Yeah, Emma always seems to have one meeting, after another. Sometimes I wonder if she is trying to get in office or really just a primary school teacher. The disappointment in her voice does something weird to my chest. Makes me want to fixit, even though getting involved in wedding planning sounds like my personal version of hell.
"I could give you a ride." The offer's out before I think about it.
"You have work."
"Foundation inspection can wait." I straighten up, giving her some breathing room. Watch the way she immediately misses my proximity, even though she's trying to hide it. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you don't accidentally poison yourself with plant food."
"I'm not that hopeless."
“Just clumsy as hell. Some things don't change."
"Some things do." The way she says it, quiet and pointed, makes me wonder what she's really talking about.
"Do they?" I step back, giving her room to breathe. "Guess we'll find out."
We head to the Morrison's Garden Center, and Savannah sits in the passenger seat, hands folded in her lap, but I catch her stealing glances when she thinks I'm not looking.
"You really don't have to come in," she says as I pull into the parking lot.
"I'm already here." I cut the engine, turn to look at her. "Besides, this should be entertaining. Watching you try to arrange flowers without bleeding all over them."
"You're such an ass."
"You say that like it's news." I get out, come around to open her door before she can do it herself. An old habit that earns me a surprised look.
"Since when do you open doors?"
Yeah…I scratch my head, confused about the comment and about what I’m doing.
Morrison's Garden Center smells like earth and growing things and possibility. Takes me back to being twelve years old, learning the difference between annuals and perennials from Mom. Before she died.
Emma spots us the second we walk in, practically vibrating with excitement in a yellow dress that makes her look like she raided a sunflower field.
"Griff! You came!" Emma screeches, giving me unwanted attention. I don’t mind it usually but for some reason in front of Savannah, I feel embarrassed.
“I thought you couldn’t make it?” I ask. Swiftly changing the subject.
She laughs. “Plans change.”
“Yep. Like I’m here as the driver."
"He's being modest," Emma tells the cluster of bridesmaids gathering around us. "Griff's going to help with the heavy lifting."
Perfect. Exactly what I signed up for - being a pack mule for a bunch of women who probably think flower arranging is a competitive sport.
The workshop instructor is some hippie woman named Brenda with silver hair and dirt under her fingernails. She leads us into the greenhouse, where the air sits heavy and humid. Buckets of flowers everywhere - roses, mums, sunflowers, baby's breath.
My fingers itch looking at them. Been too long since I've worked with flowers. Too long since I've let myself have this one thing that's just mine.
"Today we'll be creating centerpieces for the reception," Brenda announces. "Autumn themes, so we'll focus on warm colors and seasonal blooms."
I find myself automatically cataloging varieties, assessing which stems are freshest. The sunflowers are particularly good - full heads, strong stalks. The roses could be better, but they'll do.
"Want to be partners?" Savannah asks.
"Sure." I move to stand beside her at one of the back workstations. Close enough to smell that vanilla scent she's always worn, mixed now with something floral that makes my mouth water.
She reaches for a rose immediately, predictably pricks her finger on a thorn.
