Forget Me Not by Julie Soto
11
Ama
APRIL
Now that Jackie and I have talked, the designs run like a faucet. With the idea of a luxurious wedding inside an abandoned building, suddenly the inspiration is clear. It’s going to be Industrial Luxe—with a shit ton of floral design.
Once Hazel is able to fly in next week to take a look at the Rose Garden ideas and ballet studio location, we’ll be off. I’m already in contact with my friend at the city office to see how outrageous it is to block off the street around the park. Pretty outrageous, but it’s a possibility, he says.
I’m headed to a cake tasting today for a different wedding, but I’m hoping I can sweet-talk the owner into considering a fifth wedding on October seventh. This couple is Michelle and Mitch. He proposed on a drunk night in Vegas, but what I love about them is that they ran around the MGM Grand that night telling everyone who would listen that they weren’t allowed to get married that night—Michelle’s dad had to walk her down the aisle, Mitch insisted. They went so far as asking workers which way the chapel was, just so they could avoid it.
Yeah, they’ll do alright. It was me who suggested that they honeymoon in Vegas as a joke, but they ended up falling in love with the idea and dropped the Hawaii brochures.
I’d be lying if I said cake tasting day wasn’t my favorite day. With my sweet tooth, it’s easily the reason I became a wedding planner. Michelle and Mitch choose the three-tiered almond buttercream, and I set it up with the owner.
“Betty, can I ask again about October seventh?” I say, lowering my voice. “I know you’re swamped with—I think you said—four Whitney weddings that day?”
“Hm, they’re not all Whitney, but I’m sorry, Ama. It’s going to be really tight.”
I force myself to smile and thank her, but I just confirmed that Whitney either gave me the wrong day’s availability, or she purposefully snatched up dates at all the high-end vendors. I don’t know what to do with that information. She’s only burning herself if she tries to cancel these dates with her vendors at a later point.
When I’m done with Michelle and Mitch, I see I have a new text in my chat with Hazel and Jackie.
Ama remember the brunch at Jackie’s parents’ house the day before the wedding? We should have flowers there too, right?
I sit in my car outside the bakery, watching cars whizz by as I choose: email or call.
I’m a coward, so email it is.
Elliot,
Hazel is in town next week for some wedding prep. Can we meet at the shop to start finalizing flower type and colors?
Also, they are having a brunch at the parents’ house the day before (Fri Oct 6). They’d like to incorporate it as a wedding event with full design.
To sum:
• Ceremony
• Reception
• Rehearsal Dinner
• Brunch
• Possible transportation design
• Possible Airbnb/hotel
I will schedule all these walk-throughs ASAP. For next week, Jackie and Hazel’s availability is open. If there’s anything you need from me, don’t hesitate to ask.
Best,
Ama Torres
Just looking at the list of locations is making me dizzy. It’s not the amount of work; that’s the fun part. It’s knowing that there will be no safe space from Elliot for the next six months.
When the response comes in, all it says is:
10am Tuesday.
You’d think after getting the last meeting out of the way, I’d be better prepared for Tuesday.
While getting ready, I almost put lip gloss on my eyelashes.
Once I properly locate the mascara, things go downhill from there. I’m already in my car when I realize I didn’t feed Lady Catryn. When I go back inside to grab her a can, she’s already knocked my vase of fresh flowers off the counter, onto the floor.
She stares at me in arrogant feline disdain, tail twitching. I shake my head, wrench open the lid of a Fancy Feast, and leave it on the counter. She can figure it out.
After cleaning up the mess as best I can and returning to my car, every single warning light turns on—more than usual. Apparently my tires are flat, my oil needs changing, and my windshield washer liquid is low. The only thing going for me is the needle pointing to a half tank of gas, but even that is questionable with the low fuel indicator glaring at me. As my engine putters, I consider just how bad it would be to drive fifteen blocks in a car that is clearly screaming for death.
I look at the sky. It’s clear enough. I grab my bag and hope I can get there in the fifteen minutes I have, but maybe that would be a blessing. I’m never late, but the idea of being early and alone with Elliot is worth the chance of tardiness.
