What My Flowers Said Ch. 10-13

"Oh, Christ," Peter groaned, "C'mon Pens. Seriously, didn't I warn you about that guy?"

"Well," I frowned, "Didn't really have another choice, did I?"

For a moment at least, that shut him up.

"That's cold, Pens," he sighed, "Cold but fair. Look, lemme make it up to you."

"It's fine, Peter. Really."

"No, c'mon. You've gotta let me make it up. You're coming by today, right? For your keys at least?" He sounded sly, "Drinks. On me. You just got sprung from the slammer, right? We've gotta do shots of prison wine, or something."

I sighed. Dmitri was at the counter, kneeling stiffly to pat Rupestrian.

"C'mon, Foster. Pretty please?"

I rolled my eyes.

"Alright..." I whispered. Anything to get him off the phone. "I'll come by later. For my keys."

"Good. Great. Really, really sorry, Pens."

"It's fine. I have to go now," I shook my head, "Bye Peter."

I hung up. The room was deadly quiet.

"The sculptor," Mr. Caine's words were rigid, "Finally checking in?"

I shrugged, gazing at the ground, "Yeah. He's, um... he feels pretty bad."

"Is that so?"

We stood there, facing each other—three, maybe four paces apart. There was a eerie imbalance in the air. Like waiting all day for a rain that never falls. His face was impassive, unreadable. And when he finally spoke, his words cut through me like a scalpel.

"I think it's best, Penny," he stood, "that we not see each other after this." He turned, wiping our mugs dry with a rag, "I could try to explain, but it wouldn't change anything." He crossed his arms, "This. This whole ordeal. It was a misunderstanding. It was my fault... And I think it's best we end it here."

Ummm, fuck what?

My jaw dropped. But his face was set firm. It took more than a few moments for the words to sink in. Once they did though, I felt boiling hot tears start to simmer in my eyes. What the hell is he saying? I shook. I mean, first he's yelling at you. Then he kisses you. Now he never wants to see you again? What the fuck is your problem, Dmitri? I fought the tears back savagely. I wanted to reflect his coldness. His cruelty. I wanted to give it back to him in spades. And even if I couldn't—whatever was happening here—I wouldn't give the pleasure of seeing me cry.

"Our deal still stands," he nodded stiffly, "I'll send a crew to pick up the painting." His eyes darkened, and he moved toward the door. "But after that, I suggest you try and forget about me." He froze there a moment, his hand clutching the knob. His knuckles were white, "I promise. I'll be trying to do the same."

I felt a lone, burning teardrop escape, and roll away down my cheek. I could have stabbed myself for cracking.

"Mr. Caine..." I rasped.

"Dmitri," he held up his hand. "Just Dmitri, now." He rubbed his brow hard, and stepped back, "Jules will have a car waiting when you're ready. It will take you wherever you need to go."

I sniffed, and for one paralyzing moment, his own icy veneer seemed to split.

"It's not... I mean, it was—" His brow creased deeply. His throat was tense, "It was a pleasure knowing you, Penny. I really wish things were different," His jaw clenched, "...I wish I was different." He shook his head, recovering, "For the ankle. Pressure, ice, elevation. And, um—"

"...Stay off my toes, Dmitri?" I whispered, my words all brittle, and dry.

He nodded coolly, lingering to look at me. And then with a sigh, he was gone. I was alone. I touched my lips, still wet with the taste of him. 'To smooth that rough touch,' I let another tear loose.

What the f—?