What the fuck? Who talks like this?
Enya bites back a smile.
“What’s the occasion?” I ask.
The woman blinks, clearly surprised that I’m asking the question. “A dinner party. Very important people.”
“Of course, they are,” I murmur. I glance at Enya. “Sit.”
“I’m not?—”
“Sit,” I repeat, more gently this time. “I’ve got this.”
She hesitates, then perches on the stool behind the counter, arms crossed, clearly prepared to enjoy watching me screw it up.
I move to the buckets, scanning.
The thing is, I’ve been spending my evenings watching YouTube videos of florists putting together bouquets so I canhelp Enya, even if she doesn’t want my help. But this will be the first time I actually do it.
Damn it! I was less nervous when I was captured by rebel forces in Nigeria.
I pull out cream garden roses, ranunculus, and eucalyptus for texture—YouTube’s words, not mine. I add blush astilbe, newly discovered, then step back to check the balance. I now have opinions about balance for a flower bouquet.
The woman watches, intrigued despite herself.
“You don’t look like a florist,” she says.
“I’m not,” I reply. “But the mother of my child is and I watch her…a lot.”
The woman puts a hand to her heart and sighs. “Aww.”
A frustrated sound rumbles out of Enya. “Ugh.”
I trim the stems, cutting too short on the first pass and swearing under my breath when one of the ranunculus heads droops in protest.
I discard it, start again.
I angle the roses, rotate the bouquet, then stop when the whole thing feels wrong—too tight, too stiff. I loosen my grip, yank one stem free, and snap it clean by accident.
“Shit,” I mutter.
Enya doesn’t say a word. She just watches.
I try again, slower this time. I pay attention to balance, to negative space, to how the eucalyptus softens the edges.
I rotate the bouquet in my hands, adjusting until it settles into itself instead of fighting me.
When I wrap it in kraft paper, I fold one edge crooked, flatten it, and redo it. The twine slips, and the whole thing nearly collapses. I tighten it carefully on the second pass, knotting it twice, like it might make a break for it if I don’t.
It’s not perfect. A professional would spot the flaws—the stem that’s a half-inch too long, the bloom that’s turned thewrong way. But who gives a shit? It’s done, and the woman is too charmed by my devotion to my baby mama to make a fuss.
I set it on the counter. “Elegant. Seasonal. Welcoming without gushing.”
Whatever the fuck that means!
The woman nods, impressed despite herself. “Very nice, thank you.” She looks pointedly at Enya’s belly and then at me. “You’re such a cute couple.”
“We’re not—” Enya starts, but I speak over her, “Thank you. She makes us look good.”
