And then the plane is moving, taxiing down the runway, picking up speed until it lifts off the ground and angles up into the blue April sky.
I watch until it’s just a speck. Until it disappears completely.
Then I walk back to my old Honda with its mysterious smell and its check engine light and its complete lack of glamour.
I sit behind the wheel.
I don’t cry. Not exactly. My eyes just…leak a little. Allergies. Definitely allergies.
My phone buzzes.
Levi:Already miss you.
I smile despite the leaking.
Me:You’re still in the air.
Levi:Missing you doesn’t require landing.
Me:That’s either very romantic or very cheesy.
Levi:Why not both?
I laugh. Wipe my eyes. Start the car.
He’s coming back. He promised.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll still be here when he does.
I don’t go home.
Home means Mom asking questions I don’t haveanswers to and making that sympathetic face that makes me want to cry. So I go to the shop instead, because flowers don’t ask questions and Ruffy is always happy to see me.
When I unlock the door, Ruffy greets me with his usual intensity, full body wiggle and dramatic sniffing, a low whine that sayswhere have you been and why do you smell like expensive cologne.
“I know,” I tell him. “It’s been a day.”
He follows me to the back room, where I start prepping arrangements for tomorrow’s deliveries. Mindless, good work, the kind that keeps your hands busy while your brain processes the fact that the man you might be in love with just flew away on a private jet.
I’m elbow-deep in hydrangeas when the bell chimes.
“Be right there!” I call out, wiping my hands on my apron.
I walk out to find a man standing at the counter. He’s maybe sixty, wearing a Hawaiian shirt in April, and he’s got the energy of someone who has made a series of questionable decisions and is about to make another one.
“I need flowers,” he announces.
“You’vecome to the right place.”
“They need to say something specific.”
“Okay. What do you want them to say?”
He takes a deep breath. “I need them to say, ‘I’m sorry I bet on the wrong horse at the track and lost the vacation fund, but in my defense, the horse’s name was Lucky Susan and your name is Susan so I thought it was a sign.’”
I stare at him.
“Her name is Susan,” he adds, like that clarifies things.
