THIRTY-TWO
COOPER
The drive homeis under four hours. At dawn, before everyone is awake, leaving the road scarce, it’s shorter.
I pull into my childhood home, as the orange-coppery sky that reminds me of her hair fades into a cloudless blue. Everything is the same, down to the drawn curtains on the first floor. A soft light emanating through the window and Dad’s figure walking in to sit down with a coffee and his phone. He’s probably playing the NYT word games him and Jordan are competitive over. They do them first thing in the morning over a cup of coffee.
Before I cut the ignition, I call my mom. She answers right away, voice comforting and the reason I came here.
“Mom. Are you home?”
“No, but I can be. Did you need something? I’m at the shop, but you know that’s only ten minutes away. Twenty tops and I?—”
“That’s okay. Have you had breakfast yet?”
She hesitantly responds, “No. Are you…are you home?”
“Be there soon, Mom.”
I arrive at the flower shop thirty minutes later. Parked in the back, I still have a spare key on my ring. The back room is overflowing and disorganized as it always has been. I have towiggle around tables stacked with buckets and layered in PVC pipe, boxes toppled over with center pieces and who knows what.
Mom went to school for event planning and hospitality, she’s an event planner. Sutton’s mom is the florist. Together they opened a floral and events business. They operate as your regular run of the mill florist, but also do just about every event type under the sun. You could come to them with the strangest idea and they’d make it happen.
Mom is at one of the work benches putting together what I assume are center pieces. I set the bag of breakfast and tray of drinks I brought for us down before wrapping my arms around her.
“One of my favorite hugs in the world. Hi, honey.”
“Hi, Mom.” I lean my head on top of hers, closing the large gap between us. “I brought breakfast burritos and coffee. Grabbed avocado toast for Mrs. Davis. I didn’t know if she’d be here.”
“She isn’t, but that’s sweet of you. They’re out of town for their anniversary.” I completely forgot that was this weekend. My mind drifts to Sutton, not like it wasn’t occupied by her the entire drive here.
Mom finishes filling the square vase, her fingers showcasing a few cuts—clipping the stems still isn’t her strong suit. Turning to face me, she sits on the table.
“Burrito me.” I toss her a foiled wrapped burrito. Both of us sighing after the first bite. Mom laughs after taking another bite, a piece of bacon falls to the shop floor. “I tried to recreate these last month. There is a reason I’m a florist.” I arch one brow. “Okay an event planner, and not a chef. They were pitiful.”
“It’s because these are magic. I swear they put something in them that makes them superior.” I take another large bite, regretting it instantly because these were the last two and I needto savor it. “Or to make them un-recreateable,” I say around a mouthful.
Mom washes down a bite with tea. “But these aren’t why you’re home.”
Shoulders slump, I sink into myself. “No, it’s not. Su—there’s this girl.” I refrain from using Sutton’s name, knowing the slippery slope it would become. Derailing today, and me, completely. “I-I’ve had a crush on her, but she likes someone else.”
“I see.” Mom hums.
“We were paired on a class project and sort of…we kissed.” Heat climbs up my spine like a ladder, landing in my cheeks. Great. Here I am blushing in front of my mother thinking about everything else Sutton and I have also done. “And I thought that maybe she might have started to reciprocate the feelings, but then I saw her with another guy and I…I don’t know. Was mad at her. Disappointed in her. Assumed that she was playing me and ended up saying things I shouldn’t have.”
This dumbed down version of Sutton and I sounds ridiculous. I sound ridiculous. But it doesn’t change that I’m mad. I’m mad at her and myself. Disappointment lodged between.
I shouldn’t of spoken to her that way. I shouldn’t have told her I was done, but I can’t keep continuing like this. Wanting her. Needing her. Loving her. It hurts too much.
Before I could handle it. I was comfortable existing around her, but now I want to exist with her.
“Does she know how you feel about her?” It’s an easy question. Then why is the answer so complicated.
“I think…” Does Sutton? How could she not? “I told her once but?—”
“You show it?” Mom guesses correctly. “Come here.” She pats the table next to her. I change positions, sliding in next to her.Her hand takes mine lovingly. “I want to let you in on a little secret. How many times did I pile your shoes by the stairs to try and get you to take them upstairs after I asked? Tons. Weekly. You never did, but when I told you again, you did it. Sometimes you just need to say it again. Words, big or small, are powerful. Use them.”
“But what if I did and they hurt her?” I lean my head on her shoulder.
