Flower

by Shea Olsen

  She’d gotten a call right after she’d opened the store this morning asking that the bouquet of purple roses be delivered to Charlotte Reed at Pacific Heights High, as soon as possible. And she’d spent the rest of the day about to burst, waiting for me to get to the shop so she could ask me nine hundred million questions about the boy who sent me flowers.

  Holly knows I don’t date. She knows I’ve never had a boyfriend. But she’s a hopeless romantic and she wanted every detail—from what he was wearing, to exactly what he said, to how I felt when I saw the flowers arrive in my classroom. Annoyed, I told her, not that she believed me.

  Now I push up from the stool, walk to the front window, and flip over the CLOSED sign.

  I’m about to grab my purse and keys when the chime over the front door sounds behind me, signaling someone has just stepped through the doorway. “Sorry, we’re closed,” I say, spinning around to politely usher whoever it is back outside. But my entire body freezes in place.

  “I’ve always had bad timing.” Tate stands with his hands in his pockets, lips quirked slightly to one side.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “I wanted to see you.”

  I exhale through my nose, my heart stuttering, then starting again. “You shouldn’t have sent me those roses today.”

  “Why not?” The question hangs in the air between us, and his eyes pour over me like he could touch my skin with only his stare. He unnerves me. And I hate the part of me that likes the feeling. I’ve dealt with boys like this before at the shop—guys who act like I should swoon over them, who think they can make me crumble with just one look, but it’s always had zero effect on me. Tate shouldn’t be any different. He isn’t any different. So why does it feel like I can’t breathe when he’s standing this close?

  “You don’t even know me,” I manage to say.

  “I know you like purple roses.”

  “That’s only one detail.” I glance back at the counter, wishing for a distraction, like my phone to magically start ringing. But no such luck. Taking a breath, I fight the urge to twine my hair around my finger.

  “Most girls like a guy who notices the details.” He raises an eyebrow and pushes his hands deeper into his pockets.

  I grind my teeth in frustration. “I’m not most girls.”

  “No,” he says, and the dimple is back for a moment. “I’ve noticed that.”

  “And you’re here because...”

  “Go out with me,” he says out of nowhere.

  It catches me off guard and I take a step back. “What?”

  “You said I don’t know you. Go on a date with me so I can.” His voice is deep, provocative, and his eyes sway over me, through me, stripping me into pieces. He’s dressed almost identically to how he was yesterday: faded jeans and a simple white T-shirt. But on his left wrist he wears a silver watch that I don’t remember. It looks expensive.

  “I—” My mouth hangs open, my mind unable to close around a thought. And something catches in my chest, a pressure I can’t explain. I wish he would just leave.

  But he doesn’t. He steps closer to me and stops only a couple feet away, never taking his eyes off mine. My skin feels like glass, cracking and splintering just under the surface.

  A car horn honks from the street, breaking the spell, and he glances over his shoulder just as a truck pulls away from the curb. His expression turns uneasy for a second before he relaxes once more into that thoughtless confidence. “I want to take you out,” he says again.

  I can’t deny the tingle of excitement at the base of my neck. But I cross my arms, tightening my hands into fists, ordering my body to behave. “No,” I say, and the word is hard against my throat. “I need to lock up, and I need to go home.” I force my eyes to meet his, wanting him to see that I’m serious.

  The dimple peeks out for a second, like he finds this funny. Or maybe he just enjoys a challenge. I imagine he probably doesn’t hear the word no very often.

  He glances at his watch, then at the door. “Good night, then...Charlotte,” he says, his voice coiling over my name. And I suck in a breath, watching him slip out through the glass doors and vanish into the dark.

  * * *

  “He asked you out?” Carlos screeches.

  I sink down in my chair, cringing. “Say it louder next time. I don’t think they heard you in Orange County.”

  We’re sitting in Mrs. Dixon’s computer lab, where the Pacific Heights High newspaper club meets once a week after school on Wednesdays. This week Carlos is writing an article about the sycamore tree beside the west entrance that’s slowly dying because everyone keeps carving their names into the soft bark of the trunk. During lunch, I used the school’s ancient camera and took photos of the tree, documenting the hearts and names etched into the wood: Weston luvs Cara. TM + AY, which everyone knows is Toby McAlister and Alison Yarrow, their names eternally branded into the tree even though they only dated for two weeks and hate each other now.

  “Sorry,” Carlos says, not sounding sorry at all. “But my best friend just got asked on a date by Mr. Tall, Dark, and Delicious. I think I’m allowed to get caught up in the moment.”

  “I told him no,” I remind him. I’m at one of the computers against the bank of windows overlooking the street outside, sorting through the photos I took earlier, but the screen keeps freezing and I’ve already had to restart it twice. The computer lab is just another example of the school’s dire lack of funds. But working on the Banner is good for my application to Stanford. At least, that’s why I signed up, but I’ve actually started to enjoy it. Taking photos feels more anonymous than writing articles for the paper, and yet, sometimes it also feels more important, like a single photo can say more than four hundred double-spaced words.

  “And you wonder why I worry. What else did he say?” Carlos prods from his computer next to mine.

