He smirks. “Probably not. But if we didn’t
indulge on occasion, there
would be a lot more of us taking the leap over these ledges, I can promise
you that.” He’s facing forward again with his chin resting on his arms. His
eyes are closed now, like he’s enjoying the wind against his face. He
doesn’t look as intimidating like this.
“You want to know something that only the locals know?”
“Of course,” he says, bringing his attention back to me.
I point to the east. “See that building? The one with the green roof?”
He nods.
“There’s a building behind it on Melcher. There’s a house on top of
the building. Like a legit house, built right on the rooftop. You can’t see it
from the street, and the building is so tall that not many people even know
about it.”
He looks impressed. “Really?”
I nod. “I saw it when
I was searching Google Earth, so I looked it up.
Apparently a permit was granted for the construction in 1982. How cool
would that be? To live in a house on top of a building?”
“You’d get the whole roof to yourself,” he says.
I hadn’t thought of that. If I owned it I could plant gardens up there.
I’d have an outlet.
“Who lives there?” he asks.
“No one really knows. It’s one of the great mysteries of Boston.”
He laughs and then looks at me inquisitively. “What’s another great
mystery of Boston?”
“Your name.” As soon as I say it, I slap my hand against my forehead. It
sounded so
much like a cheesy pickup line; the only thing I can do is
laugh at myself.
He smiles. “It’s Ryle,” he says. “Ryle Kincaid.”
I sigh, sinking into myself. “That’s a really great name.”
“Why do you sound sad about it?”
“Because, I’d give anything for a great name.”
“You don’t like the name Lily?”
I tilt my head and cock an eyebrow. “My last name . . . is Bloom.”
He’s quiet. I can feel him trying to hold back his pity.
“I know. It’s awful. It’s the name of a two-year-old little girl, not a
twenty-three-year-old woman.”
“A two-year-old girl will have the same
name no matter how old she
gets. Names aren’t something we eventually grow out of, Lily Bloom.”
“Unfortunately for me,” I say. “But what makes it even worse is that I
absolutely love gardening. I love flowers. Plants. Growing things. It’s my
passion. It’s always been my dream to open a florist shop, but I’m afraid if
I did, people wouldn’t think my desire was authentic. They would think I
was trying to capitalize off my name and that being a florist isn’t really my
dream job.”
“Maybe so,” he says. “But what’s that matter?”
“It doesn’t, I suppose.” I catch myself whispering, “
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