Picking Daisies on Sundays

by Liana Cincotti

So, I never told anyone when I was criticized or mocked. Those memories became skeletons in my closet on every date and every interview and every first impression, knocking on my door to remind me of my flaws. Keeping them in was a protective instinct.

Romantic playlists burned into CDs. Hearts embroidered into scarves. Soft kisses on foreheads. Dark theaters on rainy Friday nights. Dainty gold jewelry against soft skin. French poems written while drunk. Protective hands against your hips guiding you through crowds. I felt all of it at once.

‘I thought your twenties were supposed to be about finding yourself and traveling the world and making these big career moves – not missing a guy from high school, eating pizza on the couch, and still crying over teenage insecurities.’ ‘Did you not watch Sex and the City? That shit keeps going until you’re forty,’ Gabe replied. I groaned in response.

“at the end of hardship comes happiness.”’

‘Levi talks about you a lot,’ Rhea mentioned, as if it wasn’t something I’d write down and replay for months – who was I kidding? More like years.

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.

My chest ached. ‘Why did you ask me?’ He didn’t hesitate. ‘Because I needed an excuse to see you again.’ The surprise was blatant on my face. ‘Why?’ He laughed quietly. ‘I could write a book on why.’