Chapter 5 Petals & Pretending
PETALS & PRETENDING
ENYA
Iwalk into Lucille’s—into the warm, bright world of my flower shop—desperate to shed the memory of the cold metal chair, and the echo of my bitter, self-harming words.
The scent of jasmine and roses wraps around me like a blanket, familiar and steady. Lucille’s never disappoints. It’s the only place in my life that has never lied to me.
It’s been my sanctuary since it opened, and I hope and pray it will continue to be, even though I vividly remember making love with Nick on the counter, in the dark, his mouth near to my ear, whispering, “When I’m inside you, baby, I’m home.”
When I recall my response to his false declaration, nausea rises inside me.
“I love you, Nick.”
I take deep breaths and put a hand on my stomach to settle it.
I know it’s going to take some time for my brain and body to adjust to losing Nick, to living with the empty space where he used to be, physically and emotionally.
I walk unsteadily to the small office in the back of the shop, and put my purse away. Then I put on my brown apron, a few scattered daisies, and Lucille’s Flowers in yellow stitched across it.
I flip the door sign to OPEN.
I’m technically already behind for the day. I open at nine, close at five, close early on Saturdays—but Sundays, when the shop is closed, are for the real work: conditioning flowers, cleaning buckets, placing orders, sketching arrangements, keeping the place alive.
Closing early crosses my mind, but I keep moving.
My body protests, my emotions lag behind me, but the work doesn’t care.
A wedding awaits—ivory roses, soft greens, romantic but restrained. While I prep that, I’m watching for a call from a family who will need to bury someone in a couple of days.
There’s a birthday bouquet cooling in water, and an anniversary order, both waiting to be picked up.
Joy, grief, love, loss—all of it runs through my shop.
My flowers and how they brighten people’s lives, even on the darkest days, give me immense pleasure.
My hands are marked by my profession, roughened by stems and thorns, scented faintly of earth and green things, no matter how often I wash them.
Nick kissed these hands—told me they were beautiful.
I look at them as grief washes through me. I’m mourning the end of a relationship. I’m mourning the loss of the man I love.
When Grandma Lucille died, grief came braided with gratitude—she had lived a full, good life. There is none of that here now. Nick Smith didn’t die whole. He just disappeared.
“Enyaaa!” Cass sings the moment she bursts through the door, her rainbow scarf trailing behind her like a technicolor comet.
Cass is an artist who creates with paint, stained glass, and profanity in equal measure. She runs a studio two doors down that sells her art, other local pieces, and an eclectic assortment of spiritual healing items she believes in and works hard to convince others to, as well.
Today, she smells like lavender and blowtorches. “Wow! You look…not great. What the fuck is going on?”
I force a smile. “Rough morning.”
She gives me a measured look. “How come?”
I shrug.
She wrinkles her nose. “Where’s your elusive boyfriend?”
She’d be shocked to know how elusive he really is—so much so that I don’t even know his real name.
She only met Nick once.
He didn’t meet many of my friends—just my family. At the time, I told myself it was because he was private and an introvert. I filled in the gaps for him, the way women do when they’re in love.
But now the memories rearrange themselves.
He always had a reason not to come to trivia night. Or to Cass’s art opening. He never stayed long when my friends dropped by the shop—polite, charming, and then gone before anyone could really get a sense of him.
Elusive!
He never let himself be tagged in photos, never wanted to linger at birthday dinners, and never showed up to anything that didn’t somehow orbit my father.
I remember the way he’d kiss my temple and say, “Next time,” or “Another night,” or “I just want it to be us tonight.”
I thought it was romantic.
I can now see it for what it was.
He compartmentalized his life the way he did his work.
Family functions mattered. Diplomatic dinners mattered.
My friends—my real life—didn’t. I didn’t.
I may not know him at all or only the version of himself he presented to me, but I do know that he’s goal-oriented.
He slid in and out of the parts of my world that served his purpose, leaving the rest untouched.
He was my whole life—and I thought I was his, but I was a corridor, a stepping stone.
I give Cass a weak smile.
She purses her lips and squeezes my shoulder. “Sugar or alcohol.”
I sniffle as I laugh. “Both?”
“Espresso fucking martinis then.”
I look at my wristwatch. “Cass, it’s two in the afternoon.”
“It’s happy hour somewhere,” she retorts. “You stay here, sweet cheeks, I’ll be right back.”
“Make mine with just a teeny bit of alcohol,” I warn, because my friend can be liberal with liquor.
Cass has a bar in her studio that she uses for exhibitions and events, which means she has all the ingredients to put together a drink or two or fifty.
