by Max Monroe
My always-bickering, but still somehow in love parents, ladies and gentlemen.
If I added a white horse and shoved my dad in knight’s armor, they might as well be a Disney flick.
“Sheesh.” Bruce just smirks at me. “What’s stuck in her craw today?”
I grin and jerk my chin toward him. “Pretty sure you should recognize a thorn when you see one, Mr. Florist Man.”
Thankfully, Bruce takes jabs almost as well as he hands them out, and he leaves me with a smirk as he heads to the back to do whatever it is he does back there.
“He’s a real pain in my ass today,” my mother says as she sidles up next to me at the cash register.
I laugh and roll my eyes. “He’s always a pain in your ass.”
“Yeah.” She snorts. “You’re right. Every day for thirty years, he does something that makes my kettle steam.”
I bite my lip to stop myself from laughing at my mom’s metaphor and shrug. “It’s safe to say there’s no hope for change, then.”
“No. I guess not.” Her smile turns soft. “If there’s one thing to be said about Bruce, it’s that he always keeps me on my toes.”
“Oh yeah. Lifelong toe-walking is great for you. Just ask a podiatrist,” I mutter, and my mom doesn’t hesitate to defend her husband.
“He means well, Maybe. You know he only wants the best for you.” Her wise brown eyes crinkle at the corners. “Just try to remember his intentions come from the heart. And when it comes to his little girl, that sometimes-grumpy heart of his is enormous.”
“But that’s the thing, Mom,” I retort. “I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m a grown-ass, twenty-four-year-old woman.”
Her responding smile is far too knowing and sage. “Oh, honey. Twenty-four is so young. You have so much life to live and learn. You’ll see.”
All I can do is sigh. Because what can I say to that?
I don’t know that my mom will ever think I’m grown up, and Bruce does mean well. He wants me to be happy. I know that.
It’s just hard to remember during a bout of criticism.
The bell above the front door chimes, and a man wearing khaki shorts and an “I Heart New York” T-shirt steps inside. He has a camera strapped around his neck and a petite, gray-haired wife by his side.
“Hello. How can I help you today?” my mother greets, and the man glances around the front of the shop.
His eyes scan across the floral displays and sample bouquets of lilies and daisies and roses. “This is Bruce Willis’s shop, right?”
My mom nods. “It is.”
“Holy shit,” he mutters to himself more than anyone else. “I can’t believe Bruce Willis owns a floral shop.”
Oh, here we go…
“Is he…uh…is he here?” he asks, and my mom tilts her head to the side.
“Is who here?”
“Bruce Willis.” The man stutters over his words. “I’d…I’d love to get a picture with him.”
Most people might think it’s funny, entertaining, even, that my dad shares a name with the Bruce Willis, famous Hollywood action star. And truthfully, they’d be right. It gets quite confusing for the tourists, but it’s been a serious bright spot for me in the past two weeks.
Especially when they stop in, trying to get autographs and roses from the man who kicked ass in Die Hard, only to find my sixty-year-old father in a golf polo, khaki shorts, and loafers.
“He’s not here.” I busy myself filling the cash register with fresh paper. “He’s in LA. Shooting Die Hard 9.”
“Maybe.” My mom nudges me with her elbow, but I ignore her.
The man’s eyes light up with equal parts confusion and excitement. “There’s going to be a Die Hard 9?”
“Yep. Die…Hardest.”
Sure, it could be misconstrued as a little cruel, but I can’t help myself. This is a daily conversation in the shop. I have to spice things up every once in a while.
He scrunches his brow. “But I thought there were only five Die Hard movies…”
“I guess you’re four Die Hards short, then.” I shrug. “But can we interest you in a fresh bouquet of roses by Bruce Willis for your pretty wife?”
His wife smiles at me and then turns a “you better buy me some damn flowers” look toward her husband.
“Uh…” He pauses, but when his eyes meet the stare of doom, he quickly agrees, “Y-yes. Of course.”
