Forget Me Not by Julie Soto

10

Elliot

THREE YEARS, FIVE MONTHS, ONE WEEK, AND ONE DAY AGO

I’m addicted to my phone. One day we will have support groups for this—our backs curved like croissants, our thumbs twitching with the need to swipe, all blinded from the blue light.

I posted a picture of a deconstructed floral arch ten minutes ago, and I’m already checking on Twitter to see if Instagram is broken. After five minutes, I finally get a set of likes. But because my self-worth is now intrinsically tied to this picture, I’m thinking of deleting it, then myself.

The shop phone rings, and I thank god I have something else to think about.

“Hello,” I mumble.

“Are you serious? Delete that.”

I recognize the voice. “Emma Torres?”

“You know it’s Am—forget it. That’s the most hideous thing I’ve ever seen. You have a bag of potting soil in the corner of the image.”

I fumble my phone out of my pocket and open Instagram. Damn it. I’m no better than my father.

“Yeah, I guess it’s not that good.” My thumb wistfully taps the delete button.

“Well, I mean the arch is gorgeous. Are those hydrangeas?”

I watch the picture disappear with its four likes, and something spins in my chest from her compliment. “Yeah. Hydrangeas and white roses. It’s basic. And been done before.”

“Not by you.” She scoffs with it, like there’s something I’m missing. “What are you doing this afternoon?”

The spinning in my chest stops, and I’m all vibration. My mouth opens to say nothing at all, but just before I do, I catch myself. “The shop—” I clear my throat. “We’re open until five, but afterward …”

I let it hang awkwardly, but she jumps in. “Cool. I’ll come by around two. Don’t do anything with that arch!”

The line disconnects. Shame burns in my gut that I even suggested seeing her after business hours. She’s probably bringing a couple by to look at the piece. I go into the back and start moving things around, getting the soil out of there and back into the cupboards. I smell like I’ve been working, unfortunately, so at noon I close the shop for ten minutes, run to the twenty-four-hour gym I belong to, and take the shortest shower of my life. I have one spare shirt in the back of my car. It’s wrinkled, but it doesn’t smell like I just spent four hours building a deconstructed floral arch just to get rejected by Instagram and Ama Torres in under an hour.

When two rolls around, the door swings open, and I pretend I wasn’t waiting for it. I turn to greet her with my usual scowl, but instead, the most beautiful girl I’ve seen in my life is standing in the doorway. She’s tall and long-limbed with dark hair and big eyes. She’s the kind of girl that guys fall over themselves for, but who I decided long ago isn’t for me. I don’t like falling over myself.

Ama squeezes through the door behind her, and even in boots with heels, she’s comically short next to this girl. Her eyes catch on me by the lilies, and even though I’m frowning at the pink box in her hand, her cheeks tug into cute little circles as she beams at me. Her hair’s down, and she runs a hand through it, ruffling it to fall in loose tendrils.

I feel my fingers curl.

“Hi!” Ama chirps. “This is Mar! Mar, this is Elliot Bloom. He owns Blooming.”

Mar steps forward with a demure smile on her full lips and shakes my hand. Just as I’m about to ask if she’s the one getting married this time, Ama says, “I think you should get a shot of the front counter too.” She’s sweeping her hand through the air like painting a landscape.

Mar nods and reaches into a bag on her shoulder. “Totally. We can stage a couple of these.” She pulls out a camera.

I stand in confusion as Ama moves to the counter, drops the donut box, and grabs a chocolate one before disappearing into the back. I hear “Oh my god, wow” around a mouthful of donut, as Mar starts attaching a lens and moving through the rows of bouquets.

My mouth opens and closes. I follow Ama into the back, where she’s dropping donut crumbs on my floor.

“Don’t eat back here. I’ll get bugs.”

“Yeah, this is beautiful,” she says, taking another bite and ignoring me. “Mar will have to get some equipment from her car, but this will be great. Maybe we’ll put it in the parking lot. Is there a fence back there? I forget.” She starts moving to the side door.

“What’s happening? Who’s Mar?”

She spins to me with a huge smile. “My sister! Well, ex-stepsister. She’s a photographer.” She exits the side door like all my questions were successfully answered. The door closes behind her as she chatters to herself about the parking lot, and when she tries to open it again, I almost don’t move to unlock it. She knocks softly in one of those shave-and-a-haircut patterns, and I roll my eyes.

I open it, and she pushes past me without a thank-you, calling for Mar to come see.

