I’m sorry I’m late. Long day at work, and then I had to pick up my car.
Plus Tom was slow getting ready. He’s a pain in the butt, as usual.
Gretchen
Ha! But he’s a cute pain.
Bee
Ew. We are not having this conversation. I have something better for you. I met a boy today.
Gretchen
YOU MET SOMEONE? YOU. MET. SOMEONE. BERNICE, PLEASE TELL ME YOU HAVE A DATE.
Bee
Please! Goodness, no. He’s been working at Mike’s for a few months, apparently. I finally met him and OH MY GOD he is so attractive. Annnnnd…well, I may or may not have seen him before. When he caught me staring at him at the shop a few days ago. It was incredibly mortifying. I’m 1000% sure that he recognized me.
I describe Levi in detail, taking care to include his amazing hair and the bright sweaters and how freaking tall he is. I can practically hear Gretchen sigh in response.
Gretchen
He sounds like a dreamboat! I’ll sacrifice a goat so he’ll ask you out, like, yesterday.
Bee
A goat? Really?
Gretchen
I’M FLUENT IN GOAT SACRIFICE.
Bee
Oh my God, I’m cackling.
Gretchen
Just try to sneak a picture next time. I want to see him.
Bee
You know I suck at sneaky pictures. But I can tell you this: his name is Levi.
Gretchen
OMG. Sexy.
Bee
Of course he’s sexy. He has Douglas Booth hair.
Except….bigger and better.
In the end, there is no comparison.
Gretchen
………
…………………….
…………………………………..
Bee
What?
Gretchen
I hope you realize how many penis jokes I could make right now.
Bee
GRETCHEN!
SSSSHHHH
NO! NO PENIS JOKES!
Gretchen
Calm down, freak. I won’t….this time.
Bee
Never. Not a single penis joke ever or you’re as dead as Jay Gatsby.
I can just feel your smug grin. It’s disgusting.
Gretchen
Well, hurry up getting your claws into him.
(Oh, it’s even more smug and disgusting than you’re imagining.) Bee
Shut up.
Hey, I have to go now. I’m falling asleep just thinking about what time I have to get up tomorrow.
And there’s a party.
Gretchen
Ooohhh. Tom talk you into that?
Bee
Yes. He knows how to sweet talk me into almost anything.
Gretchen
LOL! I bet he sweet talks lots of girls into lots of things.
No worries, I should sleep, too. Talk to you tomorrow, ok?
Bee
Oh, gross, thanks for that mental image.
And yes, of course. Love you. I think you’re crap.
I lock the screen and gaze at it longingly for a few seconds before setting it on the nightstand. I barely have the energy to change into my pajamas before I’m out, lost in dreamland. There are flowers, in this dreamland, and a beautiful boy named Levi wearing a bright sweater made of all different colors, all at once.
I swear he’s smirking at me.
Chapter 6
It’s way too early for a Saturday, but I’m here at the shop an hour early for Tracy while she makes an emergency run to the market. My only instructions are on a small note in the back.
Bee, go ahead and start cleaning up the mess I left. So sorry—I couldn’t finish everything before I started falling asleep. I’ll be there at eight forty-five, if I’m lucky.
I grab my ruffled apron and start washing buckets. This job takes a long time since Tracy left about thirty of them stacked together. It takes even longer than usual because I have to wrestle them apart. After a good forty-five minutes, I’ve washed them all, sprayed the insides with bleach, and stacked them upside down on the drying rack. The tower reaches well past my head, and I just pray and pray and pray there isn’t an earthquake today, of all days.
After I set up the signs and filter through the cooler for any old flowers to throw out, I turn on the computer. I’m not dumb when it comes to electronics, but this computer is way too slow for its own good. Tracy tells me it’s her next big purchase. (I’m counting down the days.)
I open the doors and let in the cool ocean breeze, then stand behind the counter at nine o’clock. It’s my first Saturday to work, and I’m not entirely sure what to expect: the manic insanity that Tracy described in detail, or just…busy.
So I wait.
For exactly nineteen seconds.
Three women appear in the door, propped up on four-inch heels and hoisting bulky purses over their shoulders. When they ask for a bouquet for a birthday brunch, I point them to the premade section in the cooler. “And if you can’t find what you want there, our designer will be in shortly and can create something for you.” I glance at the clock. Please, Tracy, hurry.
Lucky for me, the women find what they want, pay, and rush out in a number of minutes. Not-so-lucky for me, however, they aren’t the only customers to enter in the first twenty minutes. Before long, I’m rushing around, grabbing bags and ribbons and mugs and candles from the gift section.
And yes, I’m panicking. I’m trying my hardest to breathe deeply, trying not to count down the minutes until Tracy gets here, but—
My phone dings—a text from Tracy. I read it as I run to the back to grab a new vase to replace a broken one. (I’m amazed it didn’t cut the elderly lady who grabbed it off the shelf.)
Tracy
Stuck in traffic. Be another twenty minutes.
My eyes widen and my breathing quickens, but there is absolutely nothing I can do about this. I trade the flowers from the broken vase to the new one, then I ring her up with a discount, and send her on her way with a smile. (I hope she believes the smile.)
Finally, the busy morning begins to slow down. I lean against the counter, running my gaze over the room to make sure nothing has been broken or messed up by grabby customer hands. But I only have a few minutes before the doorbell makes a terrible racket as yet another customer pushes the door open. I cringe inwardly, twice—once for my aching feet and a second time because this woman looks mad already.
“How can I help you?” I ask, with my biggest, friendliest smile. I adjust my glasses, which have been sliding down my nose all morning, and stand up straighter.
Her eye twitches. “I need an all-white arrangement for a funeral. Something big, showy, in a basket.”
I nearly let out a squeak. We have absolutely nothing like that stocked in the shop right now. Bee, think fast! “Unfortunately, due to the expense of that kind of arrangement, we don’t keep any premade in the shop.” I’m worried I sound just as frazzled as I feel, but I press onward. “Our designer is currently on her way with a fresh batch of flowers—would you be willing to wait?”
She blinks hard, as if in pain. “Sure. Whatever. But she better make it good.”
“Oh, she will,” I say. My face hurts from smiling. “She’s the best.”