When the customer finally left with her bouquet, Emma slid the plain white bag toward me with the subtlest flick of her fingers. Her eyes caught mine — steady, knowing, no judgment there—and my stomach flipped.
The paper bag rustled in my hands like it weighed a hundred pounds instead of a few ounces. I slipped into the tiny backroombathroom, the door clicking shut behind me, and stared at the thing that could change my whole life.
A slim piece of plastic.
Absurd, really—something so small holding the power to turn everything upside down.
I unwrapped it with trembling fingers, then set it on the sink like it might bite. I heard voices out front, a customer calling a cheerful hello. My heart jumped, and I shoved the test back into the bag before darting out.
I rang up a bouquet of lilies and a balloon, pasted on a smile, and thanked the woman for her purchase. My chest burned the whole time. As soon as she left, I ducked back into the bathroom, bracing myself.
One line. Negative.
Air rushed from my lungs, shaky and uneven. Relief washed over me, so strong it nearly buckled my knees. I pressed the stick to the bottom of the trash and covered it with tissue, as if hiding the evidence from myself.
Emma’s eyes found mine the moment I stepped out. I forced a smile. “False alarm.”
She set aside her scissors and pulled me into a hug, squeezing tight. “Good. Now you can stop scaring me. You’ve got enough to juggle without adding diapers into the mix.” Her voice was gentle, teasing enough to cut the tension.
I laughed, though it came out thin. Relief should have been all I felt. Instead, something twisted deeper. A strange pang—disappointment? It made no sense.
I’d told myself for years I didn’t need more. Didn’t need a family to be whole. But every time kids came in here with their sticky fingers and gap-toothed grins, choosing balloons or birthday flowers, a piece of me wondered.
And then there was Sawyer.
Would I even want that with him? Could I? Emma had warned me once about his PTSD, about the walls he built since coming home. I saw those shadows myself—the way he slipped out before dawn, the silence he carried like armor. A man like him, restless and scarred… could he ever settle long enough to build something real?
By late afternoon, the shop looked like a battlefield finally conquered. Glass vases lined the counters in neat rows, brimming with carnations, lilies, hydrangeas—all standing at attention, dressed in ribbon and greenery. The air was thick with the perfume of a hundred blooms, enough to make me dizzy all over again, though this time it was from pride as much as fatigue.
Emma tied the last bow and stepped back, whistling low. “If this doesn’t make Marianne weep, nothing will.”
Soon, Marianne swept in with a friend behind her, both women already exclaiming at the sight. Two SUVs idled outside.
“Oh, Lilly,” Marianne said, clasping her hands. “They’re stunning. Elegant. Perfect.” She went from vase to vase, eyes shining, trailing words of delight as if each arrangement were a gift just for her.
When it came time to pay, she handed over her credit card without blinking—then, with a smile, added a $500 tip.
My throat tightened as I slid the receipt across the counter. Relief loosened my shoulders, my chest. For the first time all day, I let myself believe it might all work out. That tip was more than kindness. It was a breath of air when I’d been gasping.
Emma helped load the SUVs, then tugged off her apron. I gave her cash from the till, as always, and she tucked it into her pocket without fuss.
“You’ll be fine,” she said, pulling me into a quick hug. “You always are.”
But when she drew back, her gaze lingered, searching my face as if she could see the thoughts I hadn’t said aloud. I forced a smile and gave her a wave. She left with a promise to check in tomorrow, the door closing behind her.
And then it was just me, the flowers, and the quiet—too much space for the questions still rattling in my chest.
The shop was hushed, the last streaks of daylight fading through the front windows, shadows pooling between the buckets of flowers. I’d just reached for the keys when my phone buzzed on the counter.
Montana Wholesale Florist
I opened the email, my stomach sinking before I even read the words:Account locked. No new orders until overdue balance is resolved.
The money I’d handed Martin yesterday—three thousand dollars in cash—had never cleared. Just as I had feared, he’d pocketed it and vanished.
I called the representative and explained what had happened. They confirmed that Martin had disappeared. After I explained my situation, they finally agreed to credit me half of it and sent me a link to use for future orders and payments. Then, with a final apology, the customer rep ended the call.
The screen blurred. I leaned my forehead against the glass door, breath fogging the pane. Relief and pride from earlier evaporated, leaving me hollow and gutted.
