Page 23 of Fang
“Oh, you have plenty of time to figure that stuff out. Enjoy the experience. What’s your favorite color?” she asks suddenly.
“Orange,”I answer, looking at some of the little bits of candy on the counter.
Maybe instead of a cake, I can eat a small piece of chocolate. I turn it over and see the four-dollar price tag and put it back down.
“Orange is such an underrated color. It’s bright and happy. I don’t know why some people hate it.”
“I think some people think it’s too loud. People like things more muted,” I mumble.
She turns to look at me. “That is very insightful. You’re going to do amazing in school.”
I can hear a motorcycle in the distance. This time, I refuse to look even when it sounds like it turns off right outside.
When I hear the doorbell, I lose the battle and turn. I frown when I see who it is.
“What are you doing here?” I hiss.
Penelope turns to look at the man. She frowns too.
“I come here all the time. I’m not stalking you if that’s what you are insinuating.” Happy crosses his arms to look at me.
“It’s unfortunately true. He comes in several times a week for flowers,” she tells me.
“See, so chill out,” he huffs at me.
“Ignore him. Happy, I’ll be with you in a minute. Look around or something. Stop scaring my customers.”
Happy rolls his eyes, walking toward the end of the shop.
“So any big plans for tonight?” Penelope asks.
“A night in with a book,” I tell her.
I leave out the fact that the book is a schoolbook and will likely put me to sleep.
“A good book can cure a lot. Here you go. What do you think?”
The bouquet she sets on the counter has me gasping. It’s so beautiful. It’s also huge and full, which makes me cringe at the idea of the cost. The flowers are orange and white with wisps of green pieces between them. It’s a masterpiece.
“Wow, it’s beautiful. Seriously gorgeous. I don’t think I can afford it, though,” I whisper to her.
She laughs. “Nonsense. It’s free. Consider it a birthday gift. No one should have to buy their own flowers on their birthday.”
My cheeks heat at the charity.
“I can pay. Really. How much?” I tell her.
She waves me off. “You want to pay me? Enjoy them. Marvel at them. That is all the payment I need.”
Happy comes up then, ending my argument. I don’t need him hearing I’m low on money.
“Thank you. Seriously, this is the sweetest,” I tell her.
“Of course. Happy birthday.”
As the words fall from her lips, I cringe.
“Birthday?” Happy asks.
