Her lips twisted into a sweet upside-down smile. “Such a gentleman,” she joked as she walked ahead of me.
I smirked as she passed, but I still felt uneasy. I needed to find a way to talk to her about Rossi at some point.
As soon as we entered the nursery, Ali’s eyes bounced from the old wooden floorboards, to the rows of plants, to the ancient sign my grandma painted above the cash register. Ali hugged herself against the slight chill in the room while walking up to a row of potted marigolds.
“Sorry, we have to keep it cool for the plants. Wait here one sec,” I told her before dipping back to the small office in search of a hoodie.
Unfortunately, while I walked back out to the storefront, I heard my dad’s heavy footsteps enter the room. “And who might you be?”
Shit.
“Uh, hi, I’m Ali,” she squeaked out, her brown eyes darting to me nervously.
“Hi Ali, I’m Cliff.” My dad pulled off gardening gloves and reached a weathered hand toward her for a handshake. “Where did you come from?”
“The rink,” she said, biting her lip.
My dad, dressed in his usual heavy flannel shirt and stained work pants, turned his head to give me a skeptical look. “Well, you shouldn’t be here.”
Right then, the door chimed, notifying us of a customer.
“Might as well make yourself useful, Jamie,” my dad said calmly, shooing me to the door.
Ali’s neck whipped around to me. Her face lit up with amusement. “Jamie?” she mouthed.
I rolled my eyes, fighting off a grin despite the deep shit I was about to be in with my dad. Placing my extra hoodie on the check-out counter, I wandered toward the door to greet the customer. My hands slightly shook as I walked. My dad was probably jumping to horrible conclusions, and I couldn’t even fix it. Iwasn’t sure if he’d be more pissed that I skipped practice or that I brought Ali here, but I knew I’d be in deeper shit if I ignored a customer.
Of course the customer turned out to be old Mildred from next door. She came in about once a month and rarely ever made a purchase. I think she only ever came in to haggle me with a million questions about plants. I’d come to think of my interactions with Mildred as a hockey game—she played offense, and I played D. She was constantly firing off questions at me, and I was constantly trying to block them. But today…today I couldn’t focus.
“Well this doesn’t make sense,” Mildred barked at me.
“What’s that?” I asked, looking to my right where Ali and my dad were talking. Ali now had my hoodie stamped with “McQUAID #26” draped over her shoulders, which made me feel oddly pleased. But the other oddity: Ali actually had my dad smiling, and I wished more than anything that I could hear what they were saying.
“Well, annuals and perennials are kind of mixed up when you think about it,” Mildred croaked. “Annuals should be the ones that come up annually.”
“Ah, no, ma’am.” I scratched my cheek. “Annuals mean you have to plant them annually.”
“Well, I know that, but that’s pretty stupid,” she said, looking at me like I was the one who should change it.
“Yeah, I dunno.” I shrugged, really hoping she’d get bored and leave already. Craning my neck, I tried to spy on my dad, who was now leading Ali around the shop explaining different flowers to her. Ali said something, and my dad laughed. He actually fucking laughed.
I could just barely make out my dad giving Ali the usual spiel about plants that I’d heard about a thousand times throughout my life: “It’s called mother nature because she is actually a mother to us, and she wants to nurture us; we just have to let her,” my dad explained. “Not sure if you know this, but just touching the soil can be healing.”
“Touching the dirt?” Ali blurted out, making my dad chuckle.
“Yes, the dirt. There’s a bacteria called mycobacterium vaccae which is said to actually be a mood booster. That specific bacteria can trigger—”
“Well, I’ll come back,” Mildred announced, looking me up and down with a frown. “Maybe you’ll be more useful tomorrow.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay,” I said distractedly.
As soon as she hobbled out the door, I practically jogged to the back of the shop to join them.
“She’s a stubborn one,” my dad said, pointing out his favorite rose. “Always rises first and dies last. Resilient.” He nodded. “I’m always sad to see her go.” He grinned fondly at his favorite plant.
A crease formed between Ali’s brows. “When will she go?”
“Oh, not until the fall. Roses typically die off in the fall, then we prune them for the winter so they come back stronger in the spring,” he rattled off.