Spring in Sacramento is lovely, if allergy-infested. We’re not called the City of Trees for nothing. Branches of oranges, greens, and reds pop on every block, as do their pollens. I power-walk down busy J Street in three-inch heels, ignoring the strange looks from dog walkers and the two horns honked for no traffic-related reason.
Elliot used to tease me about the heels. When he finally saw me without them, he conceded that yes, I am short, and yes, I am more intimidating with them on. Of course I was wearing a pair of fuzzy frog socks at the time, so there was nowhere to go but up.
It’s two minutes to ten, and I’m three blocks away. I shoot Hazel and Jackie a text that I’ll be there shortly, and then stab the pedestrian crosswalk button. I don’t love the sweat pooling in the center of my back or in my armpits. And I don’t love the way my scalp is moist, flattening all the work I put into these beach waves. I thank the fates that at least I don’t have lip gloss on my eyelashes as I finally arrive at Blooming.
I’m damp. And panting. If I didn’t trust my Hazel Renee setting spray, then I probably would be checking my makeup before grabbing the door handle, but here I go.
The bell rings above me, and I’m hoping I can just slip in while the three of them are discussing colors and centerpieces, but the shop is quiet. I look to the counter, and there he is, looming over the register, glaring down at today’s newspaper, and ignoring me.
My heartbeat stutters and jumps. Did I get the wrong day? Did I miss daylight saving time? I tug out my phone and there’s the text from Jackie—
we’re late too! don’t worry! be there in 10.
That was four minutes ago. I have six minutes. Six minutes that I could have spent in Rite Aid or wandering the alley like a stray dog. But now—now—I have six minutes alone with Elliot.
“They should be here shortly,” I say.
He flips a page of the paper, dismissing me. I consider waiting outside, but I take a deep breath and move away from the front, looking at the flowers on display in the front window. He’s got potted lilies and spring wreaths—always bestsellers—but also large bouquets in tall vases. Sunflowers and orange marigolds, wheaty pampas grass and dusty pink roses, crimson chrysanthemums and rusty calla lilies. He’s really stepped it up. These are enough to make any person stop and think about flipping around to buy some flowers.
I look at him through a bouquet of hydrangeas. His focus is still on the paper. His hair is tied back again, and I can see how long it’s gotten. The years didn’t touch him. He’s twenty-nine now, but he’s always looked twenty-nine. He’s always been on the brink of something. Always a hair’s breadth away from a change, a definition. When I was twenty-two, I thought twenty-six was grown-up. You’re a step away from needing your own health insurance. You’ve probably figured out what kale is. But now, almost twenty-six myself, I stare at him and wonder if I wasted a year of his life. He could be settled down by now. He could have children.
There’s a pinch behind my eyes, and I have to look away. I bite my cheek to center the pain. I’m thinking of Jackie’s friend—Kate? And I almost hope there was someone after me, someone who broke him differently. Because I’m not worth three years of someone’s life.
Aside from a few hookups, I haven’t dated seriously since him, but that’s different. I don’t date seriously. I could have been doing one-night stands if I’d wanted. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t be able to. I can match with guys on Bumble or meet one of Mar’s friends for drinks one night and keep things light. Casual. That’s not Elliot.
If there’s one thing Elliot Bloom is not, it’s casual.
I check my phone. It’s been six minutes. When I still don’t see a Prius pulling into the parking lot, I glance at him again. He’s sitting with his arms crossed, staring at the counter.
If I were to talk to him, I wonder if he’d continue to ignore me. Maybe if it was about work, he’d have to.
“Do you have any questions or concerns about the locations?” My voice is small in the quiet shop.
His jaw tightens, and his eyes fall closed as he shakes his head once.
I suppose I could have made it worse. I could have attempted to apologize for what happened at his mother’s wedding. I’m sorry that your words had the same effect on me as a bee swarm. Was it terribly difficult to break down your mom’s reception without me? Such a professional.
The door opens, and I’m spared the insanity of my thoughts.
“Sorry we’re a bit late!” Jackie says with a huge smile. Hazel is right behind her with a coffee cup in her hands, and I think I could scream, but I guess this is something I need to factor in for the future.
