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“They’re not for him. I’m going to stick one in my hair. You once told me the reason you wear flowers in your hair is because Lucas loves it so much.”
My hand rises to my high ponytail, tapping the golden poppy that currently sticks out the top of my head. I really need to be careful what I say around my female friends about Lucas—secrets revealed that I never realized they were taking notes on.
“I’m not sure that’s the approach you should take with him.” I hate that I’m just like Lucas. He’s too kind to say no, and I’m too nice not to give good advice to my friend. “Don’t try to be someone you’re not.”
“But if I’m me, he’ll never like me,” she says, not realizing her admission. “Roses are a classic. That’s it—I’ll take one red rose.”
I bite my tongue. The very first time Lucas visited the flower shop, he remarked how red roses are the choice of the lazy, the uninspired. Since I work in a flower shop and have a million plants at home, there have been very few occasions in which Lucas has ever had to give me flowers, but when he has, it’s never been a rose.
I attempt to steer Jasmine from a disastrous choice. “Maybe you should select something with a little less meaning.”
Since I began working at the flower shop, I’ve become educated in the power of flowers. Not just the visual and sensory power but also the hidden meanings behind each. Love, courage, friendship, sorrow, every flower carries with it a hidden message. Many of the customers now come to me to consult. They explain the occasion, the person, what feeling they are looking to convey, and I give them a short list of flowers. They’ve learned to trust my instincts and guidance.
Jasmine is not one of them. She shakes her head to the side like a five-year-old. “Nope, you can’t go wrong with a classic.”
Oh yes you can, I want to scream but don’t.
“Since I asked him out, do I have to plan the date? It’s 2022—am I paying? Why is dating so hard?” Jasmine twists herself into a ball of anxiety. I’ve seen her do this before, stressing over a final paper that was 25 percent of her final grade. She worked herself into such a frenzy she broke out and wore six layers of skin cream for three days. I stare at her chin in search of signs of an acne attack and come up empty.
I shoo her from around the counter. “Don’t stress me out. He’ll make all the arrangements. He lives for this.” I think of our high school first Fridays—the once-a-month night we both set aside just for ourselves. No friends, no school events, just he and I doing something silly together. We alternated planning the night, each trying to one-up the other. It was the best of times. But Lucas never had to wait for a first Friday to plan a special night for us.
In ninth grade, our parents went out together to a fancy dinner and a New Year’s Eve Dolly Parton concert. Lucas somehow convinced both sets of parents we could fend for ourselves. He led me back to his bedroom, which was filled with balloons and streamers. He’d pulled his dad’s stereo into the room to create an impromptu New Year’s Eve experience for us. A party of two. That’s all we’ve ever needed. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.
“So, tell me about your date,” Jasmine asks with a grin that tells me she can’t wait to kiss my best friend.
“Lucas’ friend Trent,” I start, familiar with Trent’s history. “He’s only here for a week or two before heading home to California.”
“You’re going to have to work fast.” Jasmine shrieks and pulls the neck of her T-shirt off her left shoulder, dipping her knee and wiggling her bare shoulder at me. It is the opposite of seductive, and my fears that she’ll steal the boy I’ve been crushing on for half a dozen years tamps down.
“You really don’t know me, do you?” I mean the line to be humorous, but I hear the bite in my voice. I rush out words with a more proper tone. “I don’t do fast. I’m willing to wait for what I want.” It’s a trait few of my contemporaries have. I waited two years to purchase my car, waiting until the perfect one became available. I’m a firm believer in figuring out what you want and then working toward it. Don’t take shortcuts, and don’t get distracted along the way. It’s proven rewarding in almost every area of my life.
“And what if what you want is Trent?” she counters. “Even if it’s just for a week or two of the down and dirty.”
I shake my head. Fast men have never been my type. I do a quick roll call of the list of men I’ve been attracted to and realize I’ve only ever had one type—Lucas.
“We’re on for pregame before the date tomorrow, right?” Jasmine reminds me of another commitment I agreed to for some reason. “Maybe I can share some tips on how to be daring, and you can give me a Lucas 101 tutorial.”
“It would have to be a masterclass.” My response slips out. There is nothing elementary about Lucas.
“Perfect.” She breaks the stem of the rose off in her hand and sticks it into the rat’s nest of hair on top of her head. “I’ll bring the wine and a notebook.”
I nod. There’s no use battling the inevitable. Lucas was always going to come home with either a girlfriend or seeking one once he arrived. He is boyfriend material and so much more.
I’ve always had this day marked on the calendar. It just sucks that it will happen in front of my eyes, three feet away. Can’t the calendar just skip Friday this week?
6
“Wow, first you share your dinner table and home with me, and now this.” Trent needles me as I navigate my dad’s car into the massive parking lot of Fairbanks Paper and Office Supplies corporate office. “How exactly did you go out last night to reconnect with your best friend, the woman you hold in higher esteem than Mother Teresa, but I’m the one who winds up going on a date with her?”
“Shut up,” I tease. Trent’s needling is approaching three hours. I would pivot to another subject, but it’s the only topic that has lifted his mood. An early morning text from his mom cast a dark cloud over him all morning, the construction at the home running into delays: Can you stay out a few more days. The underlying message clear as a billboard in Times Square—you’re not welcome here.
He sulked around the house all morning, and I couldn’t leave him alone, not after abandoning him last night and getting home just after two in the morning. I’ve dragged him along for the ride to my appointment. A serene smile sits on his face as he stares out the shotgun seat’s window.
He reaches to the side of the seat and flips it back, nearly flat. “I know you see Adrienne through some of the strongest rose-colored glasses known to man, but if she’s half as good as you’ve implied over the years, I may already be in love with her.”
He’s kidding, but I feel the heat of jealousy shoot through my chest. I slam on the brakes harder than necessary, jostling Trent. “We’re here,” I say, hoping to hide my misstep.
My friends are aware of Adrienne’s awesomeness, even though most of them have never met her. It’s nearly impossible for me to have a conversation on any topic without her name crossing my lips. They’ve all challenged me and have asked on more than one occasion if Adrienne and I are more than best friends—the concept of a guy and girl being that close without sex is foreign to them. Over the years, my denials have gotten weaker and weaker as I’ve realized she truly is the perfect partner. However, we’ve never crossed that line, and doing so would jeopardize everything we have. So now I bite my tongue and ignore their questions.
