20. Az #2
The order board is a disaster. Fourteen arrangements due by five, and I’ve finished exactly three. I shouldn’t say yes. I should send him back to the farmhouse and handle this myself, the way I’ve handled everything for the past eight weeks.
But my back hurts and my feet are swollen and I am so goddamn tired of doing everything alone.
“Fine.” I take his hand and let him pull me up. “The barn threat stands.”
We work at the center table. I show him how to trim stems at an angle, how to build structure with greenery before adding focal blooms. His first attempt looks like something a raccoon assembled during a windstorm.
“That’s…” I tilt my head. “Creative.”
“It’s terrible.”
“It’s genuinely terrible.”
He laughs and pulls it apart, starts again. The second one is marginally better. By the fourth, he’s found a rhythm, rough but usable for the larger mixed arrangements where individual stems matter less.
“You’re not completely hopeless,” I admit.
“High praise.” He tucks a stem of eucalyptus into place, frowning in concentration. “My wife’s a good teacher.”
The word wife lands somewhere soft in my chest. I don’t correct him.
We work in comfortable silence for a while. He starts humming something under his breath, an old song, one I recognize from our first apartment, back when he’d play guitar on the fire escape and I’d pretend to work on inventory.
He finishes another bouquet, wipes his hands on a rag, and stops beside the doorway, phone in hand.
“Az.” His voice is careful. “Fran’s invoice. How overdue is it?”
My hands still. “Why?”
“Because I want to help. But I’m asking first.” He stays in the doorway, not moving closer. “I know the rule. My money doesn’t touch the shop. I’m not trying to buy my way back in.”
“Sixty days,” I say quietly. “She’s been patient. Too patient.”
“Would you let me pay it? As an advance. You set the terms, you pay me back however you want, and it doesn’t give me any claim on anything here. No ownership. No license to spend another dime without you saying so first.”
No is right there, automatic, defensive.
But Fran has been kind. And I’m so tired of drowning.
“Twelve hundred,” I say. “That’s all. You pay that one invoice, and I pay you back at two hundred a month starting in January. I’ll put it in writing if you want.”
“I don’t need it in writing.”
“I need it in writing.” I look at him. “This is a loan, Eli. Not a gift. Not a rescue. You don’t get to swoop in and fix everything.”
“I know.” He holds up his phone. “Twelve hundred to Fran. Repayment starts January. Anything else?”
“No future spending. On anything. Without explicit permission.”
“Done.”
He makes the call right there in the doorway, reads off his card number, confirms the amount. When he hangs up, my shoulders come down from around my ears.
“The Patel wedding deposit covers Lopez Florals on Thursday,” I say, half to myself.
“And the Castellano balance clears before Saturday. I can call the other suppliers about installments instead of letting Marisol guess.” I’m already reaching for my notebook, scribbling figures.
“I can make this work. It’s tight, but I can make it work. ”
“I know you can.”
The relief is so overwhelming my eyes sting. I shove it down and hand him a bucket of hydrangeas. “These need trimming. Watch your fingers.”
He takes the bucket. “Yes ma’am.”
Fran confirms she can release the held flowers for tomorrow’s delivery. While he trims, I schedule a daily accounts check with the bookkeeper and Marisol. She gets authority to flag shortages directly to me; I stop treating unopened emails as a plan.
We work until six.
Eli hauls buckets and sweeps floors and wraps stems in paper while I call vendors and sort through orders and pretend I’m not watching him fumble with baby’s breath. He’s bad at it, genuinely, hilariously bad, but he’s trying so hard that I can’t bring myself to snap at him.
“That’s upside down,” I say, pointing at the arrangement he’s attempting.
“It’s artistic.” He steps back to admire it.
“It’s wrong.”
“Artistic wrongness?”
“Give me that.” I hold out my hand.
He surrenders the flowers with a sheepish grin, and I fix the arrangement while he watches over my shoulder, close enough that I can feel his breath on my neck.
“You’re good at that,” he says softly.
“I know.”
“No, I mean-” He pauses. “I never watched you work before. Not really. You’re… it’s like watching someone speak a language I don’t know.”
“Flowers aren’t that complicated.”
“Everything’s complicated when you don’t know how to do it.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry I never paid attention. Before.”
I set down the finished bouquet. Look at him.
“You’re paying attention now,” I say.
“I’m trying.”
Through the front window, headlights flash. A car pulling up to the curb outside the shop, sleek, dark, expensive-looking.
I know that car.
“Az?” Eli’s watching my face. “What is it?”
The driver’s door opens. A woman steps out, blonde hair, designer dress, heels that cost more than my monthly insurance.
My mother.
“Az.” Eli’s voice is sharper now, concerned. “Is that Diane?”
I watch Diane straighten her jacket, check her reflection in the car window, start walking toward the shop door.
My mother, who I haven’t spoken to since her television interview revealed Eli paid her mortgage.
My mother, who’s about to walk into my shop and ruin whatever fragile peace I’ve managed to build today.
“That,” I say, “is a conversation I really didn’t want to have.”
The door chimes.