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But, damn.
It’s no use.
Even though my brain knows this bouquet couldn’t possibly mean what the flowers are screaming at me, my heart desperately wants to believe Fish knew exactly what he was telling me—but only because the coded messages in these flowers are all the same things I’d tell Fish, if only I had the courage.
Take the stargazer lilies, for example. In the language of flowers, lilies connote romantic love, but in a much different way than red roses. Whereas red roses are all about burning, carnal passion, lilies connote a more heartfelt, poetic kind of romance. When a lady in Victorian times was sent lilies by her suitor, she knew he wanted to make her his lover. But not only physically. That, too, yes. But lilies meant he wanted her to become his lover in every sense of the word. In his bed, and in his life.
I admit I could be overanalyzing the lilies. Indeed, if they were standing alone, then they could mean, simply, joy. Or purity and innocence. Maybe even prosperity.
But the purple lilacs.
They’re the flowers that always mean the same thing.
The first pangs of love.
Which means, no matter what, this bouquet would be a declaration of the first pangs of love from Fish, if he were obsessed with the language of flowers, like me. Which he’s not. And I know it. So, they’re not. But, hey, regardless, the bouquet is stunning and thoughtful and smells divine.
Sighing happily, I grab four cups from a cupboard and return to the living room.
Reed pours the bubbly, Georgina makes a sweet toast that makes me tear up, and we sit with our glasses and tell a flabbergasted McKenna the story of the night. After a while, though, I get thirsty and offer to refill everyone’s empty glasses with water.
“I’ll help you,” Georgina says. And off we go into the kitchen.
When Georgina sees the bouquet on the kitchen counter from Fish, she stops and gasps the same way I did. “They’re gorgeous!” she says. “How romantic!”
And what do I reply? “I want to lose my virginity to Fish when I see him in New York!”
Georgina laughs at my bluntness. “Had you decided that before drinking those three glasses of champagne tonight—or after?”
I blush. “Before. You know I’ve been thinking about this. The champagne is just truth serum.”
“I know, honey. I’m so happy for you. I can’t imagine a more perfect guy for you. He’s as sweet as you are.”
We walk to the sink and begin washing and drying the four glasses together.
I hand Georgina a glass to dry. “I’m dying to get naked with him. If he were here right now, I’d kick you and Reed out, drag him into my bedroom, and lose my V-card tonight.”
Georgina chuckles and takes the next glass from me. “This seems like a good time to ask if you checked out that website I told you about?”
“I sure did. It’s a gold mine.”
“Isn’t it?”
“It made me realize I’m not weird or defective. I just didn’t understand my body. But now, I’m ready and rarin’ to go, baby!”
Georgie laughs again. “Good for you.”
The sound of a violin wafts into the small kitchen and Georgina pulls a face I’d caption as, What the hell?
“McKenna,” I say, by way of explanation. My roommate is a brilliant violinist who’s hoping to play for a renowned symphony one day.
“She’s amazing,” Georgie says.
“She is. I’m shocked she’s playing for Reed, though. She’s usually even shier than me.”
We quickly fill the four glasses with water and head into the living room, where we discover Reed on the couch, watching intently as McKenna stands above him and plays for him.
Georgie and I quietly take seats on either side of Reed, and when McKenna is done, all three of us clap and compliment her.
“Very impressive,” Reed says. “When you graduate, drop me a line. I don’t know anyone at any symphonies, but if I know of anyone looking to add violin to a track, or to a tour, I’ll hook you up.” With that, Reed gulps his water, rises from the couch, and extends his hand to Georgina. “Ready to go, Birthday Girl? I know parting is such sweet sorrow when it comes to you and Ally, but I’ve got one more birthday present waiting for you, back at the hotel.”
He smirks and Georgina flashes him a scorching smile in return. And it doesn’t take a genius to know they’re both itching to head back to their hotel to bang the ever-loving hell out of each other.
Georgina hugs me. “Bye, sweetie. We’ve got an early flight to LA tomorrow. We’d better hit the hay.”
“Mm-hmm,” I say, trying to control my snark. “Happy birthday, love.”
When Georgie and I disengage, Reed hugs me goodbye. And to my surprise, his embrace feels warm and enthusiastic. Lovely and sincere. Not the least bit performative or polite. Clearly, this hug isn’t a show for Georgie’s benefit. He’s expressing genuine affection. And it touches me.
