I glance over. He’s polishing a leaf like he wants to take it out to dinner. And dancing.
“Uhhh…” The woman’s eyes flick to him. “No, we mean the other Plant Daddy.”
Another woman standing beside her holds up a magazine with Sawyer on the cover. “This Plant Daddy.”
“Ouch.” Charlie presses a hand to his chest using his own theater experience now. “That’s brutal.”
“But true,” she adds with a little shrug as she heads to the stationery, murmuring something about journaling her day over a cup of ceremonial matcha when she’s done with us.
“I told you,” he says in a hushed stage whisper, as if this isn’t insane and hilarious all at once. “The moment you bring a handsome athlete into a plant shop and shout it to the world he’s here, everything changes.”
As if to prove him right, the bell rings again, and in walks a pair of women—clearly best friends, probably overly caffeinated, arms linked and looking like they are here on a mission.
“Bet you ten bucks one of them wants a snake plant,” Charlie whispers as they head our way.
“I’ll take that bet,” I whisper back as I pull ten bucks out of the register and place it on the counter. “They’re here for a hanging basket, it’s a present.”
“We’ll see,” Charlie laughs as the pair comes to a stop in front of us, giggling.
“Do you sell snake plants?” one of them blurts.
I stare at her, and then I laugh, shaking my head as I slide the ten bucks into Charlie’s happy palm.
“Yes,” I say. “We sell snake plants.”
“Best ones in the area,” Charlie adds, punctuating the end ofthe sentence with a wink and a little pop of his hip as he slides my ten dollars into his pocket. “Thanks.”
“Thank goodness,” the other one says. “We drove here from Baltimore.”
From Baltimore. Over an hour drive, on major highways, from one city to another. For a plant. Because a hockey player touched some dirt? It can’t be, so I put Charlie’s theory to the test.
“Happy to show you what we have left,” I say, pointing to the display that’s rapidly disappearing. “May I ask how you found us?”
“I follow Sawyer Stockton, from the Dominion, on Instagram,” the first woman says. She pulls out her phone and shows me his account. “He posted this video last night.”
After Charlie gives me his besttold you solook, I watch the video playing on the woman’s phone. It’s not the one we filmed, but a new one. One he’s done alone.
In the clip, it looks like he’s in the locker room of some arena. Could be the Birdcage, could be another arena. I feel like they would all look the same. He’s got a bank of lockers behind him and he’s pulled his phone close, talking to it, to the viewer, like he’s a bestie. The feel of it makes the conversation more intimate than it should be, but I guess that’s why some people make social media work and others are like me: awkward and too cranky to post.
“Hey, guys. Okay, so quick check-in.” He glances off-camera, like he’s remembering what he needs to say, and his smile softens just a touch. “So, in my off time, I’m spending a few weeks hanging out at Leaf & Letter in Alexandria for my ‘crimes against a string of pearls.’ But, one of the things I’ve done is shoot a little video, a PSA on how to take care of a snake plant, that I just threw up in my stories. Super high-budget stuff,” he says, cracking a laugh, making me choke one back, too. High budget? It was me, my phone, and one overgrown kid named Sawyer who seems to be game for just about anything I’m not. “There’s dirt. Pots. Pretty much me trying not to kill anything or make anyone mad.”
He gives a mock-serious nod.
“If you’re around Alexandria and you need plant help, or you just want to be around good vibes and dangerously healthy greenery…” He leans closer to the camera, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret. “Go see Juliette and Charlie. Tell them Sawyer sent you.” He winks, and the two women from Baltimore swoon.
The video cuts out on his laugh—warm, ridiculous, and absolutely designed to be replayed. Something in my chest clicks into place.
I glance at Charlie, who is absolutely glowing with smug, leafy pride. “You okay over there, Plant Daddy Prime?”
“I feel very vindicated and ten dollars heavier,” he says serenely as the duo pays for their plants. We watch as they walk away, the store settling down for its first quiet spell since I arrived two hours ago. I slowly turn to Charlie, ready to hug him when he hands me a slip of paper.
He winces as he hands it over. “I meant to give you this earlier. David called.”
Everything in me freezes. My ex. “When?” I whisper.
Charlie squeezes my arm. “About ten minutes ago. You were busy, so I gleefully took a message.”
I stare at the slip of paper. This man hasn’t returned one call or text in six months. No emails. No pop-ins. Which means no drama, to some degree. Me? I’m okay with it. But I’ve got a son who doesn’t understand that the man he considers a superhero isn’t as steady and responsible as he needs him to be, and that his mother is usually making excuses for why he’s such a lame-o.