  “Nothing. I told him to leave.”

  “You did what?” Carlos looks at me like I’m insane.

  “Well, I needed to close the shop.” I hate that I feel defensive. I shouldn’t second-guess myself for doing what I know was right. Better to quash any hope Tate had that I might go out with him—prevent him from coming back and trying again. So what if I was a little rude?

  “I don’t think you know what you need,” Carlos mutters. I give him my best side-eye but he’s unfazed. “And how fine did he look this time?”

  I lift one shoulder and shake my head, ignoring the swift flood of warmth in my cheeks.

  “Admit it,” Carlos says, turning in his chair to face me. “You think he’s totally hot.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “You know it doesn’t. I’ve made it to senior year without getting distracted by a guy. I’m hardly going to let it happen now.” It’s not like I’ve never had a crush before. Edgar Hoyt, my lab partner in AP Chem class last year, used to make my breath catch whenever his hand accidentally brushed mine. Carlos thought I was insane to think Edgar was even remotely cute, but something about him—his square, dark-rimmed glasses; his sharp nose and toned arms that hinted he was more than just a brainiac—made my heart race. It didn’t matter, of course. I don’t date. I don’t let a stupid crush take root inside me, where it can grow and unravel everything I’ve worked so hard for.

  “But just to clarify, you do think he’s knockout, drop-your-panties gorgeous?”

  I sigh. He won’t let it go until I’ve given him something. “I guess...” I clear my throat as an image of Tate—white T-shirt, dark eyes—flashes into my mind. “I guess I would say that’s an accurate description.”

  Carlos snorts. “Coming from you, that’s a declaration of love. Good. Now we don’t have to pretend he’s not hot when we talk about him again.”

  “We won’t be talking about him again.” I focus back on the computer screen.


  “I’ll remember you said that,” Carlos says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

  * * *

  There are several bouquets that have to be assembled tonight at work, and I lose myself in trimming the stems, tying perfect bows with organdy and grosgrain ribbon, and arranging them all into beautiful floral configurations. It’s one of the best things about my job—creating something lovely that I know will brighten someone’s day. I make a bouquet of sunflowers and hydrangeas for a fifty-year anniversary. Cheerful birds-of-paradise, lilies, and red hyperciums for a get-well-soon. A dozen roses in predictable red for someone named Emily. The card reads, I may be an ass, but I’m your ass. Forgive me? Jim. I have to laugh at that one. Boring taste in flowers aside, I find myself hoping he and Emily will figure things out.

  That’s the unexpected part of working in a flower shop. It creates a kind of intimacy you wouldn’t expect. You can’t help but wonder about the sick relative—will Aunt Ruth really get well soon? Or the milestone anniversary—I picture an elderly couple sitting on a bench overlooking the beach, watching the waves roll in at high tide, still holding hands after all these years. What would it be like to grow old with someone? To know that person inside and out, and love them anyway? Not just fall into the moment with some guy like Mom did, or Mia, only to fall right back out again.

  When I finish the bouquets, I only have another hour until closing, so I work on my problem sets and study for my next calc test. I write out equations in my notebook, trying to keep images of Tate from surfacing—the slant of his eyes, the arch of his lips, the warmth of his fingers against my skin when they brushed away a fleck of glitter. I focus on derivatives and differentials. Not on thoughts of boys who stand too close and suck all the air from the room. Because why would I even think about him? I turned him down for all the right reasons, I remind myself—I’ve worked too hard to get this close to leaving this life behind. My crappy high school, our tiny house. There’s more out there for me. I know there is.

  When I hear the door chime again, I spin around too quickly and knock the scissors sitting on the counter beside me onto the floor, almost stabbing my right foot. “Shit,” I mutter, bending down to pick them up.

  “You all right?” a voice asks—a voice I recognize, because part of me has been secretly hoping I might hear it again.

  I retrieve the scissors and stand slowly. “I’d be better if you’d stop sneaking up on me.”

  Tate is standing just inside the front door. In his hands he holds two cardboard trays with four carryout cups in each one. He gives me a brief once-over, lingering on the hand that still holds the scissors. “Will you drop the weapon if I tell you I brought you coffee?” He lifts one of the trays, extending it toward me like a peace offering.

  “Eight cups?”

  “I don’t know you, remember? So I don’t know what you like.”

  “Who says I like coffee at all?” I ask.

  He glances down at the cups, then back up at me. “Do you like coffee?”

  “I might,” I tell him, though of course I do.

  He moves to the front counter to set down the trays. The sweet scents of coffee and steamed milk and cinnamon fill the air.

  “What are my options?” I know I shouldn’t play along with his little game—I should just tell him to leave. But I ease toward the counter, drawn to the heady aromas despite myself.

  “Black, no frills?” he asks, his gravelly voice making the question sound much more personal than it is.

  I shake my head.

  His eyes pass over the cups, then back to me. “Mocha, extra whipped cream?”

  “Nope.”

  “Caramel latte with skim milk?”

  I shake my head again. I’m actually starting to enjoy myself. Denying each option feels good, like I’m reminding us both that he doesn’t have anything I want.

