years, and nothing has happened to you,’ she said sternly.

‘Only because I plan everything meticulously before I go, and am surrounded by friends and family I know and trust to look out for me.’ I kept my eyes on the ground.

‘Yolande, you can’t live your life in the shadows anymore. You are running in fear, every day. Everything you choose is based on fear. It’s time to give it up. You are your own worst enemy. Now enough of this nonsense, we have all put up with it for far too long!’

Her words of criticism hit me in the chest and stung my heart. My eyes burned and I stood. ‘You’re right, Gram. I’m a terrified little girl inside this grown-up body of mine. I’m a worthless loser who has no right to enjoy my life after what happened.’ I took off my apron and contained the sob that wanted to escape from me. ‘I’m sure Charlotte or Lucy will come in to help you if you ask.’ I threw my apron at Gram.

And ran. Fast.

‘You can’t keep running, Yolande. Face your fears and be bigger than them. Make sure you’re here on Sunday at 1pm. It’s an afternoon garden party. Think Audrey Hepburn. No safety boots!’ Gram called out after me.

I kept running.

I didn’t turn back. I just ran.