“You did what?” Carlos looks at me like I’m insane.
“Well, I needed to close the shop.” I hate that I feel defensive. I shouldn’t second-guess myself for doing what I know was right. Better to quash any hope Tate had that I might go out with him—prevent him from coming back and trying again. So what if I was a little rude?
“I don’t think you know what you need,” Carlos mutters. I give him my best side-eye but he’s unfazed. “And how fine did he look this time?”
I lift one shoulder and shake my head, ignoring the swift flood of warmth in my cheeks.
“Admit it,” Carlos says, turning in his chair to face me. “You think he’s totally hot.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “You know it doesn’t. I’ve made it to senior year without getting distracted by a guy. I’m hardly going to let it happen now.” It’s not like I’ve never had a crush before. Edgar Hoyt, my lab partner in AP Chem class last year, used to make my breath catch whenever his hand accidentally brushed mine. Carlos thought I was insane to think Edgar was even remotely cute, but something about him—his square, dark-rimmed glasses; his sharp nose and toned arms that hinted he was more than just a brainiac—made my heart race. It didn’t matter, of course. I don’t date. I don’t let a stupid crush take root inside me, where it can grow and unravel everything I’ve worked so hard for.
“But just to clarify, you do think he’s knockout, drop-your-panties gorgeous?”
I sigh. He won’t let it go until I’ve given him something. “I guess...” I clear my throat as an image of Tate—white T-shirt, dark eyes—flashes into my mind. “I guess I would say that’s an accurate description.”
Carlos snorts. “Coming from you, that’s a declaration of love. Good. Now we don’t have to pretend he’s not hot when we talk about him again.”
“We won’t be talking about him again.” I focus back on the computer screen.
“I’ll remember you said that,” Carlos says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
*
There are several bouquets that have to be assembled tonight at work, and I lose myself in trimming the stems, tying perfect bows with organdy and grosgrain ribbon, and arranging them all into beautiful floral configurations. It’s one of the best things about my job—creating something lovely that I know will brighten someone’s day. I make a bouquet of sunflowers and hydrangeas for a fifty-year anniversary. Cheerful birds-of-paradise, lilies, and red hyperciums for a get-well-soon. A dozen roses in predictable red for someone named Emily. The card reads, I may be an ass, but I’m your ass. Forgive me? Jim. I have to laugh at that one. Boring taste in flowers aside, I find myself hoping he and Emily will figure things out.
That’s the unexpected part of working in a flower shop. It creates a kind of intimacy you wouldn’t expect. You can’t help but wonder about the sick relative—will Aunt Ruth really get well soon? Or the milestone anniversary—I picture an elderly couple sitting on a bench overlooking the beach, watching the waves roll in at high tide, still holding hands after all these years. What would it be like to grow old with someone? To know that person inside and out, and love them anyway? Not just fall into the moment with some guy like Mom did, or Mia, only to fall right back out again.
When I finish the bouquets, I only have another hour until closing, so I work on my problem sets and study for my next calc test. I write out equations in my notebook, trying to keep images of Tate from surfacing—the slant of his eyes, the arch of his lips, the warmth of his fingers against my skin when they brushed away a fleck of glitter. I focus on derivatives and differentials. Not on thoughts of boys who stand too close and suck all the air from the room. Because why would I even think about him? I turned him down for all the right reasons, I remind myself—I’ve worked too hard to get this close to leaving this life behind. My crappy high school, our tiny house. There’s more out there for me. I know there is.
When I hear the door chime again, I spin around too quickly and knock the scissors sitting on the counter beside me onto the floor, almost stabbing my right foot. “Shit,” I mutter, bending down to pick them up.
“You all right?” a voice asks—a voice I recognize, because part of me has been secretly hoping I might hear it again.
I retrieve the scissors and stand slowly. “I’d be better if you’d stop sneaking up on me.”
Tate is standing just inside the front door. In his hands he holds two cardboard trays with four carryout cups in each one. He gives me a brief once-over, lingering on the hand that still holds the scissors. “Will you drop the weapon if I tell you I brought you coffee?” He lifts one of the trays, extending it toward me like a peace offering.
“Eight cups?”
“I don’t know you, remember? So I don’t know what you like.”
“Who says I like coffee at all?” I ask.