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eg and her golden vagina.” The moment I leave my patient’s room and the nurse’s station comes into view; the giant bouquet of flowers seated in a glass vase on top of the reception desk steal my attention. Meg kneels on the desk, digging through the tallest flowers to pull out a small white envelope. She hops down and takes a step back, reading the name on the card and clutching it to her chest.
“Jesus, Meg,” I tell her once I’m within earshot, “this has got to be your biggest bouquet yet. I thought you told the last guy who took you out to get bent? Or is this someone new already?”
She turns to face me slowly, a knowing smirk on her face. “Actually”, she says, pulling the card from her chest and handing it to me, “they're for you.”
Right. Considering I haven't had a date in well over six months . . . or is it eight months? What was that one guy's name—the ER doctor from the community hospital? Brennan? Considering the last time we saw each other, he suggested I get breast implants and I politely suggested he go fuck himself, and doused him with my cocktail, I don't think he'd be sending me flowers.
“Nice try, but I'm not that much of an idiot.” I gently push through the crowd admiring the bouquet to walk toward the supply closet. “Quit gawking over your flowers and come hold some legs open while I put a foley in Room 434.”
She follows me through the crowd and tugs at my arm until I stop and focus on the white envelope she’s holding underneath my nose. It takes my vision a second to focus, but then I can see my name written in sans script. “Seriously Jenna, they're for you.”
I look from the card, to Meg, to the flowers. “Didyouget me flowers?”
Meg grins, grabbing my palm and forcing the card into it. “No, they're not from me, or anyone else that works here. So, unless you are okay with me ripping into that envelope and reading who they are from, you better open it up.”
I grip my palm around the tiny envelope, feeling the corner cut into my skin. It shouldn't be such a big deal. People receive flowers all the time. Except the last time I received flowers, it was my mom's funeral, and before that, possibly the corsage Emmett gave me for junior prom. So, if they are from Boob-Job Brennan (Brandon?), it’s a sweet and rare enough gesture that I might consider a second date with him. Maybe.
I take another look at the flowers in the vase,reallypausing to look at them. Once I realize what they are, I don’t need to open the card to see who sent them.
“What are the tall purple ones, anyways?” Meg asks, her voice becoming a distant echo as she pulls me back toward the display. “I haven’t seen those before. Any of these types of flowers. Whoever sent the bouquet put a lot of thought into it.”
“It’s called Larkspur,” Emmett says, handing me the corsage still neatly seated in its clear plastic case. “You said I could get any kind of flower as long as it matched your dress. I hope this is okay.”
“A Lark–what?” I take the container from his hands, sweat gathering underneath my too-tight prom dress as I study the wrist corsage. I recognize some flowers. White roses maybe, a sprinkle of baby’s breath, but this is unlike anything I’ve seen in the pictures my friends and I have studied.
“Larkspur. It’s your birth flower.”
“Birth flower,” I echo. I didn’t realize having a birth flower was a thing.
“My mom thought it was a cool idea,” he stammers, nervously raking a finger through the sides of his hair. “She said I should do something with meaning, and when I found out the meaning of your birth flower, I knew it would be perfect.”
Cracking open the case, the smell hits me and I bring it to my face, inhaling the freshness before pulling back and admiring the small, horn-shaped, lightly uneven petals, adorned with a smaller flower inside. I have never heard of such a thing. Leave it to Emmett to be this thoughtful. A broad smile stretches across my face as I look up at him. “Emmett . . . this is . . . this is awesome.”
A smile of relief crosses his face, and he reaches to take the corsage out of the box in my hand. He tucks the box under his arm before stretching the band, ushering for my hand.
I stick my hand out, letting him slide the flower bouquet on my wrist before pulling my arm back and admiring it against my dress. He somehow picked a shade of flower that contrasts perfectly with the purple hues.
“What’s the meaning?” I ask.
“Huh?” Emmett’s gaze is locked on my wrist, hand splayed across my stomach.
“You said there is meaning behind birth flowers.”
“Oh yeah . . .” he trails off, adjusting his stance before looking up to meet my eyes.
“Your birth flower is Larkspur. As a plant they grow tall, taller than most other flowers and are resilient as hell. They can withstand cold temperatures and thrive in environments where most can’t survive. Even if they are done blooming, and all dried out, they still hold onto their color, never fading. They symbolize a beautiful spirit, lightheartedness, and pure fun. So basically, it symbolizes you.”
“Larkspur,” I finally say out loud. “The tall ones are Larkspur.”
“Larkspur? What the heck is a larkspur?” Meg asks.
“It’s my birth flower.” With fumbling hands, I slide a nail under the flap to open the envelope and pull out the card to read the familiar chicken scratch writing.
Jenna—I know you’re mad at me, and you have every right to be. I’ve made some mistakes, but I’d give anything for one more chance to prove how much you mean to me. If you could give me a chance, let me explain, I swear I’d make it right.
The card finishes with his phone number and a request to call him.
“Damn,” Meg says, rising on her tippy toes and leaning on my shoulder to read the scrap of paper grasped firmly in my now sweaty hands. “Emmett . . . who’s Emmett? I don’t remember an Emmett. . . Wait!” She slaps a palm over her mouth and moves to stand in front of me. Reaching her hands up, she grips my shoulders and shakes me. “Is this your high school boy toy? Emmett? The one that . . .?”
