Anderson in Bloom

Chapter One In Which the Fear of Being Known Results in Free Flowers

Chapter One

In Which the Fear of Being Known Results in Free Flowers

The woman in the plaid coat eyes the carnations wearily, checking and rechecking the price, picking up first one color and

then another. I glance up at her from behind the front counter of this too-warm flower shop that I call home—literally, I

rent out the tiny studio upstairs—and try to gauge if I’m needed. The way she frowns and immediately looks away when our eyes

meet tells me I’m probably not. Fine, but don’t come crying to me when you make your “celebratory bouquet” with a bunch of

flowers that mean “I hate you.”

I scoff to myself and go back to dragging my rose stripper down the stems of the latest delivery. The sharp blade rips the

thorns and leaves off with a satisfying slicing sound that almost lets me forget the truth of it all—which is that my job

here is to smooth out all their wildness, file down their rough edges, and make them more palatable. The plant version of

what I’ve been trying to do to myself my whole damn life, with mixed results.

God forbid anybody ever appreciates anything in its natural state—thorns and all—and saves me some scratches.

Nope. People want all of the beauty, but none of the pain.

It’s the same everywhere, even out here in this little town by the sea, where it’s about flowers and sand, instead of back there, where it’s about bodies and fame.

But we’re not talking about back there. Especially not today of all days, on the five-year anniversary of my escape to the East Coast. Today is for celebrating.

Cel-e-brating. But first, I need to make a sale.

I scrunch my eyes shut in a hard reset and grab another stem, trying to will the woman to buy something through powers of

hypnosis and compulsion that I definitely don’t have, but pretended to once, in a pilot that never aired.

You know you want one, do it, pull the trigger, buy the flower, buy something, buy anything, buy it, come on buy it, repeats in my head so hard I’m getting a headache.

It’s probably about as effective now as it was then, which is to say

not at all.

I don’t even care if she just gets that lone shitty carnation in her hand. I just need something, anything, to show for the

fact that I dragged myself down the stairs and have been perched at this counter since ten o’clock in the morning—ripping

leaves off stems because I’ve already fulfilled all the specialty orders and no new ones have come in yet.

It’s been a slow day, and by slow, I mean empty, and by day, I mean week, and by week, I mean month, if I’m being honest.

The worry lines and dark circles surrounding my boss—and best friend—Regan’s eyes have been noticeably more present lately,

and I hate it.

Apparently In Bloom Flowers and Gifts has been a staple in the Town of Clayborn for decades—I remember seeing it when I came here on vacation in a past life—but Regan only took it over about six years ago, after her grandma retired and fucked off to Florida, swearing off the cold Maine winters forever.

I came on the scene only a year later, fresh from LA and ready to do something, anything, new—and while it was already slow then, it wasn’t this bad.

I’m pretty sure that the rent I pay Regan, and my specialty bouquets that we ship out to event planners, are the only things

keeping the lights on around here. And if that means I occasionally overpay my rent during the leaner months, even if Regan

protests, so be it.

I don’t mind, though. Friends help each other out, and god knows Regan shows up for me just as often. Besides, the cash sitting

in my old accounts feels like dirty money these days—the least I can do is let it help someone. Better that than putting it

up my nose or investing it in the latest crypto Ponzi scheme like some of the other failed former child actors my age do.

Who knows where I would have ended up if Regan hadn’t taken me under her wing, back when I first showed up in all my “I’m

not running away, just starting over” glory.

I was fresh off the biggest heartbreak of my life—crashing in a rental cabin full of sand, barely eating or sleeping, and

definitely drinking too much. I probably made every bad choice a person could make back then. After a lifetime of only doing

what I should, of always being the responsible one in my relationships, I guess that felt like freedom to me. Unfortunately, it also felt like crap.

Walking into In Bloom and asking for an application was just about the only thing I did right when I first moved here. I got

lucky. Most people probably would have turned me away in the state I was in, but not Regan. She took one look at the exhausted,

depressed disaster in front of her and decided I wasn’t just worthy of being an employee but also of being her friend. If

my old agent could get 15 percent for finding me the jobs that made up my past life, I figure it’s the least Regan deserves

for actually saving it.

