by Monroe, Lila
“I’ll carry those for you,” Seth offers when we leave the booth.
“Thanks.” I hand him the packages. “So, how’s Florist 101 so far?”
He smiles. “It’s more than just arranging flowers isn’t it?”
I laugh and say, very slowly, “It’s a real, legit business! Who knew?!”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, sheepish. “Just . . . I guess I never realized how much goes into it. The planning, and all the design, too.”
“And that’s only half the job,” I add. “It was a real crash course in running a small business. I just want to style the flowers all day, but I have to deal with inventory, suppliers, pricing . . .”
“See, you’re a superstar,” Seth says with an admiring smile.
I smile back. It’s nice to see he gets it; some of the guys I’ve dated just think I’m sitting around, arranging flowers in a vase.
“So, what was your inspiration?” he asks as we walk. “Have you always loved flowers?”
I nod. “As far back as I can remember, my mom always had plants in the house. Herbs, potted plants, and flowers. There were always growing, colorful things. In the summer, we worked on a vegetable garden, and I like that, too—there’s something really satisfying in growing your own food. But flowers are really my thing. They brighten up a room just by being. I mean, look at how much they brightened up those patients the other day.”
He nods.
“Thanks to you,” I add. “That was a really nice thing. Thoughtful.”
He shrugs it off.
“Plus, flowers have a whole language. People have been using them for hundreds of years to express how they really feel. It’s a living love letter, in a way.” I pause. “I know, I’m being dorky.”
“No,” Seth protests. “Well, just a little. But I like it. You’re an artist and a businesswoman and you’re passionate about what you do. If that’s dorky? Dorky is not a bad thing.”
He tugs me close for a kiss, and I happily sink against him.
Flowers and a hot makeout. This day is definitely off to an amazing start.
Seth helps me gather the rest of my flowers and we head back to my shop. I expected him to take off, but he insists on helping me put everything away. It’s early, still too early for Remy to be here, so I appreciate the help.
“So, what are you dorky about?” I ask curiously, once everything’s unloaded and put away.
“Nothing,” Seth says. “I’m the epitome of cool. Not one dorky thing about me.” He says it with a straight face, but I can tell he’s teasing.
“Come on,” I say, hooking a finger into one of his belt loops to pull him close. “There has to be something. I don’t know anyone who isn’t dorky about something. If you’re hiding it, that just means it’s maximum dork.”
He looks down at me, searching my face for something. Maybe deciding if he can trust me. Does he have a weird fetish? Something he’s really ashamed of? I’m intrigued. And a little scared. But mostly intrigued.
The best way to get it out of him is to be reassuring. “If it’s D&D or other nerd stuff, you don’t have to worry,” I add. “I’ve seen it all. I once had to do a Star Wars-themed wedding where the bouquets were lightsabers. The men’s boutonnieres were these tiny action figures backed by baby’s breath. I’m not even kidding.”
He laughs. “Baby’s breath? That sounds so . . . I don’t know . . . wrong.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “Actually, baby’s breath is just a classic filler that goes into arrangements. It’s from the carnation family.”
“Sounds medieval,” Seth says.
“Anywaaaaayyyy,” I drawl. “Don’t change the subject. I want to hear about you. What gets you geeked up?”
He blows out a breath. “Fine. But I’ll have to show you. You have some time?”
I glance at the clock and nod. I have another hour before opening. “I need to eat, too, so if we can work that into going to the Death Star or crazy sex club or wherever, that would be good.”
He throws me a smirk as he grabs my hand, tugging me out of my shop.
We don’t go far. About ten blocks away, Seth leads me through a jingling door into a diner. And I’m not talking about one of those new, retro, hipster spots, either. It is legit old-school, complete with red leather booths (the duct tape on the fabric adds to the authenticity) and matching chrome and leather stools that seem to grow out of the floor. It smells like coffee and syrup and sounds just how you’d expect: the clinks and clatters of china mugs on saucers, the yelling of “Order up!” coming from the high window to the kitchen, and the chatter of the many patrons—most of whom seem to be well over seventy. In fact, as I look around I see we’re obviously the youngest people in here. Whatever, it smells great and these people all must know something—the place is bustling. Not to mention, I’m starving. It’s perfect.