I stand in a corner as the two of them move around, rearranging flowerpots, moving paperwork from the front counter, and bringing in lights and screens. I’m not needed until it’s time to move the arch. Ama tries to take one side, and I shake my head, lifting it by myself. She holds the door open for me, and it’s the first time I’m glad I wasted all that time showering as I pass her closely. She smells like sugar.

Mar comes over to show me a few of the shots of the arch, and I agree, it looks better. Professional. I see Mar check my face for my opinion, and her eyes dart to my mouth, my collar. She’s standing close, and I shift away.

“Hey!” Ama appears in front of us. “Let’s get Elliot at the counter, in front of the Blooming sign.”

I frown. “Why?”

“You can put it on the website! Or on Instagram,” she says as she heads back inside. Then, under her breath: “God, the number of followers that would get you …”

I scowl at the floor as I hold the door open for Mar, trying to figure out her meaning. “I’m not going to post a picture of me holding a flower to the Instagram account,” I yell after Ama. She’s already at the front counter, stealing an orchid to set next to the register.

“Oh, come on, I’ll let you cross your arms and glare,” she says, and I let my arms drop from where they were crossed. “Elliot, you’d be surprised how many people would like to see the man behind these stunning arrangements. And you look so good today.”

The last part is so offhand and quick that I barely have a second to catch it before she’s dragging me to stand behind the counter, under the old wooden sign that my dad painted himself. My limbs hang awkwardly and suddenly I’m back in school, forced into the back of every picture and asked to smile a bit less strangely.

Ama stands on the other side of the counter and tilts her head at me. “Lean on the counter.” She shows me, pressing her palms against the top and pressing her weight into it. She looks ridiculous, like an angry mouse. But when I do it, she reaches up, and her fingers pull some of my hair forward. She’s staring at the wave of black hair as her fingers try to twirl it, and I can’t get over how close she is. It’s not until the second click that I realize Mar is taking pictures already. I tear my gaze from Ama’s focused expression and see a twist to Mar’s lips that I don’t like.

“Push your sleeves up.”

I look down at Ama again. She mimes it, like I don’t understand English. “Why?”

“So we can see your tattoos.”

I hesitate. “I keep them covered so more conservative clients aren’t prejudiced against me.”

Ama snorts. “Trust me, we’re going for a whole new demographic here.” Her voice is sly, as if they have a secret she’s not letting me in on. Behind her, Mar chuckles at the camera screen as she reviews.

I push my sleeves up, and Ama’s eyes drop, catching on the flower on my right arm. “What’s that one?” she asks.

I’m getting annoyed now, so I just say, “Look it up.”

She flashes me a brilliant smile, cheeks round and teeth white. And then she bites her bottom lip with those teeth and I hear another click.

I look up to Mar, resume leaning on the counter, and Ama moves to Mar’s side. “I won’t smile,” I say.

“I wouldn’t dream of asking it,” Mar says with a fake grin.

Mar takes a few shots. They talk lighting. Ama goes to fuss with my front window blinds. I’m aching for the phone to ring or a customer to come in. Mar shows Ama one of the pics and they both giggle, whispering.

Fuck. I am back in high school.

“Are we done?”

They look up at me, maybe shocked at my tone. Mar recovers first. “Yep! Let me email them to you, and then I should run across the street to Rite Aid, actually.”

“Oh, okay. Want me to come with?” Ama grabs my business card from the counter and lets Mar type in the email address.

“No, no,” Mar says, and the corner of her mouth twitches. “Why don’t you help Elliot choose which one to post today.”

I pull my sleeves back down and help Mar pack up her lighting equipment in silence as the two of them chatter. When I come back from setting the lights in Mar’s car, Ama is sitting on my front counter, swiping through pictures on her phone. She’s got one leg crossed over the other, like that’s any better than not. Her dress is up to the top of her thigh.

“Off the counter,” I say roughly, but she just jumps down, landing like a cat, face still focused on the phone.

“I sent them to both of you,” Mar says. “Ama, I’ll be back in ten or fifteen.”

“What do I owe you?” I say to Mar.

She tilts her head at me, blinking. “Oh, no. This was fun. Just have Ama tag me in the posts as the photo credit.”

And then she’s gone.

And it’s just me and Ama.

“Okay, there’s like, enough here for two weeks’ worth of daily posts.”

I turn to her. She’s leaning back on the counter, legs crossed at the ankles.

“I can’t keep that kind of consistency though.”

