Chapter Twenty-Two Say It with Flowers
Chapter Twenty-Two
Say It with Flowers
I have been standing still for over a month.
Not literally, of course. If we’re talking literally, then I have pretty much run myself ragged. I have survived the bridal
expo—in which I had an arrangement of mine take first place in a floral contest. Then my favorite client and her farrier wife
announced they were hosting a last-minute wedding and a horse show on back-to-back weekends out of state—very nearly ordering
me out of the whole store.
Plus, I’ve even had a bunch of virtual sessions with Janet, my old therapist from back in LA. She was shockingly happy to
put me back on her regular schedule, even from across the continent. We have a lot to work through, but I’m starting to figure
it out, or at least finding better ways to cope.
And that’s all on top of the myriad of online orders we’ve been getting—most of which are still from people in LA who must
have gotten word from all of the people Nikki sent flowers to that I do good work.
I can hear the ticket printer spitting more out even now.
I can’t help but wonder what Nikki’s doing out in L.A. Is she back with whoever she sent the first batch of flowers to? Is
that the woman who commented “come home” on the Insta Nikki has never updated since?
That thought slingshots around in my stomach, turning it sour and making me push my iced coffee farther away. Even drinking
coffee makes me miss her. Everything makes me miss her, if I’m being honest.
Regan has been supportive but not prying over the last few weeks, and Johnny left things how he left things. He’s not one
to be sappy on the regular, so it’s mostly been business as usual. Janet has been helping me untangle my feelings without
judgment—helping me make sure I’m not clinging to the idea of Nikki because of old wounds, revenge, or even nostalgia. She’s
been annoyingly neutral when I ask her point-blank if she thinks Nikki and I should be together, instead redirecting me to
a discussion of what healthy romantic boundaries might look like in that scenario.
Overall, it’s been . . . not bad, actually.
You know, except for the gaping hole in my chest where my heart used to be.
It’s taken me a long time—and some extra therapy sessions—to work up the courage to text Nikki, but last night I finally did.
I wish I really knew you.
It wasn’t exactly the conversation starter Janet and I discussed—that was more along the lines of something like, “I’ve been doing a lot of work on myself lately and I would love to have a conversation with you if you’re open to it.
” But . . . “I wish I really knew you” was what came out when I tried.
Nikki didn’t reply, which is one of the outcomes I was prepared for. She doesn’t owe me a response, just like I don’t owe
her a second chance. No one is in the other’s debt, no one should be keeping score.
It’s all very healthy in theory.
With the benefit of time away, a clear head, and an expensive therapist, I’ve realized that I don’t know the new Nikki, not
really. Looking back at our time together here, I can’t help but feel like she was so wrapped up in things about me and making
me comfortable that I never learned enough about her, or at least about the things she went through and how she spent the years
we were apart. If we’re really going to do this right, we need to be there for each other. Equally.
Of course, none of that matters if she doesn’t reply.
“Annie,” Regan says, walking toward me with another order slip in her hand. “How many arrangements do you have left to do
today?”
“Please, no more new orders,” I say, dramatically throwing my hand over my forehead until Regan laughs. “I’m wrapping up my
last one and then I need to be done for the day. My hands are killing me, and I still have ten more to do in the morning.
We might need to shut it down if they keep coming. I’m happy to call people and explain that new orders can’t go out until
I finish this wedding order.”
“It’s not for you to make, it’s . . . well . . . it’s for you. I just didn’t want to show you if you still need to focus.”
“What do you mean for me? You can’t just say that and not show me.”
“No, finish up. It can wait.”
“It absolutely can’t. You can’t tease me like that,” I say, making grabby fingers. “Hand it over.”
She grimaces and sets the slip down beside me on the counter. “I wasn’t sure if I should just toss it in the trash or what,
but that’s not my call. I would want to see it if I were you, even just to throw it out yourself.”
I stop fussing with the arrangement long enough to stare down at the paper. My forehead crinkles. It’s an odd mix of flowers,
not really cohesive at all in appearance . . . but in meaning? There are purple hyacinths for regret and sincerity, white
tulips for forgiveness and respect, pink camellias to symbolize longing . . . but then, confusingly, there’s morning glory,
which signifies unrequited love, and . . . zinnias? For friendship, I think? I’m scrambling in my head to remember all of
them. Finally, at the bottom of the list, they request a lone black rose—that’s a rough one. It can mean death or goodbye.
Goodbye. My heart stutters in my chest. I know who this is from.
Nikki’s name is emblazoned across the top of the order slip, because of course it is, my name just below it in the “ship to”
section: Anne Lacy. Not Andy. Not even Ducharme. It feels like a punch to the gut, an unexpected finality, and I take a few
steps back, sitting down on the little wooden stool beside me.
Goodbye? I guess I got a response to my text after all.
