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“Do we?”
“No, but if we did, they would’ve hightailed it out of here because you’re an idiot!”
“You’re giving me shiitake mushrooms because my yelling would have driven off the customers we don’t actually have, and I’m an idiot?” Bruce shouts back. At the reminder of his funny little practice of using other, somewhat ridiculous, versions of curse words when he’s at work, I close my eyes and let my head fall back. “If you would’ve looked at these shipments, I wouldn’t have to be back here yelling!”
Man, I’m so glad I decided to move back to New York and work at my parents’ floral shop while I try to find a job.
Probably the best idea I’ve ever had.
No, no, my mind taunts. Not the worst idea you’ve ever had.
The pure thought of the godawful anesthesia-blissed-out decision to text Milo with a sexual proposition makes nausea clench my gut. I immediately will my mind to other things.
Ariana Grande’s new album.
How many days there are until my brother’s wedding.
How many tacos can I actually eat at Taco Bell? Like, if I really apply myself? Four? Five?
Fun-size candy bars are too damn small to be fun.
You name it, and I’m thinking about it.
Problem is, every time I finish thinking about something else, I start thinking about the embarrassment again.
I mean, what in God’s name could he be thinking? He didn’t say anything. Is that some sort of don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all type of thing? Or did he assume I was just some desperate harpy, looking for my stake of his billion dollars?
My mom shoves the cash register shut with her hip and pulls me from my painful inner monologue. For once in my life, I’m grateful that my entire family consists of unusually loud people.
“I’ll kill him,” she mutters under her breath. With a roll of her eyes and a heavy sigh from her lips, she turns on her heels and pushes open the door to the back room with both hands.
“You are driving me crazy!” Her voice bounces off the walls of the shop, just before the door swings closed behind her.
“Ditto, Betty!”
Filled with the disquiet of my embarrassment and a euphemistic bucket full of uncertainty, for the first time, maybe ever, I find comfort in my parents’ bickering. It’s annoying, sure, but it’s also consistent. I’m fortunate enough to have parents who’ve been willing to fight with each other for over thirty years. That doesn’t happen much anymore.
I smile to myself and carry a bushel of fresh cut sunflowers toward the front of the shop and proceed to stock a few of the water-filled glass bowls that sit in our DIY-bouquet section.
My parents’ bickering penetrates the walls of the back room, and from what I gather, this week’s shipment of lilies and roses looks like total shiitake mushrooms. Bruce’s words, obviously, not mine. And, evidently, this has been a far-too-frequent issue with one of our shippers.
I’d say in about ten minutes, an irate Bruce will be telling the shipper in question where to shove their shiitake mushroom flowers—right up the grasshole. Again, his words, not mine.
One-by-one, I pull the sunflowers out and place them in the display. And just before I add the final ten stems to the water, my phone pings in my back pocket, and I pull it out to find a text message notification.
My lock screen reads, Text Message from Milo Ives, and my heart migrates out of Chestville and into Throatstown. And, hey, it might as well do some apartment shopping while it’s there because it seems like it’s seriously considering relocating.
I wonder if the universe has something against me. Have I invited bad karma into my life somehow? Done some dirty deeds I’m unaware of? Strong-armed an old lady unknowingly?
A million questions roll through my mind, and I realize they’re most easily answered if I’d just find the strength to tap the fucking screen and look at what he sent.
Sunflowers completely forgotten, I brace myself for impact. Locked knees, vomit bucket at the ready.
Milo: Hello, Maybe.
Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he knows it’s my number! How in the h-e-double-hockey-sticks does he know it’s my number?!
He knows I’m the one who sent those crazy fucking text messages.
I almost put the bucket to use immediately, but I don’t have time for it because another text message comes through.
Milo: Evan reached out on your behalf the other day. He thinks I might be some help in your job search.
Oh. God.
Milo: What do you say we grab lunch this week?
When I don’t respond within a few minutes, he sends another.
Milo: I’m free Wednesday around noon. You?
Shit. I need to answer him. The last thing I need is to actually face him right now.
Just play it cool… Who knows, maybe the read receipt was just some kind of weird error and he never actually got the text messages?
