“It’s probably poisoned,” I say, pulling on the ribbon to take a look inside. “Oh wow, it might be worth the poisoning though.”
Izzy abandons her pencil case arrangement and whips behind the counter to look with me.
“Oh, he definitely has a crush,” Izzy says, reaching in for a bag of white cheddar popcorn and grabbing a sleeve of my favorite candies, little dark chocolate things with a thin layer of caramel and a drizzle of peanut butter. She holds them between us. “How dare you not tell me you’re sleeping with someone new.”
I roll my eyes, grabbing the candy from her.
How the fuck did he manage this?
“I’m not sleeping with anyone,” I tell her. “You know I don’t have time during busy season.”
She shrugs. “You should make time. Every year you do the same thing. Work yourself to the bone just to end the season saying you never want to see a goddamn sunflower again and thatthis is it, you’re quitting once and for all.”
“I do not say that.”
She gives me a look as she opens the popcorn and throws a piece into her mouth. “Okay, so I’m paraphrasing. But why do you think everyone insists on having The Last Sunflower every year even when you say you’re not up for throwing a party?”
Our end-of-season celebration where we bring out the fire pits and play ridiculously loud music and everyone gets a little more drunk than they should, me included. It’s become a little culty at this point, whispers starting as soon as the first frost hits that the party will be coming soon.
The sunflowers are generally long dead by then, but we have a bunch of look-alikes planted all over the farm. Black-eyed Susan, coneflowers, mums, marigolds to name a few. They keep the farm hopping until that first frost hits.
That has always been the official end to our season. Our excuse to pack it all up and winterize the place.
We still do tours over the colder months, and there’s a heated tea garden off one side of the gift shop, but once that frost hits, we transition to winter activities. We make a couple kinds of sunflower tea, as well as sunflower seeds and pressed petals—building that side of the business will be my focus this winter—but otherwise, the place gets quiet. Our seasonal employees head to next season’s jobs. The gift shop is manageable with only two.
And I do my best to breathe for a few months before gearing up to do it all again next season.
“Because people like parties,” I say, ripping open the candy wrapper and popping a chocolate in my mouth.
She takes another kernel of popcorn. “No. It’s because by the time the last sunflower falls, you look like a zombie and the only thing anyone wants is for you to sit down, have a drink, and then go to sleep for three days. And we all know that until that moment, you don’t answer to anyone but the sunflowers.”
I shrug. “I’m committed.”
Izzy rounds the counter to continue setting up her pencil cases. “You shouldbecommitted. To a mental institution.”
“Such kind words from my best friend.”
“All I’m saying is that it wouldn’t hurt you to take a few minutes out of your day to focus on yourself. Whether it’s boinking the developer next door or just chilling and watching some TV.”
I open my mouth to speak but she holds up a hand to silence me before I can. “And do not try to tell me you do that during bad weather because I’ve seen you out there shoveling mud in the pouring rain like that’s actually going to make a difference.”
“If the mud has a chance to build up, it ruins everyone’s pictures.”
“Let one of your farmhands do that,” she suggests.
I shake my head. “I can’t ask that of them. They’re busy. And it’s easy enough to do myself.”
Izzy sighs. “You’re going to work yourself to death,” she says, arranging the last pencil case on the pile and turning back to me to start on the next box. A refill on mugs, with a few brand-new designs. She walks the box across the store to the mug shelf and I follow in her wake, filling in empty spaces.
“How about I promise you my next rainy night?”
Her eyes go wide. “You’re selectingmeas your bad weather buddy?”
“If you won’t accept the honor, I’ll just have to invite someone else.”
She grins. “You stop. Next time it rains, girls’ night? We can invite Rory and Tabby and drink too much boxed wine?”
I snort. “Deal. But not too much boxed wine or I won’t be able to function the next day.”
