“What’s your favorite kind of pizza?” I was fairly bouncing in my seat and salivating at the thought of it. “They’ve got the best. You're going to love the pepperoni here," I told him, pulling the laminated menu towards me even though I hadn't needed it since I was eleven years old. I just needed somewhere to put my eyes that wasn't his face, or his arms … or hands. “I hope you’re not one of those weirdos who like deep dish.”
"Pepperoni is pepperoni,” he shrugged.
I gave him the death stare that I hope conveyed my disdain. "It is not." Setting the menu down, I pressed my palms flat to the table, leaning in slightly. “This pepperoni is special. It curls when it cooks. The grease pools right in the middle, and there are crispy edges.”
"Duly noted," he said. “We’re both pretty easy to please when it comes to pizza.”
Opal hummed happily over her crayons, and I fiddled with my own coloring page, sketching ladybugs in the corners while Rhodes watched us with an expression that I couldn’t quite pinpoint. It made me uncharacteristically nervous.
“Thanks for my plant, Sage. I’ll take good care of Chantrelle.” Rhodes’ lips quirked in a half-laugh.
When I’d given her the spider plant earlier, she’d squealed with excitement. Apparently, she hadn’t expected me to follow through on my promise, but those sorts of things weren’tsomething you could break. If you told a kid you’d do something, you’d better do it. Spider plants were awesome. They grew fast, and you could drape them all over your bookshelves. When I told her the plant needed a name, she’d pulled out Chantrelle like she’d had it prepped and ready to go.
“I’m sure you will. If you have any plant mom questions, let me know,” I said, seriously.
Donatello’s hummed around us, accompanied by the satisfying clatter of plates from the kitchen and a song playing on the jukebox. There was a family in the large round booth near the window, with a baby in a high chair who kept throwing its spoon and laughing hysterically each time.
"So," I started, propping my chin on my hand after Betta came to take our order—she shot me a knowing look over her notepad when Rhodes ordered two pepperoni pizzas, and I pressed my lips together to keep from saying anything. “Let’s talk layout.”
“Okay.”
It wasn't even a question the way he said it, just flat and attentive, like I had his full attention and he wasn't going to waste it on inflection.
"I think there are several things in there that are just dormant,” I said, watching his face. He didn't react, because of course he didn't. “If they survived this long, it means the rootstock is extraordinary." I flipped my coloring page over and sketched the greenhouse’s general layout from memory. "We wouldn’t have to start from scratch with everything. Some people think it’s best just to rip it all out and start fresh. They want something new.” Biting my lip, I concentrated on the sketch.
Everything would need to be marked carefully, but I’d need to take the time on my own without Rhodes hovering to go in and check things over. It was a project, for sure.
"And you don't think that's right." The words startled me a little.
"I think starting fresh can be great,” I answered carefully, wondering if he thought I was hiding a double meaning. “Sometimes, but in this case, there is still something worth keeping.”
He was quiet for a moment, his large forearms resting on the table, and I was very carefully not noticing how his henley was pushed up to his elbow, revealing the rope of muscle in his forearm. “So that’s a general philosophy or specifically about plants?” he asked.
"Both." I drew a small circle on the placemat where the myers lemon plant had been, and another where a camellia cutting had grown into an unchecked shrub. "All of it. Same principle."
Betta appeared with our drinks, sliding a Sprite toward Opal with a little paper umbrella tucked into the ice. She let out a sound of pure, uncomplicated delight. Rhodes smiled then, properly, the kind that rearranged his whole face, and I looked down at the placemat so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.
I didn't look up right away and started answering Rhodes’s pointed plant questions before losing myself in explaining root division. He was actually listening and asking the right kinds of questions, so I didn't notice the man until he was close enough that the shift in the air reached me first.
"Sage."
I glanced up from the sketch that I was absorbed in.
The man standing at the edge of our booth was maybe mid-thirties, with sandy-blond hair that needed a cut and eyes that caught the light in a way that was almost pretty. He was wearing a Donatello’s Pizza shirt, the red polo that they made the part-time staff wear, tucked into dark jeans, and he had his hands clasped in front of him like he was about to say grace.
It took me a moment to place him. Alan, I thought? He was one of the newer faces in town lately, but he’d come in to Wild Bloom once to buy a small cacti, paid in cash, and complimented the arrangement in the window way too long. And Cedric had stayed in the back room the whole time, leaving me hanging. He’d caught hell for it later since he’d basically abandoned me.
"Hey," I said, keeping my voice easy. “Alan, right?"
His face lit up, and he smiled broadly, fixing his gaze on me with an intensity that felt almost tangible. It was nearly disorienting.
"You remembered." The words came out almost reverent.
"Small town." I kept my tone light. "You working tonight?"
"Yeah, yeah, I just…”
He looked at Rhodes and Opal, and a flicker of emotion surged across his face too quickly to catch, before his eyes returned to me. “I saw you come in and wanted to say hi. I meant to stop by the shop again. I loved those flowers in the window last week. They were beautiful. Really,” he paused, and the pause lasted a beat too long, “—really suited to you, somehow."
