“Hi,” the woman said, smiling at me. “Do you do arrangements for anniversaries?”
“Yes,” I said, stepping around the counter. “What are we celebrating?”
“Twenty years,” she said, and her voice did something tender when she looked at him. “He still buys me flowers every year.”
He cleared his throat. “She deserves them.”
“That’s beautiful,” I managed, and I meant it. “Do you have a favorite flower?”
The woman’s eyes went distant. “My grandmother loved gardenias.”
“Gardenias,” I repeated, like I was tasting the word. “Okay. We can do something classic. White gardenias, soft greenery, maybe a touch of blush rose if you want warmth. Gardenias are … they’re romantic.”
The woman laughed softly. “That’s what I was hoping for.”
I moved through the cooler with practiced ease, selecting blooms that would hold through the afternoon heat. I set them on the counter, began stripping leaves, trimming stems at an angle. My hands knew what to do even when my heart wandered.
Because while I built romance for other people—weddings and anniversaries and apologies wrapped in ribbon—my own life felt like it existed behind glass.
I had crushes. Of course, I did. I wasn’t made of stone.
But every time I let myself want someone, it ended the same way.
He’d smile at me. He’d say I was sweet. He’d call me “a good girl,” like I was something you patted on the head and kept safe.
Then he’d choose someone louder.
Someone with eyes that said she’d been kissed in dark corners and liked it. Someone who looked like she belonged in a story.
I didn’t blame them.
I didn’t even resent the girls.
Mostly, I liked being the steady presence behind the scenes—the hands that shaped beauty and then stepped back to let it shine. Flowers were meant to be noticed. I was happy just knowing I’d helped bring them to life.
By the time I wrapped the anniversary bouquet, the gardenias sat lush and heavy at the center, white and creamy,their scent making the whole shop feel special even though it was just another humid Charleston morning.
The man watched quietly as I tied the ribbon.
“She’s going to love it,” he said.
My chest squeezed again. “I hope so.”
He paid, tucked the bouquet like it was fragile treasure, and the couple left with the bell’s soft chime following them out.
I stared at the empty spot on the counter where the bouquet had been.
Twenty years.
I couldn’t even imagine it.
Not because I didn’t want it—God, I wanted it. I wanted the kind of love that made someone buy gardenias out of habit, out of devotion, out of deep knowing. I wanted to be someone’s choice, not their afterthought.
But love felt … complicated. Dangerous.
Not in the thrilling, midnight-kiss way the books promised. More like a foreign language I’d never learned, one everyone else spoke fluently while I stood on the edge of the conversation smiling politely and pretending I understood.
I’d never had a steady boyfriend. Not really. A few awkward dates. A few almosts. A guy in college who’d held my hand once at a party and made me blush so hard I’d wanted to disappear, and then he’d been gone the next week with a brunette from his philosophy class.
