Forget Me Not by Julie Soto
8
Elliot
THREE YEARS, SIX MONTHS, AND SIX DAYS AGO
Idon’t do social media. I could try to explain how it’s rotting my generation, or that basing your self-worth on your ability to photograph your eggs is useless. But the truth is, I never learned how to use it.
And I refuse to do it wrong. If I’m going to commit anywhere from one to eight hours of my day to a new hobby, I’m not going to make an ass of myself.
My dad wanted the shop to have an Instagram account. He had my cousin set it up several years ago, but Dad was terrible at adding to it. There’d be all caps in the descriptions, and he’d have fertilizer bags in the corner of a shot of some dahlias. It has about a hundred followers and gets maybe six likes per post.
My same cousin, Ben, works at the shop on days I’m setting up weddings, and I asked him for some advice. I built a chandelier by suspending a rectangular tray from the ceiling in the back room with a lightweight chain. I filled it with pink baby’s breath and feathery blush flowers from an astilbe. I’m not even embarrassed—it’s a fluffy pink cloud, and I think it looks awesome. Ben thought so too, and helped me upload it with the right hashtags.
Two hundred likes, seventy new followers.
I hate social media. I’m in bed, staring at other posts from floral designers across the world. I don’t care that they have one thousand times the followers or likes; it’s that they deserve them. My skin is buzzing with inspiration and jealousy.
One of them has a wall of roses spelling a bride and groom’s names. A wall. Of roses. How much are these couples shelling out for this shit? But even as I shake my head, I’m itching to sketch the construction. What kind of structure is the flower foam mounted on? Does it have to be a day-of installation, or is this actually sustainable?
Some other punk kid is doing Alice in Wonderland–themed bouquets, naked underneath his gardening apron. He’s got twenty million followers. His Mad Hatter bouquet is driving me nuts because he clearly colored the peonies for it. I’m about to become one of those internet trolls I’ve heard about, ready to post “black spray on your peonies bro?” when a new like and a new follower comes in.
@AmazingAma liked your photo
@AmazingAma started following you
My eyes flick back to where I’m typing, trying to decide whether I want a comma after peonies, when I realize who it might be.
I leave the naked dude’s page and click on my notifications just in time to see:
@WeddingsbyAma started following you
I click the first profile and see her huge eyes staring wide at the camera under a hat brim. Account is private. My thumb hovers over the Follow button, but I decide against it.
Private accounts. Instagram’s version of online dating, one rejected follow request at a time.
The banner at the top of the app drops down. WeddingsbyAma has sent me a message.
I sit up in bed, feeling oddly like I need to be not in my underwear for this. But I look at the time and she’s the one DM’ing me at eleven thirty at night.
I click the message, and it’s a link to my own post of the chandelier and a message from her:
This is fucking beautiful
I swallow. I know it is. But that’s not what you’re supposed to say. I’m still thinking of the annoying way she talked and the scent of her perfume that cut through the flowers even after she was gone.
I decide to say nothing instead of being rude again. Or instead of being forced to type thank you. I go to her WeddingsbyAma page and look at her posts. She’s been using Relles Florist in Mid-town. They’re good. My father used to get dinner with Mr. Relles, and their entire family came to his funeral.
A new message pops up.
Can you make it for a 12-foot head table?
I stare at the screen, thinking of the trays I have. One tray is three feet. I wouldn’t do four trays because it would outshine the table itself. I can connect three trays, maybe even link them together so there’s more stability—
For next weekend?
I frown at the incoming message. It’s Thursday. Nine days for a special order isn’t unheard of. But not over Instagram. At 11:38 p.m.
In my head, I draft a response—my cousin said they can see you type—and after about ten minutes I disregard it. I just write back:
Call the shop tomorrow and we’ll talk.
It’s nine a.m., and I’m still trying to turn on the computer when the door swings open. That same brimmed black hat from her profile pic is on her head, and there’s a broad smile on her lips. With her hair down, now I can see that it’s long—to her mid-back. She looks like a witch.
“Good morning!”
I catch myself just staring while she approaches the counter and I grunt a response, turning to the register. She drops a pink box between us. I glare at it.