After she leaves the shop, I head for the worktable, tightening my apron.
I like the rhythm of my work—the snip of shears, the soft rustle of petals, the way arranging flowers turns chaos into a gentle and contained art piece.
The bell above the door jingles, and a boy wanders in.
Sixteen, maybe. He’s holding a crumpled ten-dollar bill with both hands, like he’s afraid it’ll disappear.
“Hi,” I say gently. “What can I help you with?”
He bites his lip. “It’s my mom’s birthday. I, um…I only have this.” He holds up the cash.
My heart squeezes. “What’s her favorite color?”
“She likes pink,” he blurts out.
“Any flower she likes?” I ask.
He licks his lips. “Uh…I don’t know.”
“I think I have something for you,” I tell him.
“For…uh…ten dollars?” he asks, probably afraid he’s going to have to walk out of here empty-handed, or worse, be yelled at for not having enough money to pay for a bouquet.
“Absolutely,” I lie.
I gather a dozen pale pink roses from the cooler—my best ones, the outer petals still tight and unbruised, the centers just beginning to loosen.
I strip the lower leaves carefully, my thumb brushing away the thorns I’ve already dulled with habit, and cut each stem at a sharp angle so they’ll drink properly. I add a soft cloud of baby’s breath, tucking it between the roses, just enough to make the pink gentler, fuller.
I turn the bundle slowly in my hands, adjusting the balance until no bloom feels crowded, until each one has room to be seen.
“Yoohoo!” Cass walks in, pushing the door open with her hip, carrying two full martini glasses.
She gives the boy a once-over. “We’re allowed,” she tells the boy defensively.
“O-okay?” the boy responds, confused.
“It’s his mother’s birthday,” I tell Cass, who sets my drink next to me.
She sips her espresso martini and arches an eyebrow at the ten-dollar bill in the boy’s hand.
I bind the flowers with a pink satin ribbon, wrapping it twice around the stems, pulling it snug but not tight, and finishing with a simple bow I’ve tied thousands of times.
I slide the bouquet into damp kraft paper, folding the bottom up to cradle the stems and keep them hydrated, then tuck a sheet of tissue around the blooms so they won’t bruise on the way home.
I hand him the flowers. “There you go.”
His eyes go huge. “That’s for ten dollars?” He holds up the bill in his hand.
I snatch it away from him. “It’s on sale.”
The boy isn’t dumb. He smiles at me. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re most welcome.”
He beams, cheeks flushing, and bolts out the door, holding the bouquet close to his chest.
Cass looks at me from over the rim of the martini glass. “This is how people go bankrupt. I’ve seen it happen.”
“Please.” I raise my drink. “This is how I got a customer for life. He’s going to come here for everything from now on, and pay me for it.”
Cass rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure that was what was on your mind when you all but gave the flowers away for free.”
“I needed to do something good…you know…release some of the dark inside of me.”
She nods. “You wanna talk about it?”
I’d love to, I think, but I can’t, not without spilling NSA secrets.
“Is this because of your dad being in the news?” she asks.
D.C. is a company town. Even the Uber drivers talk about House bills and budgets.
“Yes.” It’s partly true.
The drink does lift my spirits—but I think it’s more Cass’s company.
She goes back to her studio as customers start to trickle into Lucille’s, keeping me occupied.
My hands find their way through stems and petals, even when my heart feels miles away.
I help an elderly man choose lilies for his late wife. He tells me all about Theresa, the love of his life. I listen, charmed, trying very hard—and failing—not to think about how I wanted this with Nick, how I’d thought we’d have it.
I build a wild, colorful bouquet for a theater kid who wanted ‘chaotic but romantic’ for a play he’s directing.
As I turn the sign on the door to CLOSE, I catch my reflection in the glass.
I’ve always been told I’m plain. I am compared to my sister. Maggie is vivacious. She wears makeup. Dresses in designer duds. She is blonde and beautiful.
One boyfriend told me I was soft, which I think was his way of nicely saying I was dull.
Right now, I look tired. The skin beneath my eyes is bruised, and my cheeks are flushed, like I’m fighting a fever. My hair—dark and unruly—is pinned back loosely because anything tighter gives me a headache. Stray tendrils fall around my face, out of control.
Grandma Lucille used to call me elegant, but then I was her favorite grandchild.
Nick once traced my jaw and whispered, “You’re the kind of beautiful that ruins men.”
I believed him—but it was just a cruel joke.
“When will heartache end?” I ask the universe, and the tears that I’d been holding back all day, break free.