Flower(3)

“They signify fleeting love.”

“You mean love that doesn’t last?” he asks. “That’s a little pessimistic, don’t you think?”

“Not pessimistic, just realistic. Fleeting love is more common than the kind of love that lasts forever.”

There is a beat of silence between us, and for a moment, I wonder what we’re really talking about.

“So why would anyone buy the purple roses?” he asks.

“It’s the only rose that isn’t trying to be something it’s not. It’s authentic and beautiful but people never choose it.” I can feel his gaze on me and my skin warms—I’ve just told him far more than I intended. I turn back to the cooler, touching the handles as if checking to make sure it’s closed.

“I guess I’ll have to go for purple, then,” he says.

It takes a second for my brain to wheel into action, to snap back into salesgirl mode. “Oh. Great... How many?”

“How many do you suggest?”

“A dozen?”

The smirk is back. “Now that’s good salesmanship.”

He follows me back to the counter, his scent lingering in the air: a cool, clean smell that I can’t quite place.

I punch his order into the computer, feeling his eyes on me. “What’s the name?” I ask, looking up from the screen.

“Excuse me?”

“Your name,” I repeat. “I need your name for the order.”

I’m still not sure he’s heard me because his lips pull into a crooked half grin, like he has a secret he’s not sharing.

“Tate,” he answers at last.

I finish the order, then count out the bills he hands me and slide back his change. But instead of taking it from the counter, his hand reaches toward me, closing the space between us. His fingers graze my cheek just below my left eye. I suck in a breath. I start to ask him what he’s doing, but then he pulls his hand away and holds it up in front of me. “Glitter,” he says.

“What?” I squint at his fingers. The tip of his thumb and index finger are shimmering. Glitter. From the birthday party decorations. “Thanks,” I say, heat surging into my cheeks again like they’ve been pricked by a thousand tiny needles.

“It looked good on you.” He’s smiling fully now.

I shake my head, the embarrassment making my skin itch. What is wrong with me tonight? “If you don’t mind waiting,” I say, “I can make the bouquet for you now. Or you can either pick them up tomorrow or we can deliver them to you?”

“Tomorrow,” he says, taking the change from the counter and shoving it into his pocket. “I’ll pick them up.”

“They’ll be ready after ten a.m.” I bite my lower lip, still feeling awkward, half wishing he would just leave. “I hope your girlfriend likes them,” I add before I can stop myself.

His eyes soften. When he finally speaks, he rolls over the words slowly. “I don’t have a girlfriend...Charlotte.”

My breath slides down into my throat as he turns away from the counter, walking toward the front of the store. He knows my name. How does he know my name? Then my fingers touch the plastic name tag pinned to my tank top, where CHARLOTTE is stamped in white letters.

He pauses with a hand on the glass door and I stare, hoping he won’t turn around. Hoping he will. But he pushes out into the evening light and I grip the edge of the counter, the sound of my name on his lips repeating inside my head.





TWO

A KNOCK THUMPS ONCE AGAINST the classroom door and the whole class jerks in their seats.

Mr. Rennert, who has taught English at Pacific Heights High for longer than my grandmother has been alive, sighs and drops the dry-erase marker onto his desk. “Enter.”

The door swings open, and Misty Shaffer, a junior with short, cropped hair and a constant grin that shows off her braces, steps into the room. I expect to see a note in her hand, something private to be delivered to one of the students. But instead she holds an enormous bouquet of roses.

Purple roses.

Lacy Hamilton and Jenna Sanchez gasp from their seats a row over, their faces ignited in hope, and chatter breaks out at the back of the room.

“Quiet down back there. You’re still on my clock,” Mr. Rennert warns in his usual dry tone. “Ms. Shaffer, you seem to be lost. Last time I checked I was teaching AP English, not Intro to Botany.”

“Special orders from the front office, Mr. R,” Misty says, unrepentant as she edges past him, all purple-and-green teeth. “The delivery guy said these couldn’t wait.”

Time seems to slow as she makes her way down the aisle. I think she’s going to stop at Jenna’s desk, and Jenna’s posture says that she thinks so, too. But Misty stops in front of me, the bouquet nearly blocking her face. I blink up at her, the pencil in my hand stalled on the half-finished sketch of a winding vine I’d been drawing in the margins of my notebook.

“Charlotte,” she says grandly. She holds the roses out to me—their purple petals nearly the same shade as her braces—and I can’t seem to react, to lift my hands to take them from her.

It can’t be.

Carlos jabs me in the side from his seat next to mine, prodding me to do something. The entire class is staring at me, including a clearly annoyed Mr. Rennert. I hurriedly yank the bouquet from her hands and set it on the desk. Misty stands for another moment in the aisle, her eyes wide, expectant, like she thinks I’m going to tell her who they’re from.