6. Maren
— ? —
Maren
The ranunculus is still on my nightstand when I wake up.
For a moment I just stare at it, the champagne bottle catching the morning light, the dried flower inside looking almost alive in the glow. Rhodes left it there three days ago, along with a note that I’ve read so many times the paper is starting to soften at the creases.
I love you. I’ll call you later. R
He did call. He’s called every day since, actually. Small things, what he’s working on, how the Singapore meeting went, the stupid thing Julian said in the meeting. The boring parts. The parts he used to edit out.
I’m trying to believe it means something.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Nora.
Can you come in early? There’s something you should see.
I stare at the text longer than I should. Nothing good ever follows there’s something you should see. It’s the phrase that precedes car accidents, bad diagnoses, and photos of your ex with someone new.
I text back: On my way.
The shop is quiet when I arrive, too quiet for a Thursday morning. Nina’s at the front counter, pretending to organize ribbon spools that don’t need organizing. Nora’s in the back, waiting for me with her laptop open and the expression she wears when she’s about to deliver news I don’t want.
“What is it?”
“Sit down.”
“I don’t want to sit down.”
“Maren.”
“Just show me.”
She turns the laptop toward me.
It’s the anniversary campaign. The full spread, not just the save-the-date I saw three days ago. Multiple images, professional copy, the kind of slick PR package that costs more than most people’s annual salaries.
And in every single photo, there’s Rhodes and Rachel.
Rhodes and Rachel in front of The Sinclair. Rhodes and Rachel reviewing blueprints, laughing at something off-camera, her hand on his arm, both of them looking like they’ve never had a bad day in their lives.
“Keep scrolling,” Nora says quietly.
I scroll.
The article is worse. “The woman who’s been at Rhodes Calloway’s side through the company’s biggest years,” it says about Rachel. “His partner in building an empire.”
Partner.
“There’s more.”
“I don’t want more.”
“The comments.”
I shouldn’t look. I know I shouldn’t look. Looking at comments is like picking at a scab, nothing good comes from it, and you end up bleeding anyway.
I look.
They make such a beautiful couple!
Power duo goals
Wait isn’t he married?
To who?
Some florist I think? Never seen her
Rachel is literally always with him. The wife must be so embarrassing lol
I close the laptop.
“I’m sorry,” Nora says. “I thought you should hear it from me instead of-”
“Instead of finding it myself while scrolling through my phone like a normal person?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, that was very thoughtful. I hate it.”
Nina appears in the doorway, holding a cup of coffee like a peace offering. “I brought you-”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I look exactly as fine as someone who just discovered the internet thinks her husband is married to someone else.” I take the coffee anyway. “Which is completely fine. Extremely fine, the finest.”
“Maren-”
“I need to call Rhodes.”
I take my phone to the back office, close the door, and dial before my nerve gives out. He picks up on the second ring.
“Hey.” His voice is warm. Distracted, but warm. “I was about to call you. The meeting ran long, but I was thinking we could do dinner tonight-”
“Have you seen the campaign coverage?”
Pause. “What about it?”
“Rhodes, have you actually looked at it?”
“I approved the materials last week.”
“Then you saw the photos.”
“The photos are fine. The team picked the best shots from the magazine spread-”
“The best shots are all you and Rachel.”
He’s quiet for a moment. I can hear him thinking, which is somehow worse than if he just argued back.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “I can see how that might look-”
“Can you? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like your entire company thinks Rachel is your wife.”
“Nobody who matters thinks that.”
“The internet thinks that.”
“The internet thinks the earth is flat.”
There it is. The joke, deployed to shrink the whole thing down to a size he can wave off. It lands on everyone but me.
“I’m glad this is funny to you.”
“It’s not funny. I’m just saying, the people who know us, who actually know our lives, they know Rachel is my right hand. They know you’re my wife.”
“Do they? Because I’ve been getting texts all morning from friends asking if I’ve seen the article, if I’m okay, why I’m not in a single photo from a campaign celebrating a company I was literally there for from day one.”
“You’re the florist. You don’t work for the company.”
“I was there the night The Sinclair opened, Rhodes. I made the centerpieces. I was there before Rachel, before Julian, before any of them. And somehow I’m not important enough to be in the history.”
“That’s not-” He stops, starts again. “You’re important. Of course you’re important.”