Seth nods toward two empty stools at the counter so we sit. I pluck a sticky menu from the holder, trying to solve the age-old conundrum: pancakes or waffles?
“So,” Seth says. His tone is odd enough that it makes me look over at him.
He looks like he’s about to say something, but a waitress behind the counter appears, a full pot of coffee in her hand. “Heya, Seth, coffee?”
“Like you have to ask, Linda?” he grins, sliding his cup toward her. “This is April, I’m guessing she’d like some, too.”
“Yes, please,” I say, smiling up at the waitress who looks like she just came out of central casting, cast in the role of “sixty-something snarky diner waitress who is world-weary and takes no shit,” complete with big hair, glasses on a chain around her neck, and gum that she keeps cracking.
We give her our order (waffles!), and she teases Seth about his choice of the hungry man special before heading back to the kitchen.
“So,” I say, taking a sip of the surprisingly good coffee. “I’m very eager to see whatever it is you want to show me after we eat. I bet it’s something super dorky like the M&M’s store, or . . .” I gasp, playfully widening my eyes. “Wait. Are you taking me to the sex museum?”
He laughs. “No, it’s neither of those things. CandyShack is way better than the M&M’s store, and the sex museum? Come on, April. That’s a tenth-date thing, at least. I’m not a creeper.”
I laugh.
“No, silly, this is what I wanted to show you.” He waves his arms around.
“Waffles?” I ask, confused.
“Not waffles, Princess Buttercup.” He rolls his eyes. “This diner. This is what I get dorky about.”
“This diner,” I repeat, still confused.
He nods, looking bashful. “I found this place when I came to the city, and I’ve been coming here pretty much every week since. It’s . . . like a little corner of home to me, you know: the same menu, the same regulars . . . We all know each other now.”
“Like your Central Perk,” I say, beginning to understand.
“Exactly.”
I sweep my eyes around the restaurant, trying to see what he’s talking about.
“Take Sam and Al over there,” he says, nodding toward a booth in the corner. “They come in here every day to drink coffee and play dominos. They’ve been coming here for forty years. You’d think they’d run out of things to say, but no, they can talk your ear off, every time.”
Sure enough, the old men are chatting up a storm as they play, big hand gestures punctuating whatever points they’re trying to make.
“And Daniel and his wife Connie,” Seth says, nodding toward another booth on the other side of the diner. A balding man in a three-piece suit sits across from a blue-haired woman who looks like she’s fresh from the salon with her perfectly hairsprayed ’do, wearing a flowered dress that looks like her Sunday best. They’re talking about something intense, leaned close toward each other across the table. “They bicker like they’re on the verge of divorce,” Seth adds, “but they always share a piece of pie and leave together, holding hands.”
“OK, that’s adorable.”
“Then there’s Sylvio,” he says, gesturing down the counter to a man in his sixties who is nursing a coffee. “He’s had a crush on Linda for twenty years. Never asked her out, but comes in here every day, eats, gives her a huge tip and then leaves. Alone.”
“Twenty years!” I whisper-yell. “Why is it taking so long!”
Seth grins. “She’s only been a widow for the last ten months.”
“Oh,” I say, glancing at the waitress, feeling bad for her. Though, at least she has prospects. “Does she know?”
“Not yet,” Seth says. “He’ll make a move when it’s time.”
I cock an eyebrow. “With your help, Captain Meet-Cute?”
He smiles, shakes his head. “No, they don’t need it.”
I take a sip of my coffee. “So, this is your scene, huh? You’re like one of the Golden Girls?”
