Chapter Three Just When You Think It Can’t Get Worse #2
“Someone called and asked me to make an arrangement with every blue hyacinth and white orchid in the place. They said they’d
come by in an hour or so to pick it up.”
“Did they pay over the phone?” I ask, running the numbers in my head. This is going to be expensive—and huge—if they really
want all of them.
“Yep, plus a big tip.” She grins.
“Nice,” I say, continuing to arrange the flowers as she clips them. “Whoever it is must have really screwed something up.”
“Why?” Regan asks.
“Blue hyacinths are a wish for peace. Pairing them with white orchids? One of the few flowers that mean sincerity? Whoever they are, they’re begging for forgiveness.”
“I love how obsessed you are with flower meanings,” she sighs. “Even if it does make me feel like a slacker.”
“We can’t all be as stunningly brilliant as I am,” I tease. She nods so genuinely it makes my heart hurt. I know she means
it. I know she wishes I did too.
She wrinkles her nose at me before we can get too sentimental. “Did you not shower?”
“Long story,” I say, “why?”
“You have a little schmutz in your hair. Is that cat food? You know what, I don’t know what it is. I don’t want to, either.”
“Oh my god, gross,” I yelp, running to the bathroom in the back of the store and hoping she’s wrong. She’s not, though. I
can see it in the mirror when I turn my head to the side. I don’t know what it is either—dried pizza cheese, puke, both?—but
it’s nasty. I shove my head under the faucet, pulling out my bun and scrubbing my hair with hand soap as best as I can. Should
I have run back upstairs and showered? Probably. Do I not want to be alone so bad that I’m basically bathing in the bathroom
sink at my place of employment? Undoubtedly.
I come out a few minutes later, wet hair leaving damp splotches on my shirt as I use paper towels to squeeze as much water
out of my hair as I can. Regan looks at me, amused, as she slides the last flower into place.
“Better?”
“Better,” I say, grabbing the broom and starting to sweep up the clippings she’s left beside the counter. “I can handle things if you need to head out or grab lunch or anything,” I say. “Thanks for opening.”
“I’m good. If I get hungry, I’ll just run up and steal some of that pizza from last night. Besides, I kind of want to see
this woman carrying this massive-ass bouquet out of here. She’s due in any second,” Regan says, checking the time on her phone.
“You didn’t recognize the name?” I ask, curiosity piqued.
“They didn’t leave one and I didn’t recognize the voice. Maybe it’s somebody from out of town taking advantage of the off-season
rates?”
“Weird,” I say, leaning my elbows against the counter and resting my chin on my hands.
“Very,” she says, setting the flowers aside and leaning on the counter to join me. “Maybe this is her now.”
I glance up and do a double take at the woman walking down the sidewalk across the street. She’s dressed casually, in an oversized
crewneck and jeans. A baseball cap is pulled down over her face, with her hair tucked back in a low pony. I paste on my best
customer service smile . . . and then my brain finally catches up to my eyes. I’d know that walk anywhere, that body anywhere.
Nikki Colletti is here, in my town, about to walk into my new life.
“Oh no,” I whisper, feeling warm and a little bit dizzy.
“Are you okay?” Regan asks, looking worried. “You got all pale all of a sudden.”
“That’s Nikki,” I say, walking backward a few steps.
“No, it’s not,” she says, leaning forward and watching the figure waiting for a break in traffic to cross the street. “Oh
my god, it almost could be, though?”
“It is,” I say. “I have to go. I have to . . . I can’t—”
“Go, go!” she says, gently turning me around. “If you really think that’s her then get out of here. Hurry!”
I bolt to the tiny storage room in the back of our store and yank shut the thin curtain we use as a door. I flick off the
lights just as the bells over the front door jingle. I can’t help but peek out from the sliver of space where the curtain
doesn’t quite meet the wall.
“Hi,” Nikki says, the sound of her voice making all the baby hairs on my arm stand up as my fight-or-flight response goes
haywire. “I called in an order earlier. Do you know if it’s ready?”
“The hyacinths and orchids, right? It’s all set for you,” Regan says, glancing back in my direction. I step back a little
more into the shadows, trying not to let the curtain shift.
“Great,” Nikki says, angling her head slightly away—just enough to not look suspicious while still making herself harder to
identify. We both got good at that when we were young. I haven’t had to do it in a while. A tendril of unexpected jealousy
curls up my spine.
“This is beautiful,” she says, eyeing the bouquet Regan has sat in front of her before casually flipping through the portfolio
of past arrangements that we keep on the desk. My portfolio.
“Thanks,” Regan says, sounding a little panicked. I’m sure she’s dying to get Nikki out of the store so she can ask me what
the hell is going on.
“Did you make all of these?” Nikki asks, pausing on a page I can’t see. “This one’s incredible.”
“No,” Regan says. “I own the shop, but I work with a floral designer. Those are all her arrangements. I’m more of the meat and potatoes and she’s more of the fancy stuff.”
“She’s very good,” Nikki says, humming as she finishes flipping through. “Is this her card?”
“Yes,” Regan says. “Why would you need it, though?”
“Do you ask all your customers that?” She laughs, pulling one of my cards out of the card holder and sliding it into her pocket.
“I’d think you’d like repeat business.”
I have never in my life been happier to know that my cards say a nice boring “Anne Lacy, Florist” instead of the Anderson
“Andy” Ducharme that people from my past know me as. With any luck, she won’t put it together. I’m sure by now she’s forgotten
my middle name is Lacy anyway.
“I do, but forgive me, you don’t look like you’re from around here and tourist season doesn’t start for months. Business cards
are expensive to print. I just want to make sure it’ll go to good use.”
“Oh, it definitely will,” she says, scooping up the bouquet and heading for the door. She pauses, staring at Gouda lounging
in the window, and I hold my breath. Nikki reaches out as if to pet her and Gouda hisses and jumps down, darting across the
store and beneath the curtain I’m hiding behind. She winds her way between my legs as if to say, “See, Mom, I remember what
she did. I’ll hate enough for both of us until you remember why we do.”
Nikki turns and looks in my direction. I know she can’t really see me.
I know she’s probably just wondering where the cat ran off to.
But I can’t help but feel like she’s got X-ray vision—like she’s peering right through the wall, the curtain, my skin.
I wipe at my eyes, I’m done crying over her, and let out a relieved breath when the bells jingle again, signaling her exit.
I rest my head against the wall just for a second, regaining my bearings before scooping Gouda into my arms and heading toward
my apartment.
“Annie? You okay?” Regan calls from the desk, but I just wave her off.
I need to lie down. I need to sleep for a year. I need to find a way to rewind time. And not necessarily in that order.