Page 5 of Forbidden Love Still Blooms

“Now we're talking,” I laugh.

Our hand clasp together. My palm has its share of calluses, but her scarred skin is like braille. It tells a story only she and I can read. She squeezes harder, demanding my attention. “Been a while since you went swimming. Muscles looking a little soft, hm?”

I put my lips together and blow them like a whistle. “Wow. Nice supportive words. Mom of the year over here.” Not wasting time, I flex my bicep, shove her arm towards the counter.

"Hey!" she cries in dismay.

“It's your fault if you leave yourself open!” I giggle.

Her patchy eyebrows lower while her bottom lids crinkle higher. “Not even a count down? You play dirty.” She shifts her body while holding her breath. Her fingers clench, forearm tendons rippling beneath her skin.

Slowly, surely, she forces my arm higher. I had the back of her hand inches from the wooden counter; now I lean against it, fighting with all I have. I'm not frail, and I’m definitely not weak. But my mother, who for years has worked this shop alone without an extra set of hands, is a beast.

Dad never helped. I was always in school. She did everything until I graduated and could throw myself into running Windy Gardens at her side. But she still wakes up early and beats me to the store, hauling the heavy crates off the delivery trucks by herself.

Her upper body trembles, struggling to hold her position. Her eyes widen as I begin easing her back to the middle. She's right—I haven't been in the ocean in months, the weather has been too cold. Without the crushing waves trying to yank me into the dark depths my muscles aren't at their peak. But I was neverstrongbecause of anything as basic as exercise.

It's all because of her.

Mom's fist smacks the wood—I let go, throwing up my arms, cheering loudly. “Now who's crying? Who is it? Who? Yeah!”

She breaks out into full-body laughter, hugging herself to try and stop it. “Okay, okay, you win. Jesus, where did you learn to be such a poor winner from? Not me I hope.”

Still beaming, I hop onto the counter, then over, to embrace her. With a grunt I lift her up a few inches from the floor. “Go home! Go relax! That was the deal!”

My mother slides out of my arms, smoothing her short hair with a roll of her eyes. “I get it. I'm going. But you better clean the backroom—”

“I will.”

“And count out the money in the register.”

“Yes.”

“Break down the boxes.”

“Oh my god, get out of here!”

With one final sigh she allows a tender smile to appear. “I'll see you back at the house.”

“No, you won't,” I say, “because you'll be asleep. Bye, Mom. Drive safe.”

She drapes her apron over a peg on the wall, scooping her purse up from beneath the counter on her way out the door. I wave at her until I can't see her waving back. She vanishes beyond the view of the big display window, heading into the alley to where we keep our cars parked.

Positioning my hands on my hips, I survey the shop. There are empty boxes stacked that need to be broken down, bits of plants all over the floor, and the window I cleaned this morning needs another shine. It's a lot of work, but I don't mind.

Setting my phone on the counter I put it on max volume and blast my playlist. Taylor Swift fills the room. I hum along, mangling the lyrics and entirely unashamed about it. It's just me, after all. I'm allowed to sing as badly as I want.

I'm in the middle of the album when the shop's door jingles. “We're closed,” I say, turning to politely suggest that whoever has wandered in come back in the morning. “Sorry, I meant to lock it up.” The sun is a furious apple-red in the sky, the harsh rays blasting through the window, making me squint.

Four white guys of differing heights filter inside. The last one closes the door behind him. “Don't worry,” Dezmond says in a relaxed voice, “We'll lock it up for you.”

My fingers strangle the broom handle I'm holding. They all pack into my storefront, meandering around as they pretend to give a shit about the flowers. Dezmond is the shortest of the group; my chin would reach his forehead. He didn't inherit his father's stature at all. His hair has a mild curl to it, the sunlight making it glow like a halo, but this man isn't sent from Heaven.

Behind him stands his crew. I know Jake because it's hard to forget the kid who was called Shaggy from Scooby-Doo in your third-grade math class. He still resembles the cartoon character, but now he dresses like he fell into a pile of leather jackets and had to fight his way back out.

The other two guys look like bulldogs—all muscle, thick jowls, with speckled and textured skin that hints at meth abuse. I don't know their names, but I've seen them with Dezmond around town.

“Get out,” I say sharply. “Now.”

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