Laughing, he shrugs. “Sort of. I mean, I feel at home here. No one is trying to be something they’re not. No one is trying to put on a show. I get a window into everyone’s life, like I’m a part of it, too.”
He gives another bashful shrug, and I realize for the first time that Seth might actually be lonely. He hasn’t talked much about his parents, and he doesn’t seem to have any other family around . . .
I have my mom calling every week and my girlfriends and Katie, too. But who does Seth have, I wonder?
Linda sidles up to us and refills our cups without being asked before she shuffles off.
Seth lifts his full cup to his lips. “Plus, it doesn’t hurt that the coffee here is fantastic.”
“Hear, hear!” I clink my mug into his. “So, am I going to find you here propping up this counter in fifty years?”
He laughs. “I like to think I’ll have graduated to a booth by then.” He gives me a sideways look. “Why do you ask? Should I save you a spot?”
He’s teasing, but I can’t help but feel the flutter of butterflies in my belly. He mentioned the future. Really, really far in the future. And it includes me.
I know I sometimes read too much into things, but this feels different somehow. Could we have a future?
15
Seth
Life is good.
Great job, great apartment, great night of mind-blowing sex with April . . . I’m back home, guzzling coffee and cereal after my floral education at the hands of April, my . . . well, I don’t quite know what she is at this point. We haven’t had the talk about what it is we’re doing, but I know she’s more than a hookup. Friends with benefits? Nope, that’s not quite right, either.
She already means way more than that to me.
What I learned at the Chelsea wholesale market yesterday morning was about more than flowers or entrepreneurialism or even the weird and cutthroat floral industry that most New Yorkers don’t even know exists. I learned about April. Her passions, her drive, her love of waffles with a veritable shit-ton of syrup, and everything about her that makes her great.
How she makes me feel great. It’s so much more than the sex, which, admittedly, is amazing.
“Are you seriously whistling?” Bex laughs as she walks into the kitchen. “You? Seth, Mr. Grumpypants in the morning? You must be getting so laid.”
I put down the box of cereal and reach for the milk, purposefully not meeting her inquisitive gaze. “I’m not allowed to just be happy in the morning?”
She laughs, drops into the chair across from me, and grabs the cereal, pouring herself a bowl. “Right. Sooooo . . . you’re saying you’re not getting laid?”
“Shut up.” I grin as I hand her the milk.
“Aha!” My infuriating roommate blurts. “You are getting laid. I knew it! What’s her name?”
“. . . April,” I eventually say.
“I know it’s been a while for you,” Bex teases. “But I don’t need to know it’s been since last spring. I asked what her name is.”
I roll my eyes. “Hilarious. Hard to imagine why I’m Mr. Grumpypants in the morning. Her name is April.”
“Is it serious?”
I pause. “It’s new.” I shove a spoonful of cereal in my mouth and chew as I think more about my answer. “But sort of complicated. I was supposed to get her with one of my clients.”
Bex winces. “You obviously like her if you’re going to go against your . . .” She does air quotes. “. . . ethics.”
I sigh. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” she says, cheerful. “You can’t always pick who you have chemistry with. Anyway, don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been sleeping elsewhere a lot lately, so obviously it’s not just a random hookup.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Maybe we should invite her to dinner? She can meet Lars and Billy!”
“Umm, maybe another time.” That feels like a conversation to have somewhere around date nine or ten. At the very least, after the sex museum. “I mean, I like her, but I’m not even sure where it’s going yet.”
There is also that whole against-the-work-rules thing I’m going to have to figure out.
“Well, wherever it’s going, I like this look on you. It’s been a long time since you’ve had reason to whistle in the morning. At least, one who wasn’t sneaking out at dawn.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say, but I can’t keep from grinning.
What can I say? April puts a smile on my face.
I head out for the day, but surprise, surprise, I’ve still got a certain florist on my mind.
Want to come over tonight? she texts.
Yes. But how about a date first? I reply. I’m feeling used with all these booty-calls.
Lol, OK!