“And Bruce doesn’t think I do anything around here,” I whisper toward my mom as the man proceeds to pick his main squeeze a fresh bouquet of pink roses from one of the displays.
She rolls her eyes and grins at the same time. “You’re incorrigible.”
“And a fantastic saleswoman.”
She pinches my side with a firm grip, and I laugh.
My mom handles the money exchange with Bruce Willis’s number one fan, and I walk toward one of the front displays and take inventory.
“We’re running low on the wild flower bouquets,” I call over my shoulder just as the bell chimes the couple’s exit. “Do you want me to cut some fresh ones, or do you want to?”
“I’ll do it,” she responds, and I hand her one of the empty water buckets before she heads to the back.
With my mom otherwise occupied in the back room and my dad likely taking a secret cigar break, I connect my phone to the Bluetooth speakers of the shop to play some music.
While Bruce is adamant he doesn’t smoke stogies anymore, we all know the truth. One whiff of him when he strides back into the shop after four o’clock says otherwise.
I scroll through my playlists and click on the fourth one from the top. Today feels like a Billie Eilish kind of day.
In the name of keeping busy and making this day go by as fast as possible, I drag a trash can over to the DIY-bouquet section and start picking through each bushel of flowers, throwing away the ones that are dead, have lost too many petals, or managed to get a little too smashed for my liking.
But I only get halfway into my task when the bell above the front door chimes another customer’s entrance.
Crouched down and riffling through the sunflower section, I call over my shoulder, “Just a minute!”
“Take your time,” a man’s voice responds, which I’ve always felt is like the Southern use of Bless your heart, so I quickly finish what I’m doing.
I toss three sad-looking sunflowers into the trash and rearrange the ones left in the bin so the proudest and prettiest are in the front and then push myself to standing. My apron is covered in petals and flower debris, so I dust off swiftly before spinning around.
But all of my hustling comes to a screeching stop, feet freezing securely to their exact location on the tile floor, when I see who the customer is.
Holy Godfather Cannolis.
Dark hair, cobalt-blue eyes, broad shoulders, and a sinfully firm body, he is the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome.
He’s also, it takes me almost zero time to realize, my brother’s best friend, my first real crush, and a guy I haven’t seen in nearly a decade.
Milo Ives.
He’s sporting a pressed, smart suit, and it’s apparent he’s forgone his old Converse and vintage band T-shirts and jeans preferences and adopted the wardrobe of a suave man.
I stare a little harder, and my breath catches in my throat. Dear God, if anything, he’s only gotten more attractive since I last saw him.
Pounding heart, nervous flutter inside my belly, and an embarrassingly ogling gaze, I’ve apparently left my current body behind and inhabited my thirteen-year-old self.
Briefly, I open and close my eyes just to verify what I’m seeing is real.
But it is real. He is real.
Six years older than me, and my brother Evan’s best friend since elementary school, Milo Ives was the unattainable apple of my girlish eye for as long as I can remember, and now, he’s standing right in front of me.
As he looks up from his phone, he flashes a handsome and oh-so-familiar smile my way, and my chest tightens l
ike a damn vise.
When I was eleven, for six straight months, after his parents relocated to Florida for his dad’s job, Milo lived with us to finish out his senior year in high school.
He was busy galivanting with Evan and countless girls, and I…well, I was counting his smiles.
Sleepy, morning smiles. Excited smiles. Amused smiles. Annoyed smiles. You name it, and I memorized it like a swoony-eyed little psycho.
“Hello,” he greets, and his voice is deeper, raspier, sexier than I remember.
Probably because the last time you saw him, you were thirteen years old…
“H-hi,” I stutter through one simple fucking word.
Sheesh, it’s going to be a long encounter if I don’t get my shit together.
It takes an insane amount of work, but I finally get my feet to move me over behind the counter.
Jesus. How can he still have this effect on me?
One would think, a decade later, I’d be impervious to his good looks and natural charm.
