The boy isn’t dumb. He smiles at me. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re most welcome.”
He beams, cheeks flushing, and bolts out the door, holding the bouquet close to his chest.
Cass looks at me from over the rim of the martini glass. “This is how people go bankrupt. I’ve seen it happen.”
“Please.” I raise my drink. “This is how I got a customer for life. He’s going to come here for everything from now on, and pay me for it.”
Cass rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure that was what was on your mind when you all but gave the flowers away for free.”
“I needed to do something good…you know…release some of the dark inside of me.”
She nods. “You wanna talk about it?”
I’d love to, I think,but I can’t, not without spilling NSA secrets.
“Is this because of your dad being in the news?” she asks.
D.C. is a company town. Even the Uber drivers talk about House bills and budgets.
“Yes.” It’s partly true.
The drink does lift my spirits—but I think it’s more Cass’s company.
She goes back to her studio as customers start to trickle into Lucille’s, keeping me occupied.
My hands find their way through stems and petals, even when my heart feels miles away.
I help an elderly man choose lilies for his late wife. He tells me all about Theresa, the love of his life. I listen, charmed, trying very hard—and failing—not to think about how I wanted this with Nick, how I’d thought we’d have it.
I build a wild, colorful bouquet for a theater kid who wanted ‘chaotic but romantic’ for a play he’s directing.
As I turn the sign on the door to CLOSE, I catch my reflection in the glass.
I’ve always been told I’m plain. I am compared to my sister. Maggie is vivacious. She wears makeup. Dresses in designer duds. She is blonde and beautiful.
One boyfriend told me I was soft, which I think was his way of nicely saying I was dull.
Right now, I look tired. The skin beneath my eyes is bruised, and my cheeks are flushed, like I’m fighting a fever. My hair—dark and unruly—is pinned back loosely because anything tighter gives me a headache. Stray tendrils fall around my face, out of control.
Grandma Lucille used to call me elegant, but then I was her favorite grandchild.
Nick once traced my jaw and whispered,“You’re the kind of beautiful that ruins men.”
I believed him—but it was just a cruel joke.
“When will heartache end?” I ask the universe, and the tears that I’d been holding back all day, break free.
6
THIS IS NOT PART OF THE OP
DOMINIC
Ishouldn’t be here. I tell myself that for the tenth time in as many minutes as I sit in an unmarked sedan across from Enya’s flower shop.
It’s well past closing, and the street is quiet except for the occasional dog walker or rideshare pulling up to the curb. The shop window glows warm and golden—just like her. She’s a light I have no business going near, not after doing my damnedest to dim it.