My old agent. The same one who sent my career down the toilet when he—

“Dammit!” Blood spills down my hand, a new gash glaring up at me from the side of my finger, and suddenly that slicing sound

doesn’t sound so relaxing anymore. That’s what I get for letting my mind wander into such dangerous territory. I grab a paper

towel off the rack, wrap it as tight as I can, and then grab a few more when it immediately soaks through. Perfect. Just what

I need. More blood spilled in the name of beauty.

“Are you okay?”

I snap my eyes up from my hand in time to see Ms. Plaid Coat sliding the carnation back into its bucket. Not good. I still

want this sale. “I’m great!” I say, too cheerfully.

Be cool, I tell myself. Come on, I’m an actor, or used to be. And, as they say, the show must go on.

Sure, the acting might look a little different these days—more customer service smile than red carpet looks—but still, selling

yourself is selling yourself. I can be lovable. I can be delightful. I’m still Anderson goddamn Ducharme after all.

With a deep breath, I turn the dial inside my head from “recluse” to “amiable charmer,” grab a few more paper towels and attempt to approach Ms. Plaid Jacket. This is for In Bloom. I can be pleasant and sociable for In Bloom.

“Aren’t carnations beautiful?” I try as an opening volley.

“They’re cheap is what I like about them,” the woman answers gruffly, her eyes drifting to my paper-towel-wrapped hand.

Okay, I think, okay, and I switch gears. “Yes, very practical too! Did you know that every color has its own meaning?” I study the rack of flowers

for a moment before pulling out a few in coordinating celebratory colors. Understanding the language of flowers has been an

obsession of mine since I was a little kid daydreaming in my mother’s massive gardens. “What’s the occasion? I could help

you craft a bouquet that expresses whatever you’re trying to say without breaking the bank to do it.” I jiggle the stems I’m

holding in my paper towel hand in her direction. “We’re all about affordability here.”

Oh my god, what does that even mean?! Stop waving your bloody hand around.

“I’ll take four of the yellow ones and call it a day,” she says. “You know you can just superglue whatever’s bleeding under

there if you don’t want to pay for stitches, right?”

And wait, did this just work? Are we bonding over being too cheap for medical bills?

“Good idea,” I say, meaning it too. I’d rather bathe in superglue than risk going to urgent care, where I have to fill out

forms with my actual legal name and worry about them being leaked. There’s just one problem . . . “What is this for, though?

Because yellow means—”

The woman turns to look at me, probably opening her mouth to tell me she doesn’t care, when a look of recognition dawns across her features. And oh, oh no. I slide my attempt at an arrangement back in with the others and hastily grab four of the bright yellow blooms.

“Never mind! I’m sure yellow’s perfect!”

“Wait, do I know you?” the woman asks, leaning a bit closer. I realize too late that she’s not as old as I thought. Probably

not quite young enough to be a part of my former fan base, but not far enough off for me to feel safe. Especially if she has

any younger siblings. Shit.

“I have a . . . common face,” I say, wincing at how awkward it sounds. I mean, what’s the alternative: admitting that yes,

once upon a time I was the costar of a wildly popular teen sitcom on the megawatt children’s network that everybody knows and loves? That yes, I am the very same girl who disappeared without a trace five years ago, tired of only being offered bit parts in high school dramas

despite already being twenty-three? And that yes, all of those things, combined with my desperate desire for a clean break

with my ex, led to me washing up in this very same dingy town where Ms. Plaid Jacket is currently buying apology carnations

from without even bothering to know the meaning of them?

No. I’ll take awkward any day.

Plaid Jacket narrows her eyes. “Aren’t you that girl from that show? What was it called again? God, it’s on the tip of my

tongue . . .”

My body flushes hot, and I’m instantly brought back to a session with my old therapist in LA. “Where do you feel the anxiety

in your body, Andy?” she would always say, because back then I was Andy, not little Annie who spends all day de-thorning roses in this tourist trap of a coastal Maine town.

I feel it fucking everywhere, Janet, is how I always answered that question—and how I would answer it now, if I could afford to. And if therapist Janet wasn’t

on the exact opposite coast . . . along with the rest of my old life.

“Nope,” I say, rushing the sad little carnations over to the counter.

“No, you definitely are! Oh my god, can I get a selfie? My little sister will flip!” she says, following me, already pulling

out her phone. “She was obsessed with you. Especially when she found out you and Nikki weren’t just—”