Page 30 of Weekends with You

“I’d better get going, then,” he said, trading me the bundle for a few pounds.

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. I think I’m going to need it.”

Renee reappeared in the studio before the bell above the door was finished announcing his departure. I was still standing at the cash register, watching him walk away.

“Oh, pet, you didn’t tell me he looked likethat.” She pulled her glasses down and peered at me over them.

“Well, it doesn’t matter either way, because we’re just friends, as you heard when he walked in and as you were eavesdropping from the office.”

She tutted, waving off my attempts to wind her up. “And why on earth would you have made that decision? Surely you’re both mad.”

“We are not,” I said, returning to the centerpieces. “The only thing that was mad was to think this ever might have worked in the first place. It doesn’t make any sense, and I’d rather have that sorted now than later, when it would hurt a whole lot more.”

“Being so protective of the heart is no way to live, you know.”

“I’m not so protective of my heart.” I could hear myself getting defensive, but with Renee, I wasn’t sure I cared. “I put it into my work every day, don’t I? Don’t I give a little piece of it to every customer, every celebration, everyone in mourning?”

“There’s no denying that,” she said, reaching out to rest a wrinkled hand on mine. Hers felt like ice, but the sentiment was warm. “Just make sure you’re as generous outside of work. Would hate to see that heart of yours confined to the walls of this shop.”

“Spoken like a true grandmother.”

“Just because I’m not your biological grandmother doesn’t mean my grandmotherly obligations don’t extend to you.”

“Are we ready to get back to work? These pieces aren’t going to finish themselves, and we’re running out of time. I wantto use all of these geraniums, because if Hattie’s niece is forced into a stuffy high-tea birthday do, she should at least have fun arrangements to look at.”

Renee glared for a moment but kept her mouth shut and returned to work. We settled back into our rhythm, and the arrangements were looking even more beautiful than before. This was a perfect place to share my heart, as far as I was concerned.

When I got home, the bundle of lilyturf was sitting on the small desk in my bedroom, with a note bearing my name. I unfolded the small cardboard flap and read:

Lucy,

I’m sorry for last night. I was a bit of a drunken sod and didn’t mean to offend, though I realize I have. I hope you can accept these as a peace offering (you should know a lovely local florist picked them out). Friends?

Hen x

When I proposed friendship, I’d thought it would be a whole lot easier than this. I didn’t expect visits at work, sweet gestures, the impossible challenge of resisting the urge to make it something more.

She has great taste. Consider your offer accepted, mate,I wrote back and slipped the note under his door—there wasn’t much else I could do. We were going to have to commit to something one way or another, and this felt like a much safer bet.

December

The lights on Oxford Street were nearly blinding. Twinkling angels stretched their wings from one side to the other, floating watchfully over the throngs of shoppers. Hundreds of thousands of sparkling lights rained from the storefronts, bathing the street in a warm glow. We could moan about the monotony of London’s day-to-day all we wanted, but we would be lying if we said it wasn’t enchanting during the holidays.

Liv, like Jan, had her weekend planning made easy: We were all to attend the Warehouse Holiday Party. According to Raja, this had been tradition since even before she lived in the flat, and it was one of the best nights of the year. Everyone seemed to agree it was best to do it at the start of the month in the hopes that everyone could come before plans really ramped up as the holidays got closer, and it seemed to work out well. The party was held in the garage/storage space/makeshift gym on the first floor of our building, and each flat was responsible for contributing something to the party. This year, we were in charge of decorations, which meant I was responsible for flowers (which they’d never had at this function before but were apparently essential this year).

The holidays were such a busy time for everyone, so tonight was the only time all eight of us could save for WarehouseWeekend. We all had to squeeze in a bit of family time, especially Hen, since he only had off on Christmas Day, so December’s Warehouse Weekend was a One Night Only sort of job. (Well, One Night Only plus a quick breakfast the morning after. Liv insisted on a brunch before we all went our separate ways.) Meaning, we had to make the most of it.

Since Liv didn’t have a whole lot of planning to do for the weekend, she wanted to surprise each of the roommates with a little something for the holidays, which had brought us to Oxford Street. Typically bothered by the bumbling tourists, we were too spellbound by our own city to care.

Rather than focus on the task at hand, we were easily distracted by the magic of the holiday and spent most of the morning drinking coffee and wandering aimlessly down the busy streets. Overlapping Christmas songs spilled from invisible speakers outside every storefront, and we sang along, off-key and maybe a bit too loud.

“What about books?” Liv asked, refocusing, peering into the windows of a bookshop.

“Depends,” I said. “Have you ever seen Jan or Finn open a book?”

“Ugh, you’re right,” she groaned. “How is anyone supposed to find one gift for the whole lot?”

---