Chapter thirteen
George
Iwould not have chosen to spend my afternoon in a florist's shop. Especially one that smells like wet stems and overpriced candles. But Eleanor asked, and gave me the look that meansplease, for the love of everything, so here I am.
Tessa is already inside when I arrive, standing near a display of sample centerpieces, nodding at something Eleanor is saying. My mother stands on her other side, and beside Mother is a woman I don't know: sharp eyes, expensive blazer, the posture of someone who has decided in advance that she's the authority in any room she enters.
I almost turn around and leave.
Eleanor catches my eye from across the studio and gives me the small, exhausted nod, and I know I can't leave. I cross the room and stop beside Tessa without announcement, which is apparently the wrong approach because she startles, pressing one hand briefly to her sternum like I've defibrillated her.
"You could warn a person," she says quietly, not looking at me.
"I walked in a straight line at a normal pace."
She doesn't respond to that, but the corner of her mouth moves.
Eleanor shepherds us all toward the main consultation table, which is covered in fabric swatches, ribbon samples, and photographs of floral arrangements that appear to have been organized by someone in a genuine emotional crisis. I sit beside Tessa at the small table. She's close enough that I'm aware of the warmth of her arm without actually touching it.
The woman in the expensive blazer introduces herself as Fran: My mother's old friend, self-described floral enthusiast, and someone who has attended fourteen weddings in the last five years.
I file this under: not useful.
Fran does a trill of a laugh that I'm supposed to join in. I don't.
The florist begins her presentation, and Tessa produces a notebook from somewhere and uncaps a very fine-tipped pen.
I watch her notate as the florist gives pros and cons of specific florals. Tessa's handwriting is surprisingly neat. Small, even letters, slight leftward slant, like she's been thinking faster than she can write and everything is leaning to try to catch up.
I find myself watching her write instead of listening to the florist and redirect my attention to the arrangement samples on the table.
Eleanor reaches across and squeezes Tessa's free hand warmly. Tessa smiles back, and for just a moment, the professional calm face is gone, replaced by something easier and more unguarded.
Then, under the table, without any discussion or prior agreement, Tessa shifts her hand palm-up in the space between us. A quiet, efficient, entirely businesslike invitation.
I take her hand. She is my 'girlfriend' after all.
Her fingers are cooler than I expected, but are slightly distracting.
"You two are just adorable," the florist says warmly, glancing between us.
"Oh." Tessa's voice comes out slightly higher than usual. "We aren't—we're not getting married." A flush moves up her neck and into her face.
She gives my hand a sharp, pointed squeeze and I understand immediately.
"We're here for my sister," I say, gesturing toward Eleanor. "And her fiancé."
Thankfully, Daniel chooses this moment to materialize in the doorway, five minutes late. Eleanor waves him over, and the florist pivots with professional smoothness toward the actual couple.
"Sorry about the confusion," the florist says, a little flustered.
"No problem," Tessa says, with perfect composure, and squeezes my hand again.
This time I think she just wants to.
She doesn't let go after that, which makes sense. Releasing my hand now would look strange, would make the whole moment strange. And so we sit there, her hand in mine, while the florist moves on to centerpiece options.
Fran immediately takes over, pointing at a photograph of an arrangement so aggressively dense with flowers it looks like it might be structurally unsound. "The more the better," she declares, with the confidence of someone who considers personal taste a universal law.
