Page 88 of You've Got The Love
But it’s his eyes that stop my heart.
Wide. Curious. So impossiblyblue.
I know those eyes.
My voice wobbles. “Hi there. Can I help you?”
He stomps his boots on the mat and marches to the counter with all the seriousness of a businessman. “I need flowers,” he says solemnly. His Dutch accent curls the words just slightly. “For my pa.”
Jess chokes on a laugh, glancing at me with wide eyes. Andrea’s mouth falls open in slow-motion understanding.
I walk around the counter and kneel so I’m level with him, my heart pounding. “For your pa? That’s very thoughtful. Do you know what kind he likes?”
He shrugs, lips pursed in concentration. “He likes… you.”
Jess loses it, snorting into her hand. Andrea ducks behind a display to hide her grin.
Heat rises in my face as my heart cracks wide open. “He… likes me?”
The boy nods, proud of himself. “Yes. But he is sad. So I bring him flowers. Maybe then he smile again.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, blinking hard to keep my tears at bay.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Then we’ll make him something very special.”
I gather soft cream roses, sprigs of eucalyptus, and tiny white waxflowers—gentle, quiet blooms for a man who carries his grief like a shadow. My hands tremble as I wrap the stems in brown paper and tie them with twine.
“Here you go,” I say, voice breaking just a little. “For your pa.”
He beams, eyes bright like a winter sky, and places the money on the counter. “Dank je wel, Miss Amber!”
“You’re very welcome, sweetheart.”
The bell jingles again as he scampers out, bouquet clutched in both hands.
I step to the window without thinking, breath fogging the glass.
Across the street, leaning against a lamppost, stands Bas. Dirty blonde hair pulled back, black coat against the cold, tall and still as if the whole world is holding its breath with him.
Even from here, I can feel the pull of him.
He doesn’t wave.
Doesn’t come inside.
Just waits while his son carries a piece of my heart back across the street.
The ache inside me blooms like a bruise.
Jess sidles up next to me, brown eyes soft with worry now. “Are you gonna go out there?”
My throat works, but the words don’t come. Finally, I whisper, “Not yet.”
Andrea comes up on my other side, looping an arm through mine. “You look like you want to cry and run into his arms at the same time.”
I laugh, broken and wet. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”
Through the glass, Bas crouches to accept the bouquet from his son. His big hands cradle the flowers like they’re the most fragile thing in the world. He glances up at the shop once—just once—and the look in his eyes is a punch to my ribs.