I almost crumple it, completely ready to stagger upstairs and let myself have a good cry instead of finishing this final arrangement. Regan was right; I should have waited. Or I should have let her throw it away. Nikki is moving on, and she’s using this bouquet to tell me.
It feels cruel, even though I know that probably isn’t her intent. But then my eyes drift lower, to the message she wanted
to have printed on the card.
“Check your email one last time, if you really wish you knew me.”
“I . . .” I trail off, staring down at the sheet.
“Yeah,” Regan says, biting her lip. “I can finish this up if you want to . . .”
“Yes, yeah, sure,” I answer, stumbling off my seat and heading up the stairs to my apartment. I feel out of it, like I’m wrapped
in gauze, everything suddenly feeling a little fuzzy and constricting.
Goodbye, the flowers said. One last time, the note said.
I feel sweaty sick and hot all over because no, no, this isn’t what I wanted at all and every step up the stairs makes me
feel even surer of that. I’ve been punishing her for what another her in another life did to a version of me that doesn’t
exist anymore. If we have any prayer of rekindling any sort of relationship—romantic or platonic—I need to make peace with
that.
Young Nikki was nothing like the one who’s been here, and neither am I.
Driving her away before I realized that was a mistake.
A stupid mistake that I’m going to regret probably for the rest of my life now that she’s sent me the closure I don’t want via the petals of a very black rose. I should call her. No. I should read the email. Or wait, should I call her as I read the email? No, probably not.
I take a deep breath, mentally buckling up as I walk over to where my old MacBook is collecting dust in the corner of the
room. Regan borrows it sometimes when she’s doing accounting stuff, but otherwise it’s just a glorified paperweight. I don’t
have many emails to check anymore, outside of the store account. I’ve barely checked my own account since I came here.
Actually . . . have I checked since I came here? Maybe? Probably not, though. I have little use for email in my new life, now that I’m not anxiously
awaiting to hear back about contracts and callbacks and emails from my agent at all hours of the night.
I fire it up and wait patiently for it to load, stumbling twice over my Wi-Fi password when it doesn’t automatically connect.
I pull up my email, holding my breath as the screen pops up, and then . . .
Nothing.
There’s nothing.
Just random spam and newsletters I should have unsubscribed from years ago. My heart free-falls to the floor as I look back
at the wrinkled note in my hand.
Check your email one last time.
And then I remember the old one.
The one I had when I was a teen, back when Nikki and I first met. An amalgamation of my interests when I created it at the
tender age of seven: PrincessKitty and my birthday on a Yahoo account.
Nikki had even brought it up once when we were lying in bed a few weeks ago.
She was teasing me for my old username and asked if I ever checked it anymore .
. . but of course I didn’t. It was a hundred years old.
I had migrated to Gmail long before I even left LA.
Why would I check that one? Unless . . .
I swallow hard and click over to log in to the old account, my fingers stuttering over the old password: the name of my childhood
fish and the number I had in the tank that day (BertandBeth2, naturally). The log-in page circles for a minute and then loads.
There’s a mess of unread messages, some spam, some not, but on the very top is Nikki’s email, dated from this afternoon and
labeled “one last time.”
Except . . . that’s not the only email from her.
I scan down, startled to realize that she’s been emailing me this whole time. I click over to the search bar and type in her
name, my eyebrows shooting to the ceiling as I realize there are pages and pages of results. I click to the last page, my
eyes welling up with the desperation in the subject headings, beginning the day after I first left her.
Subject: where are you
Subject: please andy i cant do this without you
Subject: do you even check this
The hurt, then the anger, then the sadness. The resignation as the weeks ticked by. I’m confused at first—why here, why this—and then I realize the answer: I had blocked her on everything else. This was the only thing I didn’t think to block her
on, because I barely even remembered it existed.
I click forward again and again, my eyes scanning the screen.
She wrote daily at first, and then weekly, and then monthly and then less often.
Short, quick updates on her life; long, rambling missives.
The first night she ever slept alone in our house.
The day she was getting ready for the Oscars.
The morning after the car crash. A catalog of her life without me.
“Went on a date tonight, wish it was you. Fucking sucked.”
“What’s that peanut butter you used to love? I can’t remember and it’s gutting me.”
“Will we ever talk again?”
“I saw the grocery store picture. you were adorable. Since when do you eat brussels sprouts?”
“Is there a word for the emptiness you feel when you know you’re dead to someone but they aren’t dead to you? If not there
should be.”
“not gonna have access to email for a while, but it’s okay. It’s good.”
“I should stop sending these but I can’t”
“If we ever meet again, ill do it right.”
I wipe my eyes. I could torture myself all night reading these—this diary of hers that she has splayed open for me. Proof
of her dedication. Proof of her trying to move on.
I click back to the newest page of results, letting my mouse hover over the one labeled “one last time.”
The message is short and to the point.
Attached is the complete latest draft. I hope you will take a look. I wish you knew me too. I wish we had a different ending.
Love always,
Nikki
I open the manuscript, and I begin to read.