“Nah. I check in. And remember, I’m annoying. She needs a break every now and then.”
“She seems like a really nice girl,” I said.
“She is.” He said this simply; it was clear it was fact. “It’s not easy always having to be the good one, but she’s a natural. You have any siblings?”
I shook my head. “Nope. Just me and my mom.”
“Huh,” he said.
Don’t ask, I told myself. Then I asked. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said. I waited, making it clear I expected more. “Just that, you know, it explains things. How you like to be alone.”
“I don’t like to be alone,” I said.
“Right. You just don’t want to be withme.”
I looked over at him. “That’s not exactly true.”
“Right. You basically did all you could to not have to be with me right now, including telling your mom you don’t like me,” he pointed out. I blinked, surprised. He’d been in another room, after all. He said, “My annoyingness does not affect my hearing. I’m like a dog, it’s so good.”
“I’ll have to remember that.” I cleared my throat. “Anyway, I’m sorry I said that. It’s just... I’m used to working alone, and—”
“Look, you don’t have to explain yourself,” he said easily. “I’m not for everyone.”
Again, this was said with such ease, a plain truth. What was it like to be so confident even in your failings that you weren’t the least bit bothered when other people pointed them out? I was almost envious.
We were close to Kirby’s now; I could see the greenhouses, as well as the bursts of color that were their outdoor plantings, in the distance. When it came to florists, my mom only recommended the best, usually choosing companies that catered to the exact needs of the client. If you wanted perfect, sculpted centerpieces of roses and lilies, picking Lakeview Florist or Occasions was easy. But if your taste was morenatural, bohemian wildflowers-in-mason-jars—increasingly popular among younger brides—Kirby’s was the place.
I pulled into the dusty lot, right up to the squat building that housed the office. This was a family business, another reason my mom preferred them. If you called with a problem, there was no corporate voicemail system, just a hand cupping the receiver while someone bellowed for Mr. or Mrs. Kirby, who were usually out in the fields tending the plants themselves. “Okay,” I said, reaching back for my bag and pulling out the invoice. “We’re here for Gerbera daisies, glads, lilies, and sunflowers. Ten buckets total. Mrs. Kirby will always try to add on an extra bucket or two she’s trying to move, but we don’t have room so we have to be firm.”
“Ten buckets,” he repeated. “Gerberas, glads, sunflowers, lilies. No extras.”
Huh. Maybe he was right about that hearing. “Correct. It shouldn’t take longer than a half hour total if we don’t get caught up talking.”
“Keep it short. All business. Thirty minutes max.”
My phone rang then: Jilly, most likely wanting to catch up while en route from one KitKat activity to another. As I hitIGNORE, preferring to wait until I was alone, Ambrose said, “Wait, what was that? Your ringtone?”
“Nothing,” I told him.
“It sounded like this awful pop song—”
“Nope. Let’s go.”
I pushed open my door, getting out as he did the same, then followed me through the propped-open screen door.Inside, rows of plants sat on makeshift tables made of sawhorses and plywood, a row of walk-in coolers along one wall.
“Louna Barrett.” A woman’s voice came from behind a tall basket of ornamental greenery. “Right on time, as always.”
“Hey, Mrs. Kirby,” I replied. “How are you?”
She stepped out, wiping her hands on her apron. She was a tall and broad black woman with a melodic voice, and everything she said sounded important. “Very good, very good. Have some gorgeous peonies I want to show you, on special. Your mom’s favorite.”
“They are,” I agreed. “But space is tight.”
“You can always make room for a few extra blooms,” she replied, then noticed Ambrose. “Who’s this? A boyfriend?”
“No,” I said, a bit too quickly. “This is Ambrose. He’s working with us for the summer.”