I clear my throat once, twice, three times, and still, awkward misery fully engaged, I’m unable to find my voice.
His gorgeous smile deepens, and I have to put a hand to the counter to counteract the gravitational effect it has on my knees.
Just say something, Maybe. Ask him how things have been. Ask him how he’s been.
My cheeks heat and my stomach feels heavy, and I’m now painfully conscious of the coffee stain on my white shirt from this morning.
Just do something besides standing here like a moron.
I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear with a shaky hand and force out three simple words. “H-how are you?”
“I guess I’m doing pretty good for a Monday,” he responds, and that smile turns soft on his lips. “Are you new here?”
“New here?” I repeat his words, and he nods.
“I’ve known the Willis family for a long time. Did you just start working for them?”
He’s known the Willis family? Just start working for them?
“I come in here every month or so,” he adds with a smirk that quite literally could drop panties. “It’s possible I missed you, but I’m pretty sure I’d remember seeing you here.”
Instantly, my underwear stops dissolving, and my pride takes a hike instead.
Milo Ives, the star of all of my teenage fantasies, has no idea who I am.
My pits are sweating so hard they’re testing the strength of my deodorant while I try to come up with the perfect thing to say to his strong-jawed, plush-lipped face, and He. Doesn’t. Even. Remember. Me.
Oh my God.
“I…uh…just started working here two weeks ago,” I push out impulsively, and I have to clear the awkward cobwebs that have developed inside my throat.
Seriously, Maybe? Instead of righting this awkward situation and saying, “Hey, Milo. It’s Maybe, Evan’s sister. Remember?”, you’re just going to go with the whole “we don’t know each other” vibe?!
“You’ll love it here,” he says, and genuine affection highlights the deep, raspy tones of his too-sexy voice. “The Willises are good people.”
Yeah. Sigh. I know.
“Uh-huh.”
Path of least resistance solidified, it becomes apparent Willises can be idiots too.
“Well, I just need to put in an order for a bouquet.” Too busy berating myself in my head, I just stare at him, and after the silence stretches on for ten seconds too long, he evidently feels the pressure to add, “It’s for my mom’s birthday next week…”
“Oh…oh…okay… You want to order something…”
“Yes. I would like to order something. Well, flowers, to be specific.” He grins. “The order will be under Milo Ives. I should already have a profile in the system.”
Yeah, ha. I nod. I’m painfully aware of your name.
It takes a good thirty seconds for me to realize this is the part where I use the computer to take his order, and after fumbling with the mouse and the keyboard like some kind of technology reject for an additional thirty seconds, I’ve officially done my part in giving millennials a bad name. Eventually, though, somehow, some-magical-way, I manage to pull up the order screen.
“Do you have any recommendations?” he asks, and I tilt my head to the side in confusion.
“Recommendations?”
“For a birthday bouquet.”
Oh, right. The whole reason he’s here. Ha. Ha-ha-ha. My God, someone help me.
“Uh…well…we…uh… We have a white lily bouquet that a lot of people love…”
“Does that white lily bouquet also encourage forgiveness from a mother to her son because he often forgets to call and check in with her?”
He’s being all teasing and joking and charming, but I’m still too damn busy trying to recover from the initial shock of his presence and apparent amnesia of my existence to speak my given language effectively.
Bruce was right. It’s a good thing I spent all that money to major in books.
“Well…” I shrug and force a smile to my face that probably looks like I’m suffering from an ugly bout of constipation. “I guess it’s worth a shot, huh?”
“Definitely worth a shot.” He chuckles, and I swear to God, his laugh vibrates all the way from his throat, across the counter, and hits me like a bullet, square in the chest.
It’s so unfair. Your childhood crush isn’t supposed to get more handsome. He’s supposed to grow a beer gut and get wrinkles and just…not look like this.
I, on the other hand, am apparently too bland to even trigger a memory.