“Donuts! From J Street Donuts.”
“Very inventive name.”
Her eyes twinkle. “Well, Elliot Bloom of Blooming, we can’t all be as blessed.” She flips open the lid, and I spare a glance at the half dozen.
“I don’t eat sugar.”
She looks like I just burned down her house. “God, seriously? That’s not possible.”
“It is. I don’t.”
“Ever?” She leans forward on the counter. “What about soda?” When I shake my head, she blinks like she’s having a stroke. “I have a donut almost every single day.”
I glance her over, searching for signs that she’s telling the truth. The curve of her hips catches my attention, just like last time, but I refocus quickly. “I told you to call.”
“Why waste time?” she says, plucking a donut hole out of the box, popping it between her blush-stained lips, and reaching for her iPad in one movement.
I watch her chew, her tongue swiping out to catch the sugar. I think of Madison Bailey in middle school, telling any idiot who would listen that you should always eat in front of a boy. It will make him think about your mouth.
Fucking Madison. I didn’t believe her back then.
“Okay,” she says, swallowing, and I watch that movement too. Her fingers are quick over her iPad. “Wedding is next Saturday. The head table is twelve feet long, and the ceiling is about twenty high. I’m thinking the chandelier lands at seven to eight feet. Can you come to the venue today or tomorrow to measure and confirm?”
Her eyes flick up to me. The computer screen goes dark, task completely forgotten. I shake the mouse and pretend to look at my calendar.
“Noon either day. That’s when my cousin can cover the shop.”
“Awesome. Today, please,” she says. She tells me the location, then says, “Can I see the piece? Is it still here?”
I head to the back, turning to hold the door open for her. She grabs a chocolate donut from her box and follows.
The single bulb flickers to life in the back room. I used a work light for the initial picture. It almost looked well staged, with the rustic green paint on the wall behind the chandelier.
She moves right to it, reaching up to touch the baby’s breath, stepping underneath and staring at the trays. She’s tiny, really. She just wears tall shoes.
“In the pinks, right?” I say, sliding my apron on over my head.
“Yeah, perfect.”
“Is the client coming to confirm?”
“I am the client,” she says absently, stepping back to observe where it connects to the ceiling.
Something in my chest drops. Like a bird shot dead.
“Congratulations,” I mutter, watching her take a bite of the donut. Watching her mouth.
“Mm.” She spins to me. “Sorry.” She eventually swallows. “Not me. My mom. She’s getting married; I’m designing it.”
I drag my gaze to the mess of the back room, ignoring the adrenaline pumping through me, as well as the relief. I clear my throat and continue. “The trays are three feet. I think I’ll do three of them to not overshadow. And then the flowers will overflow the ends and give more volume.”
She nods and stares at me with a grin. “You can speak more than three-word sentences. Cool.”
I roll my eyes and step up to show her where I’ll connect the trays. I see her glance at the tattoo on the back of my left forearm.
“Which flower is that?”
I bend my elbow back. “It’s a Vietnamese orchid. It’s endangered.”
She stares at the tattoo, the white petals and reddish-pink center. “Is it your favorite?”
I drop my arm, fingers reaching for my other sleeve to roll it down. “No, I don’t have a favorite.”
Her gaze flicks to my right arm as I cover it to the wrist, but she drops the subject. “Do you have more to do a centerpiece too? Just aesthetically, to match above and below.”
“You don’t have your centerpieces yet?”
“I do. I’d rather have this.”
I move into the main shop, heading toward the Stem Bar for the feathery astilbe and baby’s breath. “What are the other flowers?” I call to her. “I can match and fill the center.”
“White dahlias.” She surprises me by being right next to me.
She follows me into the back room again, and I take a low basin from a shelf, starting to arrange the sprigs to fan out of the sides. I can feel her watching my hands move. The center is bare, and I pull some thick white candles as an option. “I can fill the center with the dahlias or weave them in.”
“What do you think is best?”
She’s looking at me expectantly, and I feel like this is some sort of test.
I start weaving them into the baby’s breath. Hopefully integrating the dahlias will help these centerpieces match the other floral design.
“Do you like the guy?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer, and I glance up. “The guy?” she asks.
