If all he wants is to be friends with my son, I should be grateful he’s shown a genuine interest in that relationship.
I shouldn’t be trying to snipe him, hoping for a romantic connection that’s clearly one-sided.
Still, barbs lance my chest as I work hard to maintain my smile, and I hope it doesn’t look too forced as I keep it plastered to my face.
“Don’t you worry. We’ll put together the most romantic bouquet this girl has ever seen,” I promise, turning quickly to focus on the flower kiosk nearest me. Plucking flowers from their containers, I start with a base that will make the blossoms pop. “Tell me about her—this girl you’re asking out,” I say. “Something thatwill help me gauge her personality and the perfect flowers for her.”
“Oh, man, where do I start? She’s smart, beautiful, passionate,” he lists off, his voice rich with emotion. “She’s got a great sense of humor and a killer laugh.”
Each word twists like a knife inside me, and I swallow hard, trying to hold back the salty moisture that stings my eyes.
What is wrong with me?
I’ve only just met this guy, and already I’ve developed some kind of schoolyard crush that has me on the brink of crying just to find out he likes someone else.
“She sounds amazing,” I say, praying he can’t hear the tears in my voice as I avoid his gaze.
Keeping my hands busy and my eyes preoccupied, I continue my selection, going for daisies, calla lilies, chrysanthemums, and dahlias—each flower representing a bold new color of the rainbow.
He chuckles. “She is. I just hope she doesn’t turn me down flat.”
The unladylike snort that escapes me makes me want to crawl into a hole and hide.
But honestly, I can’t imagine a world in which any woman would say no to this man.
“With this bouquet, I promise, that won’t happen,” I assure him, taking the collection behind the counter and tying it together with a classy white ribbon.
Then I slip it into a clear plastic sleeve that will protect the flowers until they reach their destination.
Taking a deep breath, I steal myself and force my eyes to meet his as I pass him the bouquet. “Good luck,” I say with a grin that feels stiff and painful.
“How much do I owe you?” he asks, pulling out his wallet.
“It’s on the house,” I say.
“No, really. How much?” he presses.
More than money, I really just wish I could get him out of my shop before I completely lose it.
The last thing I want to do is embarrass myself by crying in front of my new neighbor. “Ten dollars,” I throw out there, hoping that will get rid of him.
But Gio just chuckles, shaking his head as he riffles through the bills in his leather billfold. “Keep the change,” he says, slapping a bill onto the counter. “Thanks for the help. I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah, see you,” I agree, clinging to the shreds of my dignity until the door mercifully closes behind him.
But as soon as he’s gone, my face falls, the disappointment rising up to swallow me.
Somehow, despite all the rejection and failure I’ve felt in the past, it’s so much worse actually liking a man, being attracted to him, feeling like we have a true connection—and realizing he doesn’t feel the same for me.
Is it something about me that’s so unlovable?
Swallowing down my pride, I drop my eyes to collect the payment Gio left me.
And when I see the hundred-dollar bill he massively overpaid with, I can’t hold back the floodgates any longer.
I break down and cry.
12