Hazel pulls me into a deep hug and all is forgiven. “I’m so excited for this week,” she says, pushing her sunglasses up to sit on her head. “Jackie’s been telling me that you are a genius, but not why. She wants me to be surprised.”
I laugh nervously. “Well, I have some ideas, but if they’re not clicking, then we’ll move on to something else!”
Over Hazel’s shoulder, Jackie is chattering to Elliot, dropping a folder on the counter and squeezing his arm in hello. He nods back at her with a smile that looks more like a grimace.
Jackie turns to me and Hazel across the room and says, “Are there donuts? Ama, I’m craving them.”
“No! God, I’m sorry. My car was freaking out, so I had to walk today.” I run a hand through my limp hair to fluff it. “But it’s literally down the street. We can swing through after,” I say with a wink.
“What’s wrong with your car?”
His voice cuts through the room like a shark in a school of minnows. He’s flipping through the folder Jackie brought, eyes down.
My throat is dry when I respond, “All the lights came on. It’s fine. A sensor probably tripped.” I roll my eyes at Hazel, like Cars, am I right?
“They wouldn’t do that if you took it in for maintenance every twelve thousand miles like a normal person.”
He’s actually talking to me. Berating me, to be precise, but still it’s language. Jackie must misread my shocked expression because she’s shoving his shoulder and saying, “If you’re an expert, then maybe you should offer to take a look.”
That’s horrifying. That’s literally the cherry on top of my shittastic day. My mouth is open to suggest any other scenario when suddenly he shrugs and says, “Sure.”
His gaze is still on Jackie’s folder—a collage of flower ideas, I can see now—and it doesn’t leave the pictures.
“That’s okay,” I say weakly. “Elliot has to run the shop, and we have to sit down for venue planning after.”
“We can do it all,” Hazel suggests innocently. “We can drive you back home to look at your car before we have lunch.”
Jackie nods aggressively. Elliot flips a page. I slip into a small coma.
“Sure. Yeah. Let’s get chatting, shall we?” Maybe we’ll all conveniently forget about this conversation in an hour.
Jackie starts to talk Elliot through things that she wants and where she needs inspiration from him. She wants a consistency of design, but also for both their personalities to shine.
“Is it crazy to want a different kind of bouquet for each of us?” Jackie winces.
“Babe, I told you,” Hazel says, taking her hand. “I can do pinks. I can do any kind of flower you want.”
“I just want to feel like we’re coming together,” Jackie whispers. “I want you to want the colors and flowers I like.”
I’m thinking of how to capture them both in something as large as floral design when Elliot says, “You want your wedding to reflect your partnership. There’s Hazel, there’s Jackie, and then there’s Hazel and Jackie. It can be all three of those things.”
Jackie turns her body toward him, like a flower looking for sunlight.
Elliot looks at Hazel and says, “What kinds of things do you like? What bouquets or centerpieces have caught your eye?”
“Muted fall colors. Cool tones. But at the same time, tropical. I love big leaves and exotic flowers. Maybe types that are hard to come by.”
“We can order from other countries. That’s no problem. What kind of tropical?” he says, moving around the counter toward the more exotic flowers along the back wall. “We have dendrobium orchids and calla lilies. They make nice bouquets. Hibiscus. There’s the amaryllis”—he waves his hand at me noncommittally, and I feel my blood stop pumping—“and anthuriums.”
I feel Hazel and Jackie turn to me, more than I see it. I’ve stopped seeing, in fact. Hearing the sibilant hiss and lulling Ls from his mouth again have rendered me senseless.
“Oh, wow! Is Ama short for Amaryllis?” Jackie asks.
I smile and nod, like a disembodied head.
“That’s so unusual. I love it. Did your parents love the flower?”
“Um, my mom. And other connotations,” I mumble, pushing my hair over my ear. “In mythology, Amaryllis fell in love with a—with a man who loved flowers …”
I think this is where I’ll die. I think I’ll just lie down and wait for death. He can use me to fertilize the flowers. I can’t look at him, but Hazel is smiling at me with a romantic haze in her eye.
“What’s the myth?” she asks.
