Forget Me Not by Julie Soto

3

Elliot

FIVE YEARS, FOUR MONTHS, THREE WEEKS, AND FIVE DAYS AGO

Ifucking hate flowers.

Every other rosebud is wilting and hanging off the stem, petals browning. I’m sifting through them one by one at the head table in the outdoor tent, making sure that the bride’s point of view and major camera angles are at least solid.

Dad says I’ll get the hang of it, but I don’t really want to. Flowers are his thing, not mine. He loves flowers. He’s a magician with them. All while I was growing up, he used to say, “Flowers are better than people.”

It was a weird thing to say.

But he would tell me that flowers need only three things: light, water, and attention. When I was fifteen and angry because I was too tall and too angular and too rude, I would say, “It could be argued that people need the same.”

He’d laugh at me. “You’d think.” He’d trail off, “You’d think …”

And now, as I mangle roses in front of the catering staff, stalling until Dad comes back with the rest of the centerpieces, I’m pretty positive that both flowers and people suck.

I fluff up the garland as best as I can, trying not to think about what Dad meant when he said, “You’ll get the hang of it.” As if one day I’ll need to have all these random facts and anecdotes and genuses memorized. I should be studying for my final in Architectural Design Theory and Criticism, but the sound of Dad’s hacking cough this morning makes me think it won’t matter. Mom called last month and said my father looked like he needed an extra pair of hands when she visited the shop. But she didn’t say for how long. They’re divorced, but she still checks in on him—which is good, because I don’t know how else we would have found out about the mass in his lungs. Certainly not from him.

I run a hand through my dark hair and glance over the head table again, not actually knowing if I’m making things better or worse.

A laugh bounces through the canopy tent, ricocheting off the tables and mocking me. I look toward it and find a brown-haired girl with a groomsman in only his tuxedo pants and shirt, standing off to the side of the ceremony chairs. Practically snarling, I almost tear a bud out in frustration.

I’ve only been doing weddings with Dad for five weeks, but I hate it when the bridal party gets involved. Opinions sprouting like spores. I watch under lowered eyelids as the bridesmaid turns to point at the bridal arch and the groomsman steps closer to her shoulder to “see it from her perspective.” I’m waiting for the inevitable moment where he says, You’re right. One of the sides is leaning to the left.

That’s when I see the iPad in her hands. And realize she’s not in hair and makeup yet. Not wedding party hair and makeup anyway. It was hard to tell before, because she’s polished. Sleek.

I’m staring too hard at how she’s referencing between the iPad and the arch, waiting for her to spin around and “find the person responsible for the imbalance,” so that’s why I see the moment when he leans into her neck, whispers something in her ear, and slides his hand over her ass.

She jerks away. I can see her eyes, wide and blinking, as the color drains from her cheeks. She steps back.

He steps forward again. And I drop the flower I’m trimming as he grabs her waist with two hands, leaning forward toward her lips.

Quicker than a crack of thunder, her fist connects solidly with his nose.

“Fuck!”The groomsman stumbles back, gripping his face between fingers covered in ruby-red blood.

I’m frozen in shock as the girl’s hands come up to her surprised mouth. I see her apologizing, creeping forward with an out-stretched hand to help—

“Fucking bitch!”

My fingers curl.

She’s whispering frantically, her spine curved in like a cornered cat in an alley even as she takes tissues out of her fanny pack and tries to get him to tilt his head back.

They’ve got the attention of all the staff. The on-site venue coordinators are rushing over, but Whitney Harrison beats them all. She’s a force to be reckoned with in her heels and clipboard. She’s snapping her fingers to get ice and towels for the bloody nose. The girl is standing just at her shoulder, cowering.

The groomsman spits accusations, waving his hand around. Once he’s ushered inside, Whitney snaps around, grips the girl’s elbow in a vise, and pulls her very close, hissing in her face.

I catch three words: “Be a professional.”

I’m still rooted to the spot, watching from a distance. I hear the people around me continuing to set up the linens, teeth clicking with gossip. I focus once again on the roses, hiding brown petals. I take the cart out of the tent and back to the van, trying not to watch as the girl nods, wipes her cheeks, and with downcast eyes, moves to help with the linen.

Whitney adjusts her dress, sweeping her hair back into place, and pastes on a smile. She catches my eye as I head to the truck, and I feel her move into step with me.

“I’m so sorry about that, Elliot.” Her voice is silky with a sharp edge. “Completely inappropriate—and I’m going to deal with her.”

“He made a pass at her,” I say. “Aggressively.”

Whitney’s smile tightens. “That’s a shame. Unfortunately, this is the third time I’ve told her she needs to create space between herself and the clients. She’s far too involved.” Tossing a look over her shoulder to where the girl is folding a napkin with shaking fingers, she says, “She got invited to the bachelorette party, for god’s sake. Anyway, please don’t think I support my staff flirting with the bridal party. She will be dealt with.”

Something claws at my throat. “Most people don’t punch someone they’re flirting with.”

She gives me a sweet, condescending smile. “Most people would have learned their lesson by now.” She gives my arm a squeeze and says, “Say hello to your mom for me.”

Whitney’s one of those people who thinks she has clout because she has a connection to my mom, a state senator. As if she could “make one call” in special circumstances.

Whitney moves quickly around the edge of the tent, eyeing her rogue assistant. I pack up the cart with the next vases, letting my mind clear. Maybe Whitney is right. Maybe this was a lesson this girl needed to learn the hard way.

From the corner of my eye, I see the girl drop a napkin on the ground because she only has one hand to fold them with. Her right is curled into her stomach, bruised and battered from colliding with bone.

Weddings are fun, Elliot, I hear my father’s voice say. Don’t let it be difficult.

That’s what is echoing in my head when I abandon the dolly, moving to the bar to grab a handful of ice. The cubes are burning my bare hand as I take them over to her. The others are giving her a wide berth, so I’m the only one who can hear her sniff as she restarts the napkin. She looks up at me and slaps away a tear.

“Hi, Elliot. Does your dad need help?”

Her voice is small and tight. I had no idea she knew my name. I don’t know hers.

She turns her back on me to save face, continuing to fold napkins with one hand. I don’t know how to respond, so I tug one of my dad’s handkerchiefs out of my pocket.

“Elliot!”

I spin to find my dad parking the other van to the side of the tent, waving at me to come help him. I glance back at the girl, who’s moved toward another table. She can’t be much older than twenty.

I don’t know what I’d even say to her. Just hand her a hankie full of ice? Tell her she should have kneed him in the balls too? Ask her if she’d like me to go beat the shit out of him? Out of Whitney?

So, when she moves farther away from me, I walk back to my dad, ice numbing my own hand by now.

“All good?” Dad says, heaving himself out of the driver’s seat with a wheeze I don’t like. “Any trouble with the roses?”

“Yeah. You’ll need to check them,” I mumble.

“What’s the ice for?”

I look down at my hand, turning red from the cold. “It’s … That girl? Whitney’s assistant? She hurt her hand so I was …” I hold the handkerchief and ice out to him. “I’ll get the centerpieces. Do you want to check on her?”

He takes the handkerchief and then looks at me. “Don’t you want to?”

I shrug. “I’m no good at people, you know that.”

He sends me a smirk as he walks toward her. “You’re no good at flowers either!” He laughs at his joke as I glare at him.

I load up the dolly, watching out of the corner of my eye as my dad approaches her. Within seconds she’s laughing, grinning at something he says. He wraps the hankie around her knuckles, and she laughs again, a sound like blossoms opening in spring.

I set up the rest of the centerpieces alone, letting Dad work the magic only he knows.