“It was good,” I offer hesitantly. I grab my glass of wine for a bit of liquid courage and take a big sip. My mom’s been serving the same chardonnay with Sunday dinners for as long as I can remember. I don’t even like it much, but it’s never occurred to me to tell her.
When did I turn into this person? So afraid to rock the boat and disappoint anybody that I shrink myself down to the most palatableversion, all smooth edges and sweet smiles and ready with a “sure, no problem” anytime someone asks something of me.
“It was great, actually,” I blurt out. Every head at the table turns to me. I glance around, noting Aiden’s raised eyebrows and my mom’s encouraging smile. The old grandfather clock in the entryway chimes, letting me know we’ve been sitting around the table for a full hour already. One last blissful hour, before my parents’ expectations of me finally crumble.
“Oh yeah? What was so great?” my dad asks.
I take a deep breath, gripping my glass tighter with one hand and shoving the other beneath my thigh to keep it from shaking.
Here goes nothing.
“You know that old dance studio, the one Mrs. Davis used to run?”
“Sure,” my mom says. “That big building on the corner, next to Stop ‘n Chop.”
The only salon in town has been a staple for as long as we’ve been living here. Aside from a bob with microbangs back in my early college days (which, in all fairness, my hairdresserdidtry to talk me out of), they’ve always done wonders on my long, thick hair that can be a bit unruly on a good day. It’s why I’m always tucking it into braids and ponytails.
“I used to dance there,” Grace chimes in. “Until they kicked me out because I refused to take my tap shoes off. They were way cooler than those ballet slippers; what did they expect?”
Everyone chuckles and my shoulders relax, some of the tension easing out of them. I can always count on Grace to break the ice. I feel her nudge my foot under the table and I meet her eye, then Olivia’s. She gives me a subtle nod.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I take the leap.
“I’m going to be leasing it,” I announce. “Well, half of it, anyway. I’m going to open my own flower shop.”
My announcement is met with a heavy silence.
Forget hearing a pin drop. I think someone could sneeze two blocks over and the Carmichael family would hear it.
“What do you mean, you’re opening your own flower shop? And leasing a building? Else, why is this the first we’re hearing of this?”
I had prepared myself for my dad’s disappointment. His confusion. Heck, maybe even anger for leaving him high and dry with a position to fill at work.
What I didn’t expect was thehurtthat laces each of his words.
“You know I’ve been taking those classes at the college for the last couple semesters,” I offer weakly, like it’s a perfectly reasonable jump from taking classes in my spare time to starting my own business and all but signing the lease before telling them.
“You told us you were taking some classes for fun,” my dad reminds me. “You didn’t say anything about this.” Confusion is etched into the lines of his face, but the hurt is there too, in the lines around his mouth, the divot between his drawn eyebrows.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” my mom offers gently. She reaches over and squeezes my dad’s hand where it rests on top of the table. He links his fingers with hers, a practiced move as easy as breathing after all their years together.
I glance at the twins, who are busy looking at each other and doing that silent twin telepathy thing that’s always driven me crazy. This time, though, it doesn’t take much effort to interpret them. I can hear theiroh shit, she fucked upas clearly as if they’d said it aloud.
“It’s no secret that I’ve always loved flowers,” I begin.
“An understatement,” Grave chimes in, and even my dad chuckles at that.
“I had never really considered the idea of being a florist until the last few years.”
“Years?” my dad asks, incredulous.
“Asher,” my mom scolds quietly. “Let her talk.”
God, I’m royally fucking this up. I never meant to hurt my family by keeping my plans a secret. Exactly the opposite, actually. I didn’t tell them about my unhappiness at work or all the thought I’d put into doing something elsebecauseI didn’t want to hurt them.
“It’s not that I don’t like my job,” I say, though it’s exactly that. No need to drive the knife any deeper. “It’s just not something that I love and am excited to get up and do every day. And I know that not all jobs are like that, but I started thinking about what I might actually enjoy doing, and it always came back to the same thing – flowers.”
“Just like Nana,” my mom says softly.