“Your mom’s new husband.”
“Oh.” She snorts, waving her hand flippantly. “It doesn’t matter.” Zero points there. “Okay.”
“Sorry, I just mean—she doesn’t stay married for long. So whether I like him or not is inconsequential. I’ll spend the summer with him and his kids, maybe Labor Day, and then I probably won’t see him ever again.” There’s a downward tilt to her mouth.
“That sounds hard,” I try.
Her eyes flip up to mine. “Sometimes.”
“Is your dad still around?” She doesn’t answer right away, and I feel my skin heat. “Sorry, you don’t have to—”
“It’s okay.” She flashes a smile and says, “He’s in Connecticut. With a new family. More stepsiblings for me!” She laughs, like there’s a joke there, but I don’t get it. “I used to fly out every other Christmas, but it’s been a few years. He gave me his car for my sixteenth birthday, and we started just calling each other on holidays.”
I look up at her. Her eyes are glued on the centerpiece I’m making, but there’s nothing sad or embarrassed about her expression. It’s fact. I can’t quite apologize for facts.
She pivots topic quickly, gesturing to the flowers as I finish up. “This looks great. If you weren’t such an asshole, I would have ordered ten of these already.”
“Oh, you didn’t like your boutonniere?” I ask innocently, my lips twitching. I wipe my hand with a rag and lead her back to the counter.
She follows. “You mean the buttercups for immaturity, the petunias for resentment, and—what was that other plant you used?”
“Poison ivy.” I grab an order sheet from the drawer and sneak a glance up at her. She’s gaping at me like a fish. When she realizes I’m joking, I see her biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.
I scribble the order down in my chicken scratch. “We charge an added ten percent for rush orders.” She nods in agreement. “And there’s a PITA fee.”
She blinks, and then she hums her acceptance. She looks down at her phone, but I watch her eyes focus, trying to figure out what a PITA is.
It’s the one thing my father ever did that convinced me we were related. He’d charge a PITA fee sometimes. Pain in the ass. It was only ever ten dollars, so he used to donate it to the library or the high school.
I write the order name at the top. Ama Torres. As I scribble the date, I say, “Amalgamation.”
She pauses typing—probably looking up PITA—and stares at me. “You think my mother named me Amalgamation?”
I shrug. “There are so few A-M-A words in the world. Amaranth?”
“You are conveniently forgetting amazing. What is Amaranth?”
“I didn’t forget; I disregarded. Amaranth is a plant. Drooping pink flowers that I use in bouquets sometimes.”
The corners of her mouth tighten, and she hums. “Nope.” Her eyes look away quickly.
I lean forward on the counter so I can see the small details in her expression that say I’m too close to the truth.
My eyes flick to the front window—the flower I caught her pawing the first time she came into my shop. The “Red Pearl” I’d gotten in from South America. The second bud just opened today, crimson red.
I move around the counter and take my mini shears from my back pocket. I run my fingertips over the dark petals, the stamen reaching outward to me, saying goodbye.
“Amaryllis,” I say, my voice soft in the quiet shop. I lift my eyes to her, and she’s pressing her lips together, a blush on her cheeks, a stain on her neck as vibrant as the Red Pearl amaryllis. “Is your mother a fan of musicals, or …?”
Her eyes sparkle again. “How does someone like you know a minor character from The Music Man?”
“How many times do I have to tell you? I have HBO.” I slide my clippers over the stem of the older bud and snip. Moving slowly back to the counter, I grab a bundle of the pink baby’s breath from my apron and say, “Amaryllis was a mean little girl who was very rude to a little boy with a lisp. And as a little boy who had a lisp …” Her eyes widen, like I’ve given her a year’s supply of donuts. “I vowed to take my revenge on Amaryllises … by charging a twenty-dollar delivery fee.”
She fights a smile. I grab a pink ribbon, tie off the amaryllis and baby’s breath with a quick twist, and set it next to her copy of the order.
“See you at noon,” I say, before disappearing into the back to clean up.
When I get to the country club later, she’s pinned it to her blouse, above the swell of her breasts. I do a terrible job of keeping my gaze from dropping.