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“You are? Bring him on Sunday!” my mom exclaims.
“Um, no, Mom. It’s way too soon for that. And he’s kind of anti-social at the moment.”
“What do you mean, anti-social?” she asks suspiciously.
I exhale, weaving another flower through the mesh. “I don’t know. He’s got some PTSD going on. He says he doesn’t feel anything.”
“Is he military?” my mom asks.
“Not exactly. But it’s kind of like that. I don’t want to tell his story without his permission.”
“Well,” my mom says slowly. “Sounds like his brain chemistry is off. You should get him to get his neurotransmitter levels checked.”
It’s so obvious I wonder why I didn’t put a scientific explanation to Armando’s malaise. Of course it’s a brain chemistry thing. Depression probably set in in prison, and the change in neurotransmitter levels wouldn’t just instantly shift back because he’s out. It makes perfect sense. I’m not sure he’s the kind of guy I could convince to get tested or help, though.
Still, it made me feel better. It seems like Armando thinks he has some kind of fatal flaw. Soullessness. Like he’s dead inside and nothing will bring him back. Maybe knowing it’s just neurochemical would help him.
“Thanks, Mom, I will talk to him about it. That’s a good idea.”
“Well, if he wants to come Sunday, he’s welcome. And we won’t make a big deal about it.”
“No chance, Mom. I’ll see you then.”
“All right, sweetheart. Love you.”
“I love you, too.”
I end the call as Josie breezes in late again. My stomach cinches up the way it always does when she’s around these days. My beautiful best friend who’s killing me as an employee. I think about Armando. What he would say. How he urged me to text Mary Alice as soon as I’d arrived at the decision. My mouth goes dry just thinking about what has to be done here.
“Josie,” I start, my voice coming out like a bark.
“Yeah?” She tucks her purse behind the counter and comes over.
“Can we talk?” The flapping wings in my belly grow more wild.
I swear I see the same anxiety I feel on Josie’s face.
Oh God. I don’t know if I can do this.
“You know I love you, right?”
She goes still. She’s wearing a bronze highlighter on the tops of her cheekbones and forehead that make her look like a model. I’m actually not sure why she isn’t a model, come to think of it. She’s got the beauty and the height.
“Yeah.” Her voice is quiet. Almost scared.
Shit.
I’m scared too. That’s why I’ve put off this talk for so long. I don’t want to lose my best friend. I don’t want to hurt or offend. But if I don’t change things, I’m going to end up hating her. I think about Armando just forcing me to say why I was mad. It had been a good thing. Maybe this would be too.
“I don’t know if you working here is the best thing for our friendship.” I get it out all in one burst, like the air rushing out of a balloon.
Her eyes widen. “Yeah,” she says, sounding sort of surprised.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out, mainly because I’m taken aback by her yeah.
She runs her thumbnail over the workbench surface, eyes down. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about it for a while.” Her voice is low and sorry.
I blink. “You have?”
She nods. “Yeah. I just didn’t want to leave you in the lurch, you know? This place is everything to you, and you’re working so hard. I don’t want to abandon you, but… the flower shop isn’t really my gig. I want to get back to interior design, but I’m not going to put myself out there if I keep telling myself you need me.”
Relief pours through me, mingled with a little hurt. “Right. You were just helping me out. Of course this isn’t your gig.”
“And you were helping me,” she says firmly. She’d been depressed after getting laid off from her apprenticeship when I offered her the job. She was good at interior design. I figured she’d love flowers, too. We both wanted to help each other. But it makes sense that this job is holding her back from her dreams.
“So… you’ll find something else?”
She nods. “If that’s okay with you. I’m sorry—I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it for weeks, but it never seemed like the right time. My stomach’s been in knots every time I was here.”
“Oh my God,” I let out a laugh. “That was yours!” I rub my own belly, and suddenly, now that I’ve identified its source, the nervous feeling is gone. “I was feeling it with you!”
Josie shakes her head. “You are so weird. Like sci-fi weird.”
“I know. Star Trek—I’m Gem, the empath who steals other people’s pain. Only I don’t really take it out of them, I just feel it too. It’s such a useless ability. Like why couldn’t I be able to see ghosts or predict the future or something? Being an empath isn’t a superpower, it’s a handicap.”
