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“Who sent flowers? Are they for Ms. Wyntor?” Iskandar ignored me to ask Wolfgang. “Competition for the prince?”
I cracked my jaw, annoyed at that, and how he said it as if he were hoping so. Did he forget his duty in his nap? He was supposed to be on my side, not cheering on someone trying to—
“No, the flowers are for him.”
My head went back to Wolfgang. “Him, who?”
“Him, you.”
“Are we writing a Doctor Seuss book? What do you mean him, you? What kind of explanation is that?” I snickered.
“I mean, Ms. Odette sent you flowers and a letter. The front desk called earlier, and I went to pick them up. Where should I put them?”
“She sent me flowers?” That was a first.
He handed me the letter before putting the flowers onto the coffee table. And that was a very strange sentence to even think of. I did not understand what this meant.
Glancing down at the card, I saw my name. Not Gale. But Galahad, written in tiny, slanted cursive handwriting in the center. Pulling out the letter, I was not sure if she was messing with me. She teased me for my speech being formal, and yet, her handwriting looked like it was stolen from the eighteenth century.
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Dear Galahad,
Hold fast to dreams, Langston Hughes once wrote.
Galahad, I like to dream. If you are going to send flowers, please do not let them wake me. I am thankful for them, anyway, so I am returning the gesture. The flower I sent to you is the Seattle Dahlia. It is the symbol of those who stand strong in his or her sacred values and Seattle itself.
I hope you enjoy your time here.
Odette
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“Odette.” I snickered to myself, looking in absolute amusement over the flowers she had sent me.
Was she going to do this every time I sent her flowers? Would we have a flower war? Also, the poem she had taken very much out of context.
Shaking my head, I wanted to send her another letter, but I knew she might not be there, and wanting a response immediately, I took out my phone.
Ralph Waldo Emerson said, ‘The Earth laughs in flowers,’ and I am laughing at yours. —Gale.
She responded instantly. Odette says, if you laugh at my flowers, I will throw away yours.
I roared with laughter, my whole body shaking. Leaning on the couch, I nodded. You quote yourself now? Well, that is at least better than stealing Mr. Hughes's poem and twisting the meaning for your own gain.
Isn’t the beauty of poetry that it is left to the interpretation of the reader?—Odette.
No, the beauty of poetry is the expression of the human heart, which is why I am so touched that you felt the need to not only search for a poem for me but also to send it with flowers. I have never received such a gift. —Gale.
Don’t read too much into it. I was trying to say ‘thank you, but do not send them at sunrise. They woke me up.’ Nothing more. —Odette.
“So, what you are saying is, I may keep sending them, so long as I choose a more convenient time of day? —Gale.
I did not say that. You are infuriating. —Odette
You did not, not say that. And yes, I know. But you are also infuriating. —Gale.
How am I infuriating? —Odette
