Picking Daisies on Sundays (Picking Daisies on Sundays, #1)

by Liana Cincotti

For the hopeless, and hopeful, romantics who don’t know they’re noticed in a crowded room.

Levi still carried grief with him like an empty wine bottle.

We had been sitting in his car outside my house, and I had glanced at his lips at least twice.

Wish they could read our minds

My gaze must’ve been heavy because he glanced at me, catching me in the act. My heart stopped in a panic, but he simply mouthed, hey punk, and winked at me, continuing on with his conversation.

I love that the author wrires these interactions!!

Ten minutes later, he broke my heart. And I didn’t see him for four years.

Hearing the sound of my name coming from his lips affected my body in a way that other men couldn’t even do when kissing me.

“Levi was my best friend,” I explained. ​“And he broke your heart, Dani. What kind of friend does that?” she asked. But if she was expecting an answer, she wasn’t getting one. Levi was my best friend for years; I couldn’t just say no to him.

No matter how much they hurt you youll still love them

Every cell on my skin warmed at his small look and sweet sentence.

Something that no one talks about when a loved one passes, is that when the years go by, it feels as if they never truly existed, like it was another life. My memories had been slipping away like chapters in a good book with each passed day. No one tells you that the reality of them actually being gone doesn’t kick in until you try to call them and realize … you can’t, that you can never call them again. That they aren’t just gone for a moment, but they’re gone for the rest of your moments.

I felt seen in that moment, and I would’ve slept in that feeling if it weren’t for the fact that it was all pretend.

It didn’t matter anyways. His love was the type to be shared, not to be owned.

Every few months, I opened the dating apps back up. It was how my dating cycle started. Only choosing to date every few months gave me (one) time to build up my love for romance before I met someone cute for a date, and then (two) be disappointed by how the date went, and finally (three) grow worried that I’d never find love. I then entered into my romantic-comedy and love-storyland hibernation, where I tried to remind myself that if love existed in films and books, then those stories must’ve been inspired by real love stories too. Right?

Relate on a whole nother level

I had forgotten what it was like to be watched when speaking—not stared at, not looked at, but regarded. From the way his chin dipped to fully consume my vocalized thoughts to the precise manner of his gaze never leaving my lips in order to catch every word. It almost made me trip on the smooth pavement.

grounding me. “I wanted to tell you that you looked beautiful because you are. I knew I wouldn’t miss you when you walked in tonight because you’re you. You’re so physically enthralling, let alone when you speak. And when you speak, all of the light in the room comes from you. You’re absolute sunshine and spring. I could watch you speak—”

to be reminded that I wasn’t beautiful enough to be loved by him.

The Lover and the Archer, they’d call it. The girl who kept falling in love, and the boy who could receive love from whomever he aimed his heart at.

craved to tell him that it was because of my flaws that people stared. I shook my head at his nonsense. His thumb wiped a tear from under my eye before it could fall any further.

“You intoxicate me, Daisy. The scent of flowers lingers on you everywhere you go, and I always want to follow,” he murmured against my neck. That. I wanted to hear that every morning, day, night, daydream, and nightmare. I wanted him to say it to me in French.

I was the stained, old dress that couldn’t be rewashed any longer and got lost under the bed. She was silk, she was clean, she was summer—she was beautiful. I was tattered. I am tattered. I'd never be as beautiful.

“I’ll buy you flowers every day for the rest of my life if it makes you this happy.”

But I felt good, like there was an extra muscle in my back fixing my posture.

It was statistically proven that if you didn’t tell the person you were in love with that you loved them, then it’d be written across your face at all times. That was completely factual. And I had the evidence, because it was how I looked at the moment, walking into Levi’s mother’s home to find him chasing Rhea.

I’d rather live through romance movies and be single than have a bunch of average dates.” I shrugged my shoulders. He nodded but looked as if he wanted to ask more.

“I want an all-consuming love. Not one that suffocates, but one that makes me so thankful that my chest feels physically overwhelmed with emotion. To have this silent, unspoken communication with a person through touch and gazes.”

“I want to be noticed in a crowded room. I want to be the only person in a crowded room. I want to be wanted, truly wanted, and desired. I want to laugh and to sing and to dance with someone and not feel self-conscious over it because I love them and I’m confident that they love me. I want to be touched and kissed and held because I’ve forgotten what it feels like … and yet, I think I deserve it.”

If I’d learned anything about unrequited love, it was to stop asking questions. The more I dug for answers, the more it hurt, and I only discovered the same results: we were friends.

I didn’t know which was harder: to be told you deserved love from someone who wasn’t in love with you, or to pretend like they’d never said it at all.

“You don’t deserve this, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. You’re spring, baby. You’re more radiant than flowers and the sun and no one can take that away from you.”

He looked away, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “A lot of things can happen in a year.” Tell him you love him, Daniella, tell him before it’s too late. Tell him that you love him and that you want him to come with you. Tell him how you want to kiss him every day and you want him to twirl the ends of your hair like he did in high school. That you want him to come to Paris with you, and experience love the way the hopeless romantic tourists did.

I didn’t tell him I didn’t want to be alone right now. Instead, I pushed him away and isolated myself just like I did last time.

Very odd to full on makeout with him then drop a bomb. Self sabotage at its finest

“I’m so grateful for everything I have in life, I am. But when I see you, all I can think about is how much better life would be if you were mine. I’m so infatuated with everything you do, from the color of your lips to the way you slide your hips back and forth when you dance to the way you twist your earrings when you’re upset or how you blush when I touch you and how you breathe when I say Daisy.”

“Because when you find out the person you’ve been in love with for your entire life loves you back, you’ll spend the rest of your life making up for lost time.”

I fell in love with him for who he was. ​At twenty-two, I fell in love with him because of how he made me feel.

It was a genuine concern I had when boarding my flight weeks ago: what if I couldn’t make friends? But I was doing this to push myself out of my comfort zone. I couldn’t continue to go through life dreaming and never moving forward. I had to do the scary stuff to get to the good stuff, just like Dad said.

Ses lèvres étaient si douces.