“Oh, and by the way,” she calls from the stockroom, “the campus environmental club wants to do a seedling fundraiser for us in the next couple months. You in?”
“Obviously,” I shout back, grinning.
She pokes her head out. “Good. I already said yes.”
My cell pings on the counter, pulling me out of my bemused admiration.
Hayden:Witnessed a man wrestling for the last bouquet at the market. Desperation begins.
I bite back a grin, fingers flying over the screen.
Me:Please tell me you intervened and advised him to shop local.
Me:RIGHT?!
A pause.
Hayden:…perhaps.
Picturing Hayden policing a grocery store floral aisle shouldn’t be hot. Yet here we are, and maybe I’ve started imagining him in all sorts of places he doesn’t belong. It makes the looming floral apocalypse feel a tiny bit less overwhelming.
For a moment.
Later that afternoon, I find myself riding shotgun in Dominic’s aggressively bougie SUV as he launches into meticulous plans on our way to Party Depot.
“I want the aesthetic to be heartbreak chic,” Dominic says, tapping the wheel. “Black, red, gold accents. Dramatic. Iconic. We’re channeling revenge-dress energy. Mood lighting. Tears optional.”
I turn. “Dom, it’s a house party, not the Met Gala: Vengeance Edition.”
He waves me off. “Details, Levi. Always about the details!”
At Party Depot, the fluorescent lights burn too brightly, and the Valentine’s aisle buzzes with desperate shoppers scrambling for last-minute redemption.
Dominic shoves a cart at me. “We’ll need two of these.”
“Two carts? Really?”
“Babe, we’re throwing an anti–Valentine’s Day extravaganza. We don’t half-ass bitterness; we bedazzle it.” He hands me a carefully printed list:
black balloons
fake petals (for drama)
heart piñata—filled with candy and resentment
