I focus my attention on Hudson, who is watching us. “You got me flowers?” I ask. “Yeah.” In the cozy yellows of Lucy’s room, I can see his ears turn pink. His cheeks do, too. “My dad used to buy my mom flowers whenever she had a hard day. Even if there was already a bouquet in the kitchen, he’d show up with more.” He pauses, the silence thick, then continues. “In the end, her whole hospital room was covered in vases. I think he hoped the flowers would bring him some miracle.” The tattoo on his leg makes so much sense now. It’s not random artwork or a drunken mistake he’ll regret five years
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