Thankfully, I manage to place his order without making the computer explode, and once the delivery is set and scheduled, I give him the cost. “The total is $52.30, and the bouquet will be delivered to your mom’s Florida address next Monday.”
“Perfect,” Milo responds with a soft smile as he pulls his wallet out of the back pocket of his trousers. “So, are you new to the area or just the shop?”
“Uh…yeah…sort of… I just moved to Chelsea.”
He hands me his credit card—a shiny, black, rich-person’s credit card.
And, from what I know of Milo, he is a rich person. A billion-dollar kind of rich person for whom my brother now works, in fact.
Evan is the CFO of Milo’s company Fuse, and he currently runs their Austin office.
And I am simply his best friend’s twenty-four-year-old sister, with no great career, friend, or dating prospects, whom he doesn’t even fucking recognize…
The comparison is rock-bottom depressing.
Jesus. My track record of bumbling and awkward is unparalleled. Seriously. Guinness World Records should be calling me any day now.
The transaction goes through without any issues, obviously, and I hand him back his shiny card.
“Thank you for your help,” he says and slips the card back into his wallet. “Please let Bruce and Betty know that Milo says hello.”
All I can do is nod at this point. It’s gone too far. There’s no fix for my foolish blundering now.
With a simple wave, he turns on his heels and heads toward the door.
As soon as I’m sure he’s gone, I do what anyone would do in my situation.
I lean forward and bang my head against the counter.
What in the hell just happened?
Milo fucking Ives and a hideous display of no confidence, that’s what happened.
Ugh.
Just like that, my brain is off to the races, taking me way back when, to the good old days when I was thirteen years old and doodling Mrs. Maybe Ives all over my Lisa Frank notebooks.
The damn memories burst out like a geyser.
The way I used to spend the majority of my days trying to find excuses to go into my brother’s room just to talk to Milo.
The way I was convinced I would marry him when I got older. How I was certain he would be the man to take my virginity. And how I’d even named our future kids.
Jesus.
I distr
act my mind with getting rid of dead flowers and rearranging the fresh flower bins, and by the time I step back behind the counter, I’ve nearly forgotten all about the fact that Milo was in the shop and didn’t recognize me.
Hah. Right.
Frustrated, I slam my hand on the counter next to the computer mouse, and the small jump is apparently enough to bring the screen back to life.
A screen that holds all kinds of interesting things.
His name.
His order.
And his phone number.
On impulse, I slide my phone out of my pocket and input the digits into my contacts.
My earlier behavior is evidence enough that I’ll never use it, but it couldn’t hurt to have it just in case.
Right?
Maybe
After putting in eight hours with grumpy Bruce, I finish my day by stopping at the coffee shop up the street from my apartment. Aptly named Jovial Grinds, it has become the bright spot at the end of nearly all of my days.
With stainless-steel countertops, checkerboard black-and-white tiled floors, and walls cluttered with abstract art, this hip spot has the best damn coffee in Chelsea and a much better atmosphere for me to focus on my ongoing job search than the flower shop and Evan’s apartment.
Believe me, if Goldilocks had been on the hunt for a career in publishing, she’d say the same.
Although, while I’d love to say I’m all business when I’m here, I have to admit it’s more accurately a combination of working a little, acting like I’m working when I’m not, people watching, and eavesdropping on the barista’s conversations.
But it’s the last that’s stolen most of my attention. From what I’ve gathered, her name is Lena and she’s worked here for a little over a year.
I know this because her boss reminds her of this fact often, mostly when she’s complaining about some item on her to-do list and suggesting it should be a part of someone else’s job description.
In two weeks’ time, I’ve overheard her break up with two boyfriends, get swoony-eyes from nearly every male customer that’s walked through the door, and have been inundated with her moody music selections—mostly revolving around BØRNS and Lykke Li and Jeff Buckley—anytime her manager goes on break.
With long curly blond hair, tattoos, and a style that revolves around hippie-chic, it’s like Penny Lane from Almost Famous just came to life and got a job in Chelsea.
