Forget Me Not by Julie Soto

5

Elliot

THREE YEARS, EIGHT MONTHS, TWO WEEKS, AND ONE DAY AGO

Flowers are better than people.

“Yes, Dad, they are,” I say to the empty shop.

I’m in the back room, working on a hoop that I can suspend from the ceiling above the register. It will have dahlias and peonies twined around it, a section on the bottom right, a smaller section on the top left. It’s a miniature version of what some people want behind them at the altar.

Dad would have told me to focus on the register, don’t dally in the back. But he was 5′7″ and frail, kind to everyone. I’m the opposite. Nobody’s coming into Blooming to fuck with me. And besides, I’ve always been more interested in behind the scenes.

There’s still a lot of him at the shop—his voice on the voicemail, his name on the sign. But there are exactly four of his flowers that are still kicking, ones that I brought to his funeral when I thought he’d maybe like more flowers than people there. Mom has one, and the other three are still in the shop. And he was right. They only needed light, water, and attention. But it’s not as simple as that. Because you need to know how much light, how much water, how much attention. But if you can get it right—if you can crack the code—flowers are infinitely better than people. Because you can find a person’s ratio of light, water, and attention, and it still won’t be enough.

For flowers, it’s enough.

It took me a couple years to really understand. I was mad for a long time that I had to drop out of college for flowers, of all things, but this was my grandad’s shop before it was my father’s, so it was always going to be mine, lung cancer or not, architecture degree or not. But light, water, and attention—that I could do. It’s almost instinctual now. I don’t think I have the magic touch my father had, but after a while, I started adding my own magic. Like this hoop. A little bit of design and construction to brighten up the place. I can get lost for hours making things like this.

So when my father’s bell on the front door chimes just as I’m starting to tie off the peonies, I huff a sigh.

My lips tighten. I’m so close to finishing this.

“Yeah, one sec.”

Once the section is secured, I grab a rag for my hands and step out of the back room. A girl is running her fingers over the new imported flowers that sit in the front window. I hate when people touch shit.

“What.” I place my hands on the counter and lean forward onto them.

She spins. She’s familiar, but she looks too young to be one of my mother’s blind dates. Her eyes slide over the tattoos on my arms, and I’m still trying to place her when her expression narrows and her arms cross.

“‘What?’ Is that really how you greet someone?” she says.

The sound of her voice does it. She’s Whitney’s girl. I remember her now. Her eyes are dark oak-brown to match her hair. She’s got it tossed up in one of those ridiculous high buns so you don’t know how much hair she actually has, but mine’s currently long enough to be tied back, so I can’t complain. My gaze dips to the swell of her hips before I can stop it.

“Welcome to my store,” I say drily. “You need a prom corsage?”

She blinks rapidly. “A—a prom corsage? I’m twenty-two!”

I shrug. “You look sixteen.” She doesn’t. But I bet it’s gonna make her mad.

She steps toward the register with an arched brow, a swagger in her walk.

“Is that how you look at sixteen-year-olds?”

I push away from the counter with a sigh. She won that one. “How can I help you, ma’am?”

I see the ma’am hit her just as hard as the sixteen, but she straightens her scarf and moves closer. “My name is Ama Torres. You might remember, I used to work with Whitney Harrison Weddings. Now I’ve started my own business—”

“Congratulations.” I turn my back on her, fingers already plucking up the petals left over from this morning. I busy my hands and listen to her sputter.

“Yes, thank you. Um, I wanted to come in and make a connection. I’ve always been a fan of Blooming, and if I can convince clients to hire you, I’d like to—”

“Whitney’s had a discount for years.” I move from behind the register and onto the floor, heading for the Stem Bar I set up so customers can make their own bouquets, priced by the stem. I grab some yellow buttercups. “My father set it up with her. It’s much higher than anyone else gets, especially new wedding planners.”

“I didn’t come here for a discount, Mr. Bloom,” she all but hisses. “I came to introduce myself.”

“Great. And now you have.” I find the petunias and return to the counter, grabbing some waxy lemon leaves.

My father used to do this. He was kind about it, of course, but he used to give a boutonniere or small corsage to people coming in to place an order, like it was a bit of luck to take with them. I expanded on it. I create it while we talk. Sometimes they’re so charmed to have a free arrangement inspired by them that it erases the five minutes of rudeness they experienced.

“Okay,” she says, and I hear the exasperation being pushed down. “I’d like to start again. I’m Ama.”

My eyes leave the twine and petals. She’s extending one hand toward me with a bright smile on her face. I relish the fact that mine are sticky with stem sap with dirt under my nails as I reach for her manicured fingers. Her hands are small. And I realize she can’t be much over five feet, but she wears heels to cover it. I’m thinking too much about her body, so I say, “Emma?”

Her lips tighten. I’ve hit another nerve. “Ama. A-M-A.”

I’m still holding her hand in mine when I say, “What the fuck kind of name is Ama?”

She takes her hand back, and her eyes flick to the floor before she gains her confidence again. “It’s short for something, obviously.”

And the fact that she won’t tell me is delicious. I try to keep the grin from twitching my lips, but I think I fail. “Amateur.”

She stares at me, then realizes it’s a guess, not an accusation. Then realizes it’s both. Then frowns.

It’s a fun journey to watch.

“No.” She pushes her bag up her shoulder. “My mother didn’t name me Amateur.”

“Amabella,” I guess.

She tilts her head. “You read a lot of Liane Moriarty?”

“I have HBO.”

She snorts. And it’s not crass or unflattering. I start twisting the twine around the stems again. “Why did Whitney let you go?” I ask.

She takes a sharp inhale. “She didn’t let me go. We’re on good terms, I swear.”

I look up at her. I remember her at venues, her hands in every pot. She’d be on ladders with the sound tech, refolding napkins, shifting chuppahs two inches over. She’d spot a wilted flower from a mile away, and while I was still setting up, she’d come over and tear out the offenders. She was excellent with design, and probably the true brains behind Whitney’s success. But I also remember her laughing with bridesmaids, getting closer than Ice Queen Whitney ever dared.

And I remember the crack of her fist. The way she trembled when Whitney dug her nails into her arm.

“It’s all the same, isn’t it?” I say. “Whitney decides who stays and who goes. Whitney let you go.” I slip the pin through the boutonniere, finishing with a thin ribbon. I watch her mind work, trying to figure it out.

“I told Whitney it was my dream to own my own business. So she supported me.”

I place the purple and yellow boutonniere on the counter next to her hand. She picks it up and her fingers feather over the petals. I feel that bit of magic that Dad used to talk about—when you can change someone’s day with a gift of flowers.

So I say something to ruin it. “The only reason Whitney Harrison would allow you to compete with her in the market is because she knows you’ll fail. So she let you go.”

Her eyes snap up at me. I see her fingers curl around the tied flowers. And before she can chuck them at my head, I say, “I won’t do a vendor discount for the first six months.” I pluck up our old business card that still has Dad’s name, and I slide it across to her before grabbing the rag and heading into the back again.

I wonder if she’ll look up The Language of Flowers and figure out I just told her, You are immature and I resent you. Go away.