Page 129 of Pucked Up Plans
“I’ll help.” I maneuver my fingers to loosen and release the straps. “All set.” My smile is weak. While she deserves better than my half-effort lately, at least she’s fed, bathed, and dressed. And mostly happy. All things considered, can I ask for more?
The next few days are more of the same: wake up to thoughts of Walsh, drag my ass out of bed, think about Walsh, go through the routines of the day, think about Walsh, wonder what he’s doing, how he is, remind myself this will all be over soon but might not end up with the outcome I want, “take care” of Aubrey, convince her Walsh still cares for her even though he can’t come over and we can’t go there, cry myself to sleep where Walsh invades my dreams.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
On Monday, a little over a week after what I’ve deemed “Babygate,” I drive around town. With about half an hour to kill before pickup and as if on autopilot, my car drives to the floral shop. In all the time we’ve lived here, I haven’t stopped in and checked it out for myself. And I have loved every single bouquet Walsh has gifted me.
Parking my car a few spots down from the door, the walk isn’t too unbearable with today’s mild-ish weather. Even with an inch of snow on the ground, I get inside unscathed.
A bell rings upon entering, the floral scent invading my nostrils but somehow not overwhelming. The shop is small, maybe ten feet by ten feet at most. Blossoms of all shapes, sizes, and colors perch against two of the walls, a refrigerated case taking up half of the third wall, with a counter to pay on the back one.
My eyes are immediately drawn to a stunning bouquet full of seasonal blooms, including vibrant deep pink and white carnations, cream roses, pink chrysanthemums, and another pink one I can’t name. They smell almost as pretty as they look.
“Hi. Can I help you find something?”
The voice at my back startles me. Hand to my chest, I turn around and am met by a woman in her mid-fifties, her hair full of gray pulled into a messy bun on the top of her head. The eyes on her roundish face are kind, her smile sweet, a perfect combination for a small-town florist.
“Hi. I’m just browsing.”
“Of course. Let me know if you need anything or have questions. The name’s Jenny.”
“Tate,” I reply instantly, her entire demeanor setting me at ease.
Her golden-brown eyes widen. “Very nice to meet you,Tate.” The emphasis on my name raises my suspicions, but she skedaddles away before I can interrogate her.
I amble around the store, my fingers touching, my nose smelling, all the merchandise. For the first time since Babygate, a sense of peace infiltrates me. As if things will be okay and work out for Walsh and me.
The flowers Walsh sent last week have seen better days, but I don’t have the proper time to pick out something I equally like. Except for the pink and white arrangement. Maybe she can do it on a smaller scale.
Making my way to the back counter, I find Jenny feverishly texting on her phone. “I have a question when you’re finished,” I interrupt.
She fumbles the phone at the sound of my voice but catches it before it falls to the floor. Guilt washes over her face as if I’ve caught her red-handed. “Sorry. Let me just finish…this…text.” A minute passes as she completes whatever she’s doing, but she places the phone, screen side down, and gives me her full attention. “What can I answer for you?”
“The pink and white carnations in the front. Can you do something on a smaller scale?”
She nods enthusiastically before I’ve finished speaking. “Of course. Though I have to order them so it wouldn’t be until Friday at the earliest.”
“Oh.” My eagerness dips, but I fancy them on my table. “Yeah, that would be fine.”
Her smile convinces me it will be fine to wait. “Awesome. Let me get some information.” She has me fill out a card with my name, address, and payment information. Then she makes a few notes on the card about my order. “Do you want to swing by and pick them up Friday or have them delivered for an extra five dollars?”
“I’ll pick them up.” They were already a little pricier than I wanted to spend, so I’ll save the delivery fee.
“Super. I can text you when it will be ready. Probably Friday after noon.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
My transaction complete, I turn to leave, but Jenny’s voice calls me back.
“Tate, one flower-loving gal to another. What’s your absolute favorite?”
I don’t hesitate. “Dahlias. In peach or purple.”
“Great choice. See you Friday.”
“See you then.”
The bell chimes as I exit the store. As I stride quickly to my car, I can’t help but recognize the change in my mood.