She waves her free hand, still staring at the photos. “Just get a gallery going, get some followers. The rest will come. I’d like to get the deconstructed arch posted first, so I can send it to a few clients.”

I nod. I’m still standing at the door. It feels like I’m the customer and she’s the shop owner, with how comfortable she is. For lack of anything better to do, I move into the back room to make sure everything is back in its place there.

While I’m resetting the things they moved around, her voice calls from the doorway, “Okay, go to your email.”

Sighing, I pull my phone out and open the email from Mariana Jaswal.

“Download that whole album, and I’ll help you post it.”

“I know how to post to Instagram,” I snap.

She snorts. It’s still cute. I hate it. “Not really, no.”

I download the pictures, I open Instagram, and I hand her my phone. Which immediately feels like a mistake. She shows me which filters to use, which hashtags, and how to properly credit Mar, but none of it matters because she proceeds to schedule ten more posts the same way. I see over her shoulder the picture of me at the counter.

“Don’t use that one.”

She looks up at me for the first time in almost ten minutes. “Why not?”

I’m close enough to see where the dark brown of her irises meets her black pupils.

“It’s ridiculous,” I say, reaching for my phone.

She jerks it away. “You’re ridiculous. Hey, what’s this flower?” She points to the phone, where my right forearm is exposed.

“It’s a Franklinia. Franklin tree, named after Ben Franklin.” I feel myself reaching for my sleeve to pull down what’s already pulled down.

“Are you like a Ben Franklin fanboy? Or …?”

My eyes snap to her. “What the fuck is a Ben Franklin fanboy?”

She shrugs. “You tell me! Do you take a kite out in lightning storms? Do you work exclusively in hundred-dollar bills—”

“The Franklin Tree,” I stop her, “is extinct in the wild.”

I see her eyes sparkle. “So, you tattoo yourself with flowers you’ll never see?”

My mouth opens to contradict her before her words register—before I hear how easily she explained it. I swallow, neither confirming nor denying.

“How many do you have?”

“What?” My voice is ragged.

“Tattoos.”

“Six.” I see her eyes scan me, searching for hints as to where they are. The blood that’s been staining my face rushes down, and I clear my throat. “Do you have any?”

She shakes her head. Her lips are curved in a soft smile, and her eyes are impossibly big this close. “I’ve been wanting one, though. Where should I get it?”

I can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips. The restraint to keep from scanning her body like she scanned mine comes with such concentration. There’s sand in my throat when I respond, “What do you want?”

Her lashes flutter so quickly I think I imagined it. I feel like she’s closer, but I didn’t see her move.

“Maybe someone could talk me into a flower.” Her voice is low. Vowels round and slow.

“You already are a flower.” I regret it the second it’s out of my mouth. It’s not smooth. It’s not sexy.

But her mouth lifts, expression blossoming. “I am a flower,” she agrees, teeth gleaming at me. Her tongue flicks out, and she must know. Madison Bailey must have told her to do that. She has to know that I’m staring at her mouth, that I’m half hard from just this conversation. That it’s taking everything in me to not move closer.

The bell above the door to the shop cracks like ice over my body. “Ama?” Mar’s back.

She steps away from me—maybe she was closer—and I run a hand through my hair, tugging hard at the roots to focus myself.

“Yeah, we’re just scheduling posts!” she calls back. She finishes typing a caption for the picture of me at the register, hits Schedule, and hands me back my phone. It’s warm. “Mark my words, that picture will get the highest engagement of them all.”

I frown, and she beams back.

“I’ll send my clients the deconstructed arch pic, and hopefully they’ll want to swing by soon.” She’s walking backward to the door, sending me a little wave. “I’ll call!”

The oxygen returns to the room, and I hear the two of them whispering as the bell chimes again, the door closing behind them. My phone is lighting up in my hands. The picture she posted already has one hundred likes. I have twenty new followers.

I spend the rest of my day puttering around the shop, and between phone orders and some drop-ins, I look through all the pictures attached to Mar’s email.

She included the one where Ama is playing with my hair. Her body is stretched to reach my head, bent slightly at the waist over the counter’s edge. Her dress is pulled high up to the tops of her thighs and settled perfectly over the curve of her backside. She has black nail polish on that I didn’t even notice, but it matches my hair color as she threads her fingers through.

I’m so concentrated on her, that it’s not until my third time looking at the picture that I see me—staring at her face, fascinated. Hungry.

And Ama is CC’d on all these photos too. I groan and drop my head in my hands.

Fuck.