Page 14 of He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

‘Then pick her up without living out any past fantasies and bring her back here. I’ll deal with her as soon as my meeting is over. I’ll owe you.’

‘You’ll owe me alright. You’re also going to promise me right now that you’ll never tell her about any of this. Or anything else embarrassing about me you have in that man bun-covered head of yours. It was a childhood crush. It’s over.’

‘You don’t like my hair?’ he asks, obviously offended, reaching up and touching it.

I shrug.

‘Well, la-de-fucking-da. We can’t all be as pretty as you.’

He grabs his coffee from the table, swipes a scone from the box on the island, and heads towards the front door.

‘Cross your fingers for me. If I don’t get the funding, this documentary is dead in the water.’

‘How about you cross your fingers for me? The guy who has to go pick up a woman I haven’t seen in years after what sounds like the worst night of her life.’

‘Done, ya baby.’ He flashes crossed fingers over his shoulder as he walks out, then reveals just one finger as he closes the door.

Thank god I never got that actual brother I sometimes wanted. River’s enough to deal with.

I tap my phone, checking the time. I’ve got one hour to get to the airport in rush hour traffic. Perfect. What better way to spend a Sunday morning?

I’m wandering my apartment, gathering my shit, when it hits me. Flowers. Duh. I’m a florist. Flowers fix everything, at least momentarily; this I know.

I head into my room to my makeshift floral storage. I bought six full-size wall coolers in preparation for having a shop of my own one day. Three of them are in my mom’s garage, where I have shipments delivered. The other three are filled with flower stems for upcoming weddings and currently live along my bedroom wall.

I scan my stock. I need a friendly flower. Nothing romantic. They’ve got to say, hey old friend, sorry you’ve been fucked over by an old dude, but welcome back.

Roses? Too romantic.

Sunflowers? Too big.

Chrysanthemums? Nah.

Daisies? Yes. But not the standards. Gerbera. Mixed colors that will most likely at least make her smile.

As I’m wrapping the bouquet in paper, there’s a knock at my door. I grab my keys from the counter and open the door to a face I don’t recognize.

‘Can I help you?’ I ask, stepping onto my porch, holding the flowers under my arm as I lock the place up. ‘Gotta make it quick; I’m on my way out.’

‘Dax Hartley?’

‘In the flesh. Let’s walk.’

The woman follows beside me. ‘I’m McKenzie Reynolds withHere Comes the Bridemagazine. Your cousin Brynn gave me your address.’

I stop at the top of the stairs, turning towards her. This is the woman that was at the wedding yesterday. I never got a chance to meet her as after my little performance, it was a race to get the hell out of there before I booked myself in all the bride’s friends’ and family’s upcoming weddings. As the flower boy.

‘I was at the Altman wedding yesterday. Let me first say your performance was outstanding. The flowers were beautiful as well.’

A laugh surfaces. My performance, eh? It felt less outstanding and more embarrassing, to be honest.

‘Any idea what you want to do with your talent?’

I rub the back of my neck, a little confused by her question. ‘What isbea florist?’ I give the obvious answerJeopardy-style as if it’s still a mystery. ‘I’m not following.’

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m here to discuss you competing onBattle of the Blossoms.’

‘Right,’ I say, remembering the vague mention of it. ‘I don’t know much about it.’

---