“Then why does it feel like I’m being erased?”
“Because you’re reading internet comments, which I’ve told you a thousand times is a bad idea.”
I switch the phone to my other ear and flatten my palm against the workbench, steadying myself against the fact that he can look at my erasure and call it a comment-section problem.
“I’m reading the article, looking at the photos, seeing my husband positioned next to another woman in every single image, with captions calling her his partner, and I’m supposed to, what? Feel flattered that strangers are confused about which one of us he actually married?”
“There’s nothing happening with Rachel.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, Rhodes, I know you’re not sleeping with Rachel. That’s not the point.”
“Then what am I missing?” he asks, and the fight has gone out of his voice.
I press my hand against my forehead, trying to find words for something that shouldn’t need explaining.
“The point is that you don’t see it. You look at these photos and you see a successful campaign. I look at these photos and I see a version of your life where I don’t exist. And you don’t understand why that hurts because you’ve never had to wonder where you fit.”
He’s silent. I can hear him breathing, can almost hear him trying to figure out the right thing to say.
“I’ll talk to the PR team,” he finally offers. “We can adjust the messaging for the gala-”
“Speaking of the gala.” I cut him off before he can finish the sentence. “Rachel’s putting together the historical presentation, isn’t she? The retrospective on the company’s journey?”
“She’s coordinating it. She knows the business history better than anyone.”
“Better than me?”
“That’s not what I-”
“I was there, Rhodes. I was there when you were sleeping on the floor of The Sinclair because you couldn’t afford a hotel.
I was there when the permits almost fell through and you thought you were going to lose everything.
I was there before any of this was a success story, and somehow I’m not part of the history? ”
“Did you want to be asked?”
The question is so backward I almost laugh. As if being invited into my own history were a favor he could extend.
“Did I want to be asked if I had stories about the early years of my husband’s company? Yes, Rhodes. Yes, I wanted to be asked.”
“Then I’ll ask Rachel to reach out-”
“Don’t bother.” I can hear how cold my voice sounds. I can’t seem to warm it up. “I’ll be too busy with the flowers anyway.”
“The flowers?”
“For the gala. You asked Bellamy Blooms to do the arrangements, remember? Because nobody knows The Sinclair better than me.”
The silence stretches between us, and I can tell he’s finally hearing what I’m actually saying.
“Maren-”
“I’m important enough to decorate the story of your success. I’m just not important enough to be in it.”
“That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair is being married to someone for eleven years and watching a magazine article describe another woman as the person by your side.” I take a breath. “I have to go. I have arrangements to finish.”
“Can we talk about this tonight?”
“Sure. If you’re home.”
“I’ll be home.”
“You always say that.”
I hang up before he can respond. My hands are shaking, I didn’t realize they were shaking until I tried to set down the phone and missed the edge of the desk.
Through the office window, I can see Nora pretending not to watch me. Nina’s gone back to the front, giving me space. The shop is full of flowers for other people’s happy occasions, and I’m supposed to spend the rest of my day making them beautiful.
I pick up my phone again. Open the article. Stare at the photo of Rhodes and Rachel, the one where she’s touching his arm and they’re both laughing.
His partner in building an empire.
I close it.
Rhodes isn’t having an affair. I know that. I know him, I know the way he looks at me, the way he reaches for me in his sleep, the way he kept a crooked flower for eleven years because it reminded him of the night we met.
But I also know that at some point, he built a life I’m not part of. A world where Rachel knows his stories and I know his schedule. Where she’s his partner at work and I’m his wife at home, and the two things never overlap anymore.
I’m not jealous of Rachel. I’m jealous of the version of my husband that she gets to see, the one who’s present, engaged, in the room. The one who tells her about Pittsburgh and Denver and all the small disasters that make up a decade of building something together.
I get the apologies, the promises, the late-night returns and the canceled dinners and the ranunculus on my nightstand like a trophy from a life we used to have.
The door opens. Nora sticks her head in.
“There’s a delivery that needs your signature. And also a very nervous-looking man with a lot of flowers who says he’s here to apologize.”
“Rhodes?”
“No. Some guy named…” She checks her phone. “David Kessler? He says he double-booked a venue and needs emergency arrangements for this weekend, and he’s willing to pay whatever we ask.”
I almost laugh. Almost.
“Tell him I’ll be out in a minute.”