“Well …” I hesitate. “She stood in front of his house every day, carving a golden arrow into her heart. On the thirtieth day, a crimson flower sprouted from her chest. And he finally noticed her.”
“Oh, that’s beautiful,” Jackie says. “Gotta love the Greeks. All that unrequited love and sacrifice.”
“Sacrifice?” a deep voice resonates. His hands are hard at work at a bouquet without our notice. “He didn’t want her, so she carved herself into something he liked, something he wanted.”
I feel that golden arrow now, carving, carving.
“Of course you would identify with the man,” Jackie scoffs. It’s supposed to lighten the mood. I force my lips upward.
The skin peels away under the sharp arrow at my chest.
He reaches for a large leaf, tugging the anthuriums out of a vase.
“What’s an amaryllis look like?” Hazel says, turning to where Elliot pointed out the calla lilies.
“I don’t keep them in the shop anymore.”
The arrow hits bone.
He lets it hang awkwardly, so I say, “You’re playing with the anthuriums?”
“Anthuriums come in several colors. They have a tropical feel that can be kept very classy. They can be a centerpiece, they can be a main event, but mostly”—he ties off the bouquet and hands it to Jackie—“they can be an understated piece of a larger bouquet.”
I watch Jackie’s eyes glisten. There are pink roses clustered among the bundle of anthuriums. They have a singular petal that is leaf-like and waxy-looking with a solitary stamen springing up from the center. Jackie’s anthuriums are white with hints of pink seeping into the edges.
“I don’t have them here in the shop—they’d have to be ordered—but anthuriums come in green,” he says to Hazel. “They can be the complement to your bouquet, or the center of it. They also come in burgundy, for something more dramatic.”
Hazel’s lips twitch at dramatic. “I … would be interested in talking more about that.” Her eyes slide to me, and I feel like I get a glimpse of truth. Hazel wants drama. She wants elegance and statements. But that’s not Jackie, so she’s been holding it back.
Elliot pulls his phone out of his pocket and opens Instagram. He shows the two of them a few anthurium bouquets he’s done, and others tagged #Anthurium.
I have burgundy and pink dancing in my head as they start to talk about how centerpieces can be built around anthuriums. I see Jackie’s pinks along the inside of the ceremony chairs, and Hazel’s wine-reds along the outside. I see pink and burgundy every other table.
By the time we’re leaving Blooming, I’m so focused on the design ideas in my head—so focused on ignoring the behemoth of a florist three feet to my right—that I don’t hear Jackie right away.
“I said, should we drive you? Because of your car?”
I hesitate for only a moment, thinking of Whitney and how unprofessional it is to be chauffeured by your clients. If you have to drive anywhere with them, you need to be the driver. But by the time my brain is working again, Hazel is grabbing Jackie’s elbow, her eyes drilling brilliant ideas into her head.
“Isn’t Elliot going to look at her car? Maybe we’ll meet you two over there. Elliot, you can drive Ama real quick, right?”
“No, er, no.” The words pour out of me. “No. I can … Elliot shouldn’t leave his shop. I can take the car in tomorrow.”
“It’s super dangerous though,” Jackie says, getting the idea. “Elliot, do you have a minute?”
“Elliot’s not a car person, really,” I’m mumbling. “He’s—he’s a florist, not a mechanic.”
I see him cross his arms in my peripheral vision, and then there’s an edge to his voice: “I can take a look. ‘Car person’ or not.”
“Cool!” Hazel grabs the door. “Ama, text Jackie your address and we’ll be there shortly!”
“I can—I can ride with you!” My voice is desperate. “Elliot doesn’t need a girl in his car,” I say with a laugh and an odd swooping gesture from my hand, that may be part pirate, part chimney sweep.
“It’s fine!” Jackie says, fully on the inside of this scheme by now. “Hazel and I will buy you donuts for a change.”
And then the front door is closed. And I wish I’d driven that death trap over here. Having it explode at a stop sign is better than this. To avoid looking at him, I text Jackie my address. Following instructions is easy.
