I start rearranging the broken stems in the compost bin, trying to make the pieces line up even when they won’t.
“He was always looking ahead, ticking boxes. I think I was just the mile marker between grad school and early retirement.”
I glance at Beau. “Gray told me I didn’t have the kind of personality he needed. Said I made things too complicated, that I lived in big feelings instead of data and timelines.”
My voice lowers and I tuck my chin slightly. “I wasn’t the kind of partner he envisioned fitting neatly into his well-thought-out future.”
Beau watches me as I move, but he doesn’t interrupt. And for a second, I wonder if I’ve said too much, if I’ve cracked something open too early, when we’re still supposed to be playing a part.
“I’ve rebuilt everything,” I continue despite my misgivings. “The shop, my smile, the whole brand of ‘cheerful and charming florist.’” I glance over. “My ability to laugh around life’s hurts instead of letting them shake me is my new normal. But sometimes I wonder if people look at me and think I’m unfinished, immature.”
Beau’s expression doesn’t shift much, but something in his gaze deepens. I imagine I see empathy, but maybe not.His mannerisms change again to be gentler, almost searching, and I suddenly feel that I need space to breathe. I disappear for a moment into the walk-in cooler, prepared to restock the flowers I used up while making the centerpieces.
The chill kisses my skin as I gather an armful of blooms. Under my breath, I whisper to the flowers out of habit. I’ve done this since I was a teenager working part-time at the very shop I now own. It started as a joke, a way to amuse myself during long prep days. But over time, it became natural and not something I needed or wanted to stop doing. “All right, darlings, let’s try not to droop under pressure. Festival demands, you know.” I nudge a few stems into place, murmuring nonsense like I’m coaxing them awake.
“All right, my beauties,” I continue, voice dipping into a singsong as I carry the flowers almost as if I’m rocking a baby. “Let’s pretend we’re not tired. We’ve got a second act, so perk up and give me a little drama. But the elegant kind, not the contestant-on-day-four kind.”
My voice undulates as I move through the cooler, lilting and low one moment, playfully scolding the next. The cooler doesn’t just hold flowers, it holds memories, passion, pieces of who I used to be before I stopped believing love was something I could have in my life.
When I return, Beau is organizing pots by size without looking up. But the second I step into the room, he says quietly, without turning, “You know your voice changes when you talk to your flowers.”
I pause. “I do not talk to...”
“You do. It’s melodic…your voice, I mean,” he continues, still not looking at me. “As though you were trying to coax them into blooming with nothing but fondness and communication. Gentle yet intentional.”
That flutter again, somewhere between my ribs and the walls I keep up.
I try to shrug it off. “You’ve been spending way too much time around poetic townsfolk.”
His grin is brief, the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth, and I only notice it because the soft glow of the pendant lights reflects it in the shop window behind him. “Maybe.”
We drift from station to station. I refresh peonies. He straightens a lopsided stack of glass vases. At one point, he picks up one of my floating bloom bowls, fingers tracing the rim.
“I wrote something once,” he says suddenly, the words tumbling out like a toddler’s knocked over alphabet block tower. “Someone else made it famous.”
I freeze, not daring to move in case it disturbs the vulnerability I hear in Beau’s voice.
“Wrote something? Music?”
He nods. “I didn’t think it mattered. But it did.”
I glance at him, waiting for more. He doesn’t offer it. Just turns the bowl in his hands once, twice, and sets it carefully down.
We hear voices from outside on the sidewalk. I recognize Cassie and Nico, their chatter growing louder as they approach, too busy gossiping to notice how clearly their words are carried on the soft breeze. Beau and I halt our movement until they walk by.
“…like I said, totally just faking it,” Cassie declares with that familiar sugar-laced venom.
“They’re cute,” Nico replies. “But we’ve got this contest in the bag. Tomorrow, we’ll prove it to everyone...” His voice trailsoff.
I snicker. “They do know this isn’tThe Bachelor, right?”
“They’re just jealous we didn’t coordinate our outfits,” Beau scoffs.
I glance at him. “Don’t tempt me. I’ve got flower crowns in back.”
He croaks. “Please don’t.”
I bite back a smile. The banter’s easy again, but underneath, something takes root. Something I can’t assign words to yet.
