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A. MITCHELL: Drinks after work?
J. SPENCER: One drink.
A. MITCHELL: *sad face* We’ll see about that. *beer glass* *wine glass* *dancing girl*
I laughed and closed the little screen that was bound to get me fired one day.
The weekend was a write off after my ‘one drink’ at The Edge turned into too many. I made my deadline, I always did. But the stress of the unknown state of my job was taking its toll, and the only people who understood were my workmates. They had become my family over the past five years and I adored them all. Even Janice.
Pete shared a cab home with me as he lived close by, and helped me up to my apartment. As I said goodbye, he habitually leant in for a kiss.
I pressed my hand against his chest and gently pushed him away, shaking my head. “I’m sorry, Pete.”
He nodded sadly and didn’t say a word. Just turned and slowly made his way down the stairs, clearly waiting for me to call him back. I didn’t.
I closed the door and leant my head against it. Why can’t I just make it work with him?
Missing my usual Friday night pizza, I whipped up another batch of mac and cheese, and repeated my steps from the weekend prior. Carrying the bowl over to my dad’s old record player, I sat cross-legged in front of it, like it was an altar, because in some ways it was. Closing my eyes, I randomly picked out a record from my huge collection and hoped the lyrics would speak to me and offer the guidance I craved.
My dad loved music and used to constantly quote song lyrics. He said there was a song for every occasion and believed if you listened hard enough, you could find the answers to all of life’s problems.
Running my hand over the mystery record, I tried to guess by the feel. When I obviously couldn’t, I opened my eyes and smiled, but it was laced with sadness. Fleetwood Mac’s white album was one of Mum’s favourite records. I flipped it over and loaded side two into the record player. Laying back on my timber floorboards alongside Luci, I waited for Mum’s beloved track to play. The beautiful melody of Landslide filled the room, and I closed my welling eyes and drifted off to sleep.
* * *
A dozen roses awaited my arrival to work on Monday morning. I grimaced as I picked the card out of the scarlet blooms, praying I wouldn’t see Pete’s name within. After making sure my ex-boyfriend wasn’t spying on my adverse reaction through my office window, I opened the card.
I would much prefer to apologise in person. Call me (323) 302 9917 ~ G.
My eyes almost popped out of their sockets. Grayson?
As if I would call him just because he sent flowers. I didn’t even like roses. I mean, I could admit they were lovely, just not my thing. I dropped the card back into the long stems and pushed them to the edge of my desk.
Pete stopped buying me flowers early in our relationship because I told him to. I hated the thought of cutting a life short, just to have it brighten a room for a few days.
When my parents died, my whole house was full of flowers. Bunches and bunches of roses, lilies and orchids were delivered, and then, days later, they died…just like my parents. A painful reminder that their lives were also cut too short.
Later that day, Pete slowly ambled past my office like he always did, waiting for an invitation to talk to me.
“Didn’t take you long,” he muttered, pausing at my open door.
I followed his gaze to the roses on my desk and rolled my eyes.
“They’re from a friend,” I said as he sauntered closer.
“A friend?” He picked up the note that I should’ve thrown away, and pursed his lips. “Who’s ‘G’?”
“Pete…” I warned, now wishing the roses hadn’t been de-thorned. He deserved a prick for invading my privacy.
Pete folded his arms. “You told me you hated flowers.”
“I don’t hate flowers, I just don’t like receiving them as a gesture,” I replied shortly.
“Alright, well…good luck to your friend,” he uttered and stormed out of my office.
* * *
The next day I received more flowers. This time, oriental lilies. I hesitantly picked out the card.