He cleans up a few things and grabs the back in 15 sign that his father painted by hand, and then I follow him to the door. I walk to his truck, because I know his truck. Just like I know that the door handle sticks, and you have to jiggle it. Just like I know how the windows fog up with every moan and the leather on the seats isn’t comfortable when I’m kneeling on it.
I hoist myself up, slip inside, and put my seat belt on, all before he even opens his door. I can hear his heavy footsteps approaching. The yank of the driver’s door. The oomph of his body.
He pulls out of the parking lot and onto the street, and I stare at the dash. I wish he had something ridiculous like a hula dancer—something I could focus on instead of the way my heart is pounding or his loud breathing.
“Did you tell them?” he asks, turning easily toward my street.
He’s looking straight ahead. It’s the first thing he’s said to me.
“No. They’re just … intuitive, maybe.” I stare at my knees, mad that he won’t look at me. “You’ll have to be ruder to me to really get the point across.”
He flicks on his blinker dismissively. “Noted.”
I watch an older couple cross in the crosswalk. They start to blur in my eyes, and I bite my lip, tearing my gaze to the right so he won’t see me. It takes a lot of concentration to keep my breath even.
He pulls up in front of my house and is out of the truck before the engine is fully turned off. I scramble in my purse for my car keys, hit the unlock button, and slowly exit as he lifts the hood. I lay the keys next to him and go sit on my front porch step.
Elliot fixing my car is normal for us. He isn’t a “car person,” but he’s right: I could just—I dunno—change my oil or learn even one thing about engines, and I wouldn’t be in this mess. It’s my dad’s car. The one thing he’s really ever given me, aside from toys and sweets when I was a kid. My mom has offered to buy me a new one several times, but I can’t get rid of this car. And I really think if I take it into the shop, this car will never come back.
But it’s been years now since the last time this car has had an Elliot Bloom tune-up. No one has made fun of me for the nail in my tire for two years. No one has skulked out of my house one Saturday morning, dragged me down to the open engine, and shouted about oil levels. No one has commented on the exactly zero amount of wiper fluid I have.
I feel like this car now. As Elliot stomps around, turns over the engine, shoves the seat back a full foot, and shakes his head at my little Camry, I feel like maybe nothing’s been working right for a while.
By the time the Prius pulls up, Elliot is closing the hood. I paste on a smile as Jackie compliments me on the house and the yard. She offers me the pink box, and I inhale a chocolate cake donut, desperate to have something to be doing.
“Can I use your bathroom?” Hazel asks.
I think of Whitney again. How entirely inappropriate this whole thing is. I nod and take my keys from Elliot. “Down the hall on the left. If there are towels on the floor, just pretend I have a terrible roommate.”
She laughs and opens the front door with the key I picked out of the bundle for her. A furry demon darts past her legs as soon as the door is open, and before I can check the street for cars, Lady Cat-ryn is rubbing her head between Elliot’s shins.
Hazel apologizes and I wave her off. Air leaves me entirely when Elliot bends down to scratch her head, clearly deciding for appearances to pretend that this cat isn’t a menace. I scoop her up, and she starts to claw at me.
“Oh my god, she’s beautiful!” Jackie says.
“She’s okay. She’s not worth the trouble.” Lady Cat-ryn twirls in my arms, fighting me, and I straight up grab the scruff behind her neck and just let her hang like a doll.
“You need to take it into the shop,” Elliot says, and after a moment I realize he’s talking about the car, not Lady Cat-ryn. “Your oil needs to be changed, your power steering fluid is low, and there’s a nail … in your back left tire.” He says the last bit with effort. Because we both know it’s the same nail I had two years ago.
“Thank you.” It’s strained, and not just because Lady Cat-ryn is fifteen pounds and currently being held Lion King style away from my body.
He pivots toward his truck. “I’ll get you pictures of those anthuriums this week,” he tosses over his shoulder.
Hazel is just coming out of the house when Elliot’s truck pulls away. I grab another donut from Jackie’s arms.
“How often have you and Elliot worked together?” Hazel asks innocently.
I swallow. “A couple times. He’s great.”
Lady Cat-ryn hisses, and Hazel and Jackie’s lips curve into matching secret smiles.