Okay. So, Harley,you’re delivering these two to the Williamsburg addresses. Gem, you’re on the Park Slope deliveries. There’s four of them, but they’re closer—stop whining. I’ve got the three in Gowanus, and, Jack, you’ve got the solo delivery in Windsor Terrace.” I load up the final orders in their respective carriers, wagons for me and Gemma, little crates on wheels for Harley and Jack.
“Why does Jack get the solo delivery? He’s the dude.” Gemma accepts her wagon handle with a pout.
“That’s sexist. Also, Jack allows me to live in this sweet house—which you happen to use almost as much as I do—for practically free, so shut up and get moving.” I kiss her on the cheek before shooing everyone off in their respective directions. “Thank you and I love you, don’t forget to spritz while you walk!”
Since one of New York’s biggest influencers not only ordered an arrangement from me but shared it on Instagram, things at Bridge and Blooms have exploded. In the way I was praying for, but also so quickly that I didn’t have time to prepare. All of a sudden I wasinundated with orders with no way to fulfill them or deliver them, which is, you know, not great for business. Luckily, I have awesome friends and years of experience keeping spreadsheets organized and answering to demanding clients. As an added bonus, my work-centric previous life means I’m used to getting by on four hours of sleep a night. But this is our third weekend of nonstop deliveries and we’ve finally got our system down. Given the sticky August humidity, the flowers need to be spritzed with cool water during delivery times, otherwise they’ll wilt. So each one of my friends is now outfitted with a super-cute Bridge and Blooms apron holding shears, a spray bottle, and a couple of extra flowers for last-minute replacements.
I’m only paying my wonderful and amazing and supportive friends with meals and free drinks at the bar, because despite the influx of orders and therefore cash, purchasing the blooms needed for all these arrangements, plus additional supplies, hasn’t been cheap. Gemma goes back to school in a couple of weeks, which means I’ll lose her mostly free labor, but I can’t guarantee orders will continue at this pace once the social media buzz dies down, and I don’t want to hire someone only to not have enough work to fulfill their hours.
Who knew running a business was hard? Sitcom millennials make it all look so easy, but every day there’s a new decision to be made, more new factors and numbers and scenarios to consider. I just wanted to put together some pretty flowers, but this whole entrepreneur gig is a lot more work than I anticipated, even with my business and finance training. And I’m still working my two shifts a week at the bar since I’m not ready to part with my one steady income stream.
By the time I make it home from my deliveries, everyone else has already returned their supplies and pocketed their hopefully generoustips. I have just enough time to take a quick shower and change before I have to head out again to the bar.
Jack is sitting at the kitchen peninsula when I come downstairs to put on my shoes.
“You coming by the bar tonight?” I slip into my white sneakers and do one last face check in the mirror above the entryway table. I don’t wear much makeup to the bar since most nights I’d sweat it off anyway, but I still dab a little gloss onto my lips.
“I think so. I was going to see if Nick was around.”
“Cool. Hopefully I’ll see you there.” I give him a little wave and head out the front door.
On the surface, it seems like very little has changed between me and Jack, but underneath there’s this simmering awkwardness that’s about to boil over every time we talk. We never discussed our conversation under the stars on the beach, both of us pretending we were drunker than we actually were and feigning memory loss the next day.
But on the rare occasion he actually looks me in the eye now, all I hear is those words, on repeat in my head.
I would wreck you.
Jack and I have been living together for four months now, and I still have no idea what would make him think that. I still don’t know how his parents died. Or when. Other than his slip about being raised in Connecticut, all I know about my roommate is he likes video games and has perfect eyes.
Oh, and he does a really good job of taking care of me. Making my coffee in the morning. Picking up breakfast when he knows I worked a late shift at the bar. Reheating leftovers for dinner and practically shoving them in my face when I can’t force myself away from my email inbox.
I don’t deserve him. Our friendship is the perfect example of how much I take without bothering to give back. And because of that, we’ll never be more than friends. I can never let myself take further advantage of his supreme generosity.
And yet, when he pushes through the front door of the bar a couple of hours into my shift, my stomach does a round-off back handspring back tuck. I can’t stop the smile from spreading across my face. His answering smile sends my tummy into a full-on gold-medal-winning floor routine.
He finds a vacant table tucked back in the corner, close to the bar.
“Hey.” I toss a cardboard coaster on the table, leaning both elbows on the marble high-top. “Where’s Nick?”
“He’s with Harley.” Jack leans both of his arms on the table too, leaving just a few inches of space in between us.
“Oh, cool. Is everyone coming by, then? I think I owe you all a round.” I use this brief respite to stretch my aching calves. Running around all over Brooklyn and then coming straight to my bar shifts has been murder on my legs.
“I think they’re all staying in. So it’s just me tonight.” A soft smile tugs on the corner of his lips.
I stand up straight. “Oh.”
Jack hasn’t ever come here by himself before. He joins the rest of the group most nights when they come out, but this is his first solo venture.
“Well, what can I get you? The usual?”
“Sure.”
Heading back to the bar to pour his beer, I take longer than I really need so I can get my head together. I’m not going to pretend like thesight of Jack sitting in my bar, coming here just to see me (and also collect his free beer, but minor detail) doesn’t make my heart squish. Because it does. The squishiest. Even though it shouldn’t. But the whole thing seems very out of character for my boy here.
I deliver his beer but don’t get the chance to chat before I’m needed back at the main bar. The place fills up, the Saturday-night crowd loud and demanding, not leaving me with even one minute to catch my breath. But I manage to keep an eye on Jack as I mix drinks and deliver sliders and wipe down spills. A couple of different people of the female persuasion approach him, and while he seems to engage in brief conversations, they never linger, heading on to greener pastures after just a few minutes.
Eventually Jack pulls out a book, somehow managing to read in the dim light of the bar, and his novel seems to act as a social interaction shield. I clock out for my break, grab another beer for Jack and a water for me, and hoist myself into the seat across from him, our knees brushing against one another under the table.