  His eyes narrow, undeterred. Then he lifts one of the cups and holds it out to me. “Chai with steamed almond milk and a dash of cinnamon.”

  My head tilts to the side. Without answering, I take the cup from his hand, careful not to let our fingers brush. Dammit.

  I detect the slightest self-satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  “This doesn’t mean I’m going on a date with you,” I say.

  “I’m not asking.”

  I take a sip of the chai and it instantly warms my tongue; it’s exactly what I need to help me get through the rest of my homework tonight. “Thanks,” I manage.

  His eyes lower, focusing on my mouth, and I draw my bottom lip between my teeth as a sudden heat races through me. Then, because he never seems to do the expected, he grabs the two trays from the counter—still full, minus one cup—and turns for the door.

  I open my mouth, about to say, That’s it? That’s all you came here for? When I remember myself and press my lips together.

  He stops halfway to the door, says, “Enjoy the chai, Charlotte,” and once again, he’s gone. But this time, I can’t help but hope he’ll come back.

  FOUR

  THE NEXT DAY, IN ENGLISH, I don’t tell Carlos about Tate.

  At lunch, I don’t tell Carlos about Tate.

  After school, when I say good-bye before I head to UCLA for my internship, I don’t tell Carlos about Tate.

  I’m not sure what holds me back. Except maybe that talking about him will only make it worse. Because as much as I try not to... I can’t stop thinking about Tate.

  * * *

  On Friday, it feels like my body is a charged electrical current, buzzing and snapping at the ends. I’m anxious to get to work—to see if Tate will come in again. I know I shouldn’t hope for it; I know I shouldn’t care either way. But no matter how many deep, calming breaths I take, the edginess remains.

  The hours pass slowly, and any time the door opens, it’s never him. When the last customer has left, I move to the front of the store, peeking out through the glass windows onto the sidewalk—looking for him. He isn’t there. I tell myself it’s better if he doesn’t show up tonight—or ever again. But that doesn’t ease the disappointment.

  I remind myself again why I promised myself to stay away from guys—especially guys like Tate. My grandmother worked hard to give my mom a better life, and then Mom had us. Too young, not ready to support us. Our dads came and went, just like the rest of the boyfriends who demanded her attention, who took her money and time and happiness. I think about Mia and Leo, little Leo, who doesn’t yet know what his mom could have been, that she’s as smart as me, maybe smarter. But Mia won’t be going off to college; her life is stalled now, stuck with all the potential in the world. There’s no word worse than potential. It’s the story of everything that will never be.

  I carry my keys to the door, flip over the CLOSED sign, lock up, and turn off the overhead shop lights. I’m about to turn around, do my last sweep of the shop before I leave for the night, when I notice a sleek black car pull up directly in front of the store. The headlights send out beams of bluish light and the car makes almost no sound as it comes to a stop. It looks expensive. Really expensive.

  The driver’s side door swings open...and Tate steps out.

  He turns toward the shop, the car making a swift beeping sound behind him. When he reaches the door and touches the handle, he realizes it’s locked. He looks up and his eyes meet mine through the glass. My heart collides with my ribs.

  He glances down at the metal door handle as if expecting me to let him in. But I lift the keys into the air and wave them briefly in front of him. Sorry, I mouth through the glass, smiling a little.

  I catch a hint of disbelief on his face and it fills me with satisfaction. I may have waited around all evening for him, but that doesn’t mean I’ll jump at his sudden arrival.

  I close out the register and watch him from the corner of my e
ye. Then I see him pull his phone from his pocket and press it to his ear.

  A vibration buzzes from inside my purse. I dig out my cell to see a number I don’t recognize. I glance out at Tate and he gestures for me to answer. I hesitate, but finally hit the green button. “Hello?”

  “You locked me out.” I try not to let the thrill of his voice wash through me.

  “We’re closed,” I say into the phone.

  “Hmm,” he murmurs, as if weighing his options, what he might say to convince me to let him in.

  “And how did you get my number anyway?”

  “I’ve had it for days.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question. And PS, it’s more than a little creepy that you’re calling me when I haven’t even given you my number.”

  “I wouldn’t have had to call if you’d unlocked the door,” he says with irritating logic, and I look out at him standing on the other side of the glass. He tilts his head, staring up at the night sky, and then looks back at me. The night suits him somehow, the light from a streetlamp washing over him, illuminating the planes of that impossibly symmetrical face. For the briefest second I feel it again—that sense of familiarity that has nothing to do with the past few evenings at the Bloom Room. Then he shifts and the feeling fades.

  “Still not answering my question,” I counter, pointing to my phone. “How did you get my number?”

  There goes the dimple. “Let’s just say I have...resources at my disposal.”

  “What sort of resources?” I ask.

  “People who figure things out for me.” Another non-answer. But if he has people, he must have more money than I first thought.

  “Don’t you think that gives you an unfair advantage?” I ask.

  “I think I need any advantage I can get.” His gaze holds me captive through the glass windows and I can’t seem to look away. “But now you have my phone number, too, so we’re even.”