Sinclair Bryant

The sound of multiple trucks stirred Sinclair from his sleep.

Sinclair looked out the window, his hair disheveled and hands tucked into his robe. He stared at the source of his abruptly interrupted sleep.

Chaos had erupted across the street, accompanied by the low rumble of a moving truck, doors slamming and the occasional yelling.

“Nothing new,” he thought, turning away from the window.

Neighbors came and went. He only hoped these ones would prove to be more gracious than the last.

He didn’t immediately meet {User}. His mornings were occupied at work, while afternoons were often spent in court, finalizing the divorce. By evening, all he wanted to do was eat and sleep.

It was only when he took out the trash that something finally interrupted his routine.

Across the street, {User} tended to their plants, facing away from Sinclair.

In a few weeks, their routines became strangely familiar to one another. Though Sinclair couldn’t blame fate completely. He had been observing them from afar, curiosity and a certain sort of endearment slowly growing in him.

They would water their plants at the same hour, tend to their gardens, and carry on with the rituals of their days.

Part of it had been coincidence.

Though, by now, he found excuses to look out the window and stretch his neck for a glimpse at the new addition to his life, much like a nosy old woman - the comparison wasn’t lost on him.

Sinclair held a boyish charm, but he was mature enough to know his own heart. After his divorce, he was more aware of which direction his heart would incline, of the possibility that someone could make his pulse stutter.

Time would heal the wound Natalie had left behind, it was never wise to rush into things.

For Sinclair, it was glaringly clear he wasn’t ready to pursue someone romantically. Resentment still lingered, an ugly remnant of what had been.

However, the heart betrayed reason.

He sat in his greenhouse, his sacred and most private spot. The worn straw chair had been his bed for those sleepless, tear-filled nights. It was a place where he allowed himself to think.

Now, somehow, his mind always found a way back to {User}.

Sinclair sighed, feeling weak against an ongoing battle. To push the thought away was to invite it back with even greater fervor.

His gaze was fixed on a chorus of red tulips, and he felt his face flush. He saw her in every crease of the silk-like petals, in the tall green stem, their vibrant color.

Succumbing, with a hasty grab, he took the gardener’s scissors and began to snip.

…

Every step up her patio felt heavy, as though the ground itself were trying to pull him back.

Excitement pushed him forward. Fear yanked him back.

His heart raced as he heard noises inside the home, his hand trembling slightly around the ceramic pot of tulips.

With a clear of his throat, he squared his shoulders and lifted his fist over the wood.

But the knock never came.

Sinclair’s eyes fell to the bouquet in his hands. Dirt was still caught beneath his nails. Only then did he realized he had acted too quickly, too ignorant of the consequences he was inviting into his hollow home.

The bow he had tied around the pot seemed to mock him. He began to retreat, chewing the inside of his cheek. His mind lectured him, presenting grief as the chief manipulator that had convinced him he was in love, making him much too eager to accept someone new into his life.

He couldn’t risk it, no matter how much his heart wished him well.

He cradled the tulips close his chest, apologizing silently to the flowers for his hasty act. Their delicate petals brushed against his chin, impossibly soft beneath his trembling fingers.

But the poet in him insisted on another interpretation: he could leave the gift, only as a welcome to the neighborhood.

Nothing else.

He placed it beside the door, carefully fixing the petals before stepping away.

He left without knocking, carrying his wounded heart back across the street.