“I do.” Her voice changes, takes on a brusqueness I don’t understand. “For now.”
“Oh,” I say, because there is nothing else to say. She has secrets of her own and clearly doesn’t give them away so easily.
“I’m not a crazy cat lady like her, though.” And just like that, her tone returns to normal. “I’m not a dog person, either. Don’t you think it’s weird, how there are so many beautiful, intelligent animals out there and we’ve confined ourselves to two species?”
“Well, domestication probably has something to do with it,” I say with a grin.
Just then, as if Rafaela’s comment registered with him, Tucker jerks away from her, stands tall on all fours, and struts to the other end of the counter, pointedly swishing his striped tail back and forth.
“All I’m saying is my mom should have been more open to the idea of getting that hedgehog.”
I laugh. “Hedgehog? Do they even do anything?”
She purses her lips in mock agitation. “Suzette. You sound like my mother, and let me tell you, that’s not a good thing. My friend growing up kept one as a pet and she was so affectionate and sweet. Better than a hamster but not as needy as a dog.”
“My brother wanted a tarantula,” I say, but Rafaela’s not listening. She’s leaning toward me, staring at my necklace.
“Is that a Star of David?” Her tone is unsure, like she’s not certain she has the right name.
“Oh. Yeah.” I hold it out so she can get a closer look. I call it a Magen David because that’s what Saul has always called it. “My brother gave it to me.”
“I didn’t know you were Jewish.” I can’t read her voice this time, and I feel my chest tighten like it did every time I was sure the girls on my dorm floor were about to say something offensive.
“Since I was eleven. My mom and I converted.” I don’t mean the words to sound so short, but it’s habit. I’ve had this conversation what seems like hundreds of times. It generally goes one of two ways, and I really don’t want it to go the bad way with Rafaela.
She nods slowly, her eyes running over each point of the star. “That’s cool. I grew up Catholic. My mom’s a big believer. I’m… undecided.”
“That’s how my brother feels, too,” I say, just as the shop phone rings.
I look at my messenger bag, wondering if I should be taking notes and if there’s any paper left over in there from last semester. Next thing I know, she’s picked up the phone and is shoving the receiver in my face. I shake my head. I haven’t even been here five minutes and I’ve never answered a phone in any professional capacity.
But Rafaela won’t take no for an answer, so a moment later I clear my throat and say in my best phone voice—one thus far reserved for elderly relatives and my parents’ friends—“Good morning, Castillo Flowers.”
She nods with smiling eyes and leans against the wall, watching me.
The customer on the other end wants to order two dozen roses: red. Simple enough. I repeat his order aloud and Rafaela slides a notepad in front of me, along with a pen. I jot down his information and then don’t take my eyes off Rafaela, who guides me through the rest of the call: finding the next open delivery slot in the book by the register, taking down the message the customer wants written on the accompanying card.
“That was intense,” I say after I’ve hung up the phone.
“No better way to learn than jump in, right? You were a total pro.” She peers down at the pad of paper, inspecting the customer’s note for the card. “‘For my sweet Darlene. My love for you is irreplaceable. My heart is for you, always.’ Christ. That’s pretty sappy, even for someone who’d order two dozen roses.”
“They’re not all like this?”
“You have no idea.” She turns the book of scheduled deliveries back toward her. “So much of our business is apology bouquets. My favorite was the one that said, ‘I didn’t know she was your cousin. Sorry.’”
“Seriously?” My apron is hanging loose on the sides and the strings dangle by my legs, tickling the backs of my knees. I loop them around my waist, but my strings don’t wrap around me twice, like Rafaela’s do.
“It was my favorite, but not the worst I’ve seen, by far. It’s amazing to me that people think flowers make up for acting like a fuckface.”
“Well, what would you do?” I ask, genuinely curious. “You know, to apologize for acting like a fuckface.”
She taps her pen against the delivery book. “All I’m saying is flowers are lazy. If I pissed off the person I was sleeping with, I’d show them I was sorry, not just say it. I’d cook their favorite meal and do something that they loved and I hated, like taking a long motorcycle ride, or going to the ballet. I would just—I don’t know. Life’s too short to be so predictable.”
My arm tingles at her words.
Before I can think of a response, the front door opens: a woman wearing an armful of jangly bracelets who has wandered in to find a housewarming gift. Rafaela walks over to help her and I stand close by, observing the way she interacts with the customer. She sends her off with a wave and a potted plant I don’t know the name of.
“What type of succulent was that?” I pick up an identical one sitting on the table. Its thick, waxy leaves are ringed with red, and the sturdy stems holding it up look like miniature tree trunks.
“You really don’t know anything about flowers or plants, huh?” Rafaela says, coming to stand next to me. “That’s a jade plant. Crassula ovata. They come from South Africa.”
I gently finger the smooth, rounded leaves. “I knew it was a succulent!”
“You’re cute,” she says with a little smile.
And from the corner of my eye, I can see Rafaela watching me. I feel shy being watched by someone I have a crush on, and it reminds me of DeeDee’s pool party when I wore my bikini in front of Emil. Did she mean I’m cute in the way people mean when you say something they think is funny? Or cute like she would be interested in kissing me, too?
I smile back, but I feel like I can barely breathe. My hands are starting to sweat again, and when I squeeze past her, pretending to need a drink from my water, our arms brush and mine tingles again from the contact. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to how small it is in here, how Rafaela is close by almost anywhere she’s standing in the room.
Ora walks in a couple of hours later, as I’m ringing up what Rafaela informed me is a moth orchid. The cash register is old and I’m flustered trying to work it under the gaze of three sets of eyes, but I get through the transaction without needing help, if a bit slowly.
“First day and you’ve already sold an orchid?” Ora says after the customer has left. She smiles her warm smile at me. “Impressive.”
I nod to my left. “Rafaela talked him into it.”
“You’re supposed to be lying on the beach,” Rafaela says to her aunt.
“Oh, I never made it over there.” Ora peers into a couple of the refrigerated cases, taking some sort of mental inventory. “Too much to do at home.”