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“Oh, thank god.”
I laughed. “Okay, I’m almost home. If you’re going out tonight and need me for anything, call me. Otherwise, I’ll call you after my date tomorrow.”
“I hope you’re getting dicked so hard you forget.”
I laughed. “This is why I love you.”
I ended the call and when I got home, I carefully placed my little perfect paper flower on a saucer and put it pride of place on my bookcase. I took a quick shower, changed into my comfiest trackies and shirt, and planted myself in front of the TV just in time forHome and Gardento start.
Perfect end to a perfect day.
Until I got a text message from Keats. It was a photo of his legs in plaid sleep pants outstretched to a coffee table, crossed at the ankles, and his sexy feet. His TV screen showed the opening credits toHome and Garden.
I laughed, unprepared for how he’d made a perfect day even perfecter.
I sent him a pic of my view. My legs folded up on the couch; the TV showing the show we were both watching.
A second later, my phone rang.
It was Keats.
“I don’t know whether to blame you or thank you,” he said, his voice warm and happy. “Does this mean I’m in my middle-aged-gay-man era?”
I laughed. “Possibly. It’s not an entirely bad era to be in. I tried to fight it until I realised that I actually really like it. Once you accept it and embrace it, you’ll be much happier.”
He chuckled. “Oh look, a cooking segment. What is she...? Oh good. Now I want chocolate and raspberry brownies. This will not end well for me. Does this new era include middle-aged-gay-man weight gain?”
“Well, everything’s fine in moderation.”
“That’s also not helping. Now she’s eating it fresh out of the oven with ice cream.”
“Would you prefer we watch a show on exercise and heart health?”
“I don’t think I’mthatmiddle-aged,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m thirty. I know in gay teen years I’m as good as dead and buried, but my cholesterol is fine.”
I laughed. “Next segment is how to select the right indoor plant. Actually, I should take notes because after talking to you, I want to get some greenery for my place. Like a little fern or something.”
“A fern?”
“I don’t know any other kind of plants. I like the ones that have the droopy vines with heart leaves, but I don’t know what they’re called.”
He chuckled. “There’s probably a few, but I think you’re talking about a pothos.”
“I have no clue. You’d honestly think I should be an expert in these things, considering this is my new favourite show.”
“Why were you thinking you needed some greenery?”
“Because you said it was peaceful and I have none at my place, and after I went into your shop and saw how pretty it is with plants and flowers, it got me thinking. And,” I added, “truth be told, I’d never spent much time here and a houseplant probably would have died, but these last few weeks I’ve been at home most nights and on weekends. I’ve decluttered, sorted my wardrobe, moved some furniture. You know, in my new-me era. I think I should maybe adopt a plant.”
“Probably safer than getting a cat,” he said. “You know, if you question your mortality rates on a plant.”
I laughed. “Fair call.”
“I can help you buy a plant tomorrow if you want?” he offered.
“Really?”
“Sure.”
