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Keller:Yeah, but, he’s my kid. I should … I don’t know.
Orson:He’s a grown man. You can’t be responsible for him.
Keller:Man or not, he’s my son so I’ll always be responsible for him. But I’m so mad at what he did to you, and I really appreciate you making sure he got home okay.
Orson:It’s fine. He was drunk and if I’m honest, I felt a bit sorry for the guy.
Keller:He said. Also told me he hit on you so, ah, sorry about that too?
Orson:Don’t be, I take it as a compliment ;)
Keller:I’m going to pretend you didn’t just winky face over my kid.
Orson:In that case, I’ll pretend like your kid didn’t kiss my boyfriend.
Keller:Deal!
Orson:I’m not sure if I should even ask this but … is he okay?
Keller:Honestly? I don’t know. He had a boyfriend for the first two years of college and they were both talking about getting married and all that stupid young love stuff, but turns out this kid had a high school sweetheart back home who he was fucking behind Molly’s back. He hasn’t been the same since.
Orson:Fuck. Our conversation is starting to make more sense now.
Keller:Yeah … I don’t know what I’m going to do about him …
33
Orson
I’m runoff my feet. All day, there are people in and out, and just when I think I can have a breather, more people walk in. I have no clue what’s going on today, but I’m going to struggle to stock the market tomorrow at this rate.
Maybe I’m due a day off from there anyway.
Ford never came over last night, and I haven’t heard from him this morning either. It’s making me uneasy, and with no chance for me to stop for lunch, let alone send him a quick text to check in, I can’t even get excited over what has to be a record sales day. The way we left things last night wasn’t ideal, but I thought he was okay. He said he was fine to get home, and I dropped Molly off, so I knew he wasn’t bothering Ford, but now I’m worried I got everything wrong.
Ishe okay? Should I have stayed and comforted him instead of running after the guy intent on ruining my relationship? Fordhasto know that I went after Molly for him … right?
Fuck.
If only I could catch a spare five minutes to pick up my phone and call him. Make sure everything is okay. This knot of unease in my gut is the only thing I can concentrate on.
“Just these, thanks,” a man says, resting a bunch of flowers on the counter.
“No problem. Do you need them wrapped?”
“Nope, like that is fine.”
He’s the umpteenth person today wanting to take his bouquet bare, and that’s … odd. It’s rare that I have one bunch taken without wrapping, let alone more than half.
I eye the guy. “Where do I know you from?”
“Nowhere, I don’t think.” He shifts his body weight from one side and back to the other.
Looking suspicious.
I take in his black zip-up hoodie, navy cargo pants, and grease-stained hands. His fingernails are painted blue. “Do you work at the garage?”
His eyes immediately dart to the side like he’s hoping the wall will give him his answer. “Ah, yeah. I do. Just finished up. On my way home. Buying some flowers for a special someone …”
