Page 3 of Bloom

I want to tell him that that’s not all I do, but the argument isn’t worth it. And he’s right, I guess. To someone who spent their entire life on construction sites building houses from theground up, my job is pretty pathetic. But I like it, even if that makes me pretty pathetic too.

Scuffing his feet against the floor, Dad gestures to the destroyed room behind him. “Clean this place up before you leave.”

“I'm already—”

“I'm not fucking asking, Caroline.”

No. He never is.

Swallowing over the lump in my throat, I nod. I try to act nonchalant as I follow him back inside, try to act like my heart isn’t pounding a mile a minute. Hurrying to the kitchen, I find a trash bag and set my keys on the counter, keeping one eye on them the entire time it takes me to toss the remnants of yet another late night… poker game, I come to the conclusion when I tip whiskey out of a dirty glass and a round plastic chip falls into the sink with it.

It takes longer than I want. My hands shake with the knowledge that the slightest thing might set my hungover father off, my body tense with the effort of not rushing enough to make it obvious I’m rushing, but not too slow either because that’ll just irritate him. By the time I finish, a migraine thumps at my temples. Swiping my keys and resuming my tight, paranoid grip on them, I brave the journey to the front door, eyes on the ground as though if I don't look at him, he won't see me leave.

I'm almost there, so freaking close, when something brushes against my thigh. Heart in my throat, I glance down to find an empty beer bottle blocking my path. Dad doesn't look at me. He doesn't ask. He just wiggles the bottle slightly, a silent demand. Choking on a sigh, I quickly replace the disgustingly warm beverage with a fresh one.

I shouldn't be surprised when he takes it without a thank you.

I shouldn't be surprised that I call a soft goodbye over my shoulder and he doesn’t react.

I shouldn’t be surprised, I shouldn’t be hurt, as I leave the only home I’ve ever known, and the only family I have doesn’t care.

Bright side; all that hurt? Overwhelmed by a hell of a lot of relief.

It’s not until I trudge into Bloom and the scent of fresh flowers slaps me in the face that I feel like I can breathe again. Exhaling harshly enough to make my lungs ache, I haul my bags inside too; as safe as this town is, something about leaving all my earthly belongings in a truck that doesn’t lock seems like a bad move. Dropping everything in a haphazard pile, I roll back my shoulders and suck in a deep, floral-tinged breath.

I love this place. Since I was a kid, I’ve loved this place. The colors, the smells, the feeling that you get being surrounded by so much life and light. My mom always used to worry the pollen would make my asthma act up, but it never did—a cosmic sign, I like to think. When Odette, the owner of my much beloved florist’s, hired me my junior year of high school, it was pretty much the best day of my life.

Almost six years later and she still hasn’t managed to get rid of me.

“Nova?” I call out as I slip my phone from my bag and snap a quick picture of the store at its prettiest—fully-stocked after a weekly trip to the market. “You here?”

I hear rustling, followed by a brief burst of muffled swearing, before the storeroom door creaks open and a head pops around the side. “Hey.” My young coworker greets me with a smile,wiping her soil-covered hands off on her apron. “I didn't hear you come in.”

Rolling my lips together to stem a laugh, I pluck a stray leaf from her hair and eye the scratches on her arms. “Get in another fight?”

Nova groans, her expression twisting in a wince. “I swear, Line, those roses are out to get me.”

I chuckle as I reach under the counter for the jumbo-pack of BandAids I’ve used many, many a time. Tossing them her way, I grab the order book too, flipping it open to this week and quickly scanning the pages. “Market go okay this morning?”

She nods, but her grimace remains. “I don't know how you do that all the time.”

“It gets easier,” I promise. Although, I never found it particularly hard. The flower market where we get our stock might be a sensory overload, to say the least—so many smells, so many people, and all at the crack of dawn—but I love it. I’ve been going there long enough for people to know me by name, to give me the best offers, to set stuff aside they think I’ll like. It’s comfortable. It’s familiar.

It’s a glorious two hours away from Haven Ridge.

“You did good,” I praise as I follow Nova back into the storeroom, wrapping my arms around myself as the refrigerated chill seeps through my dress. Roses, lilies, and all the rest of our typical bestsellers line every inch of the storage space, but it’s the array of daisies, my favorite, that really make me smile. Setting a hand on Nova’s shoulder, I give it an encouraging squeeze. “I’ll sort through the old stuff and you restock?”

She nods, and the next few hours pass quickly, filled with filtering through what’s on display and what’s in the storeroom, picking out anything a little too rumpled and carefully setting them aside. I don’t have the heart to throw perfectly good but not quite sellable blooms away, so I use them for teas or soapsor candles. It’s time-consuming and kind of complicated until you get the hang of it and they don’t always turn out right, but I like making the little crafts. I like having a skill or two; silly and redundant as they may be. Doing it makes me feel… I don’t know, competent?Useful.

Like I’m doing something other than messing around with flowers all day, I guess.

Leaving Nova downstairs, I climb the winding staircase leading to the cramped second floor we use as a break room and dump my haul on the kitchenette counter. Filling an old-fashioned teapot with water from the sink, I set it on the stove and start sorting my haul into neat little piles as I wait for it to boil. It’s just starting to whistle when I hear the door downstairs open, followed by light footsteps on the stairs. When familiar jasmine perfume wafts into the room, my mouth stretches into a smile, and I’m ready for the thin, wrinkled arms that wrap around my waist, the bony frame that presses against my back. “Sweet Caroline,” Odette coos in my ear. When I turn around, slender fingers tuck a lock of hair behind my ear before pinching my cheek. “I can’t tell what’s more beautiful; you or my store.”

Nose wrinkling at the compliment, I stoop to kiss my boss’ cheek. “I didn’t know you were coming into town.”

“I thought if I surprised you, maybe I’d catch you slacking for once.” Odette squeezes my biceps gently. “I should’ve known better. You’ve made me obsolete, you know.”

“Impossible. Tea?” I needlessly ask, already snagging the kettle and pouring boiled water into two tea-leaf-filled mugs.

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