Once and for All(28)

“And teachers. Psychiatrists. Peer evaluations.”

“Your peers said you were annoying, I assume?”

“Nope, that was one of my shrinks.” I raised my eyebrows. “I know! I was like, wait, that’s not a doctor term! Is annoying a diagnosis now? And if so, can I get meds for it?”

He laughed then, in a can-you-even-believe-it kind of way, shaking his head. Then he looked out the window, drumming his fingers on one knee.

I could see my exit now, the one that would take us onto the two-lane road that made up the rest of the trip. I put on my blinker, switching lanes so carefully you would have thought I was taking the driving test with a DMV worker beside me. Only when we reached the top of the ramp, the heavy traffic now a distant roar below, did I realize I’d been holding my breath. Keep talking, I told myself.

“Did you really go home with one of those girls last night?”

He stretched the seat belt away from him, then let it snap back. “Well, yes, in the technical sense. But nothing really happened. I crashed on her couch, and in the morning her mom came out in her bathrobe and offered me breakfast.”

“Doesn’t Bee worry when you don’t come home?”

“Nah. I check in. And remember, I’m annoying. She needs a break every now and then.”

“She seems like a really nice girl,” I said.

“She is.” He said this simply; it was clear it was fact. “It’s not easy always having to be the good one, but she’s a natural. You have any siblings?”

I shook my head. “Nope. Just me and my mom.”

“Huh,” he said.

Don’t ask, I told myself. Then I asked. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said. I waited, making it clear I expected more. “Just that, you know, it explains things. How you like to be alone.”

“I don’t like to be alone,” I said.

“Right. You just don’t want to be with me.”

I looked over at him. “That’s not exactly true.”

“Right. You basically did all you could to not have to be with me right now, including telling your mom you don’t like me,” he pointed out. I blinked, surprised. He’d been in another room, after all. He said, “My annoyingness does not affect my hearing. I’m like a dog, it’s so good.”

“I’ll have to remember that.” I cleared my throat. “Anyway, I’m sorry I said that. It’s just . . . I’m used to working alone, and—”

“Look, you don’t have to explain yourself,” he said easily. “I’m not for everyone.”

Again, this was said with such ease, a plain truth. What was it like to be so confident even in your failings that you weren’t the least bit bothered when other people pointed them out? I was almost envious.

We were close to Kirby’s now; I could see the greenhouses, as well as the bursts of color that were their outdoor plantings, in the distance. When it came to florists, my mom only recommended the best, usually choosing companies that catered to the exact needs of the client. If you wanted perfect, sculpted centerpieces of roses and lilies, picking Lakeview Florist or Occasions was easy. But if your taste was more natural, bohemian wildflowers-in-mason-jars—increasingly popular among younger brides—Kirby’s was the place.

I pulled into the dusty lot, right up to the squat building that housed the office. This was a family business, another reason my mom preferred them. If you called with a problem, there was no corporate voicemail system, just a hand cupping the receiver while someone bellowed for Mr. or Mrs. Kirby, who were usually out in the fields tending the plants themselves. “Okay,” I said, reaching back for my bag and pulling out the invoice. “We’re here for Gerbera daisies, glads, lilies, and sunflowers. Ten buckets total. Mrs. Kirby will always try to add on an extra bucket or two she’s trying to move, but we don’t have room so we have to be firm.”

“Ten buckets,” he repeated. “Gerberas, glads, sunflowers, lilies. No extras.”

Huh. Maybe he was right about that hearing. “Correct. It shouldn’t take longer than a half hour total if we don’t get caught up talking.”

“Keep it short. All business. Thirty minutes max.”

My phone rang then: Jilly, most likely wanting to catch up while en route from one KitKat activity to another. As I hit IGNORE, preferring to wait until I was alone, Ambrose said, “Wait, what was that? Your ringtone?”

“Nothing,” I told him.

“It sounded like this awful pop song—”

“Nope. Let’s go.”

I pushed open my door, getting out as he did the same, then followed me through the propped-open screen door. Inside, rows of plants sat on makeshift tables made of sawhorses and plywood, a row of walk-in coolers along one wall.

“Louna Barrett.” A woman’s voice came from behind a tall basket of ornamental greenery. “Right on time, as always.”

“Hey, Mrs. Kirby,” I replied. “How are you?”

She stepped out, wiping her hands on her apron. She was a tall and broad black woman with a melodic voice, and everything she said sounded important. “Very good, very good. Have some gorgeous peonies I want to show you, on special. Your mom’s favorite.”

“They are,” I agreed. “But space is tight.”