I tuck my phone away, already thinking of potential dates. I want something that will really impress her. Something that shows I put some thought into it. She’s worth that thought.
She’s a savvy businesswoman, but she’s also a romantic. My specialty.
Whatever I do needs to be really great and from the heart or she’ll see through it. But no worry there, I want it to be from the heart. Which feels weird but good—it’s been a long time, even longer than last spring, as Bex teased, since I wanted to impress a woman this way.
A romantic dinner, perhaps . . . Tickets to a show, or concert? No, those are standard. Predictable. April deserves to be wowed.
I’ve picked, and then discarded, half a dozen ideas by the time I reach Winston’s club uptown for our weekly Romeo staff meeting. It’s a private members kind of a place, all clubby and sedate, and the clerk leads me to the back room where Winston is already holding court with the rest of the troops.
I slide in next to Nico, greeting him. “Thanks again for the car loan,” I say.
He nods. “Of course. I hope everything was OK with your Aunt.”
“Oh, right. Sure,” I say, remembering my cover story just in time. I change the subject so I don’t get caught up in the lie. “Hey, did you see that game last night?” Nico’s a huge sports fan, so it’s a safe bet he watched something.
“It was crazy!” he says, eyes wide as he takes the bait. “McNulty’s score with just seconds left—winning the game. Best game ever!”
The rest of the Romeos arrive, and then Winston taps his scotch glass to get everyone’s attention.
All eyes turn toward our boss.
“Alright, gentlemen,” he says. “Let’s get started. We have some new clients to assign. First up is a VIP and personal friend of mine, Garth Chapman. He’s looking for something a little different, a reconciliation with his ex. Something where they’re in close proximity so he can make his case and win her back. Think: shipwrecked on a deserted island.”
“In Manhattan?” Nico laughs. “Island, yes, but deserted? Not so much.”
Winston grins, wry. “Maybe a stuck elevator then. Or a stranded ferry. Something like that. But it’s got to be secluded and long enough that he can win her back. Who wants the job?”
I pause. Usually, I’d be first to
volunteer, but I can’t help but think of what James tried to orchestrate with April. It was basically the same thing—where the “target” has no idea or choice in the matter. April had called my meet-cutes manipulative—and I defended them. But she was right about James’s cabin in the woods scheme.
It crossed the line . . . and so would this plan.
I clear my throat and speak up. “Should we be doing this kind of thing?”
“What do you mean?” Winston’s expression cools.
“I mean, setting up organic meetings is one thing, great, but I don’t know . . . this feels kind of creepy to me.”
Winston blinks. “Creepy?” he echoes with surprise. “This is what we do, Seth. All in a day’s work for a skilled Romeo. And like I said, this is a VIP client.”
“I know,” I say, feeling everyone’s eyes on me. “But how do we know the ex would be open to a reconciliation? I mean, perhaps she had a good reason for breaking up with him in the first place and doesn’t want to be trapped in a confined space with the guy.”
“And he has a good reason for wanting her back,” Winston corrected me. “Who are we to know the insides of any relationship?”
“Maybe we should,” I argue. “I mean, to be safe . . .”
“You’re just second-guessing because you struck out with your last client,” Nico smirks beside me.
I kick him under the table, but the damage is done. “Struck out?” Winston asks. “Seth? What happened, and why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”
Great. “It’s not a big deal. Not every meet-cute is successful.”
“You’ve never accepted anything less than success before,” Winston says. “You just need to try again.”
I look up at him. “It’s not going to happen. The chemistry wasn’t there. She wasn’t into it.”
Because she’s into me, I think, hoping it isn’t written all over my face.
“Anyway,” I say out loud before Winston has a chance to respond, “I just think that forcing someone to get stuck with their ex isn’t—”
I stop. Winston is leveling a stare at me that I know means I need to stop talking. I fall silent, and he continues, until finally, all new business is settled. The meeting breaks up, and I make a beeline for the exit, but Winston corners me. “A word,” he says.
