Chapter 10
WILLOW
“Honeysuckle Florals, how can I help you?” Mom’s pristine voice singsongs as she presses the shop’s phone to her ear while simultaneously flipping through order slips for today’s pick-ups. It’s an especially busy Wednesday afternoon.
I normally answer the phone and run the register, but she beat me to it since I’m elbow deep in a bucket of hydrangeas right now, trimming stems at the counter before I place these with the rest of the buckets on the floor.
“Oh . . .” Her voice drops, laced with a tone I can’t quite read, but doesn’t seem right. I glance at her from the corner of my eye just as she turns to face me, throat working with a swallow. She taps the phone screen before whispering, “It’s Parker.”
Every atom in my body twists itself in knots, my insides sticking together in a nauseating funnel that seems to want to crawl right out my throat. “Why?”
I know the word came from my mouth, but it didn’t sound like me. It sounded foreign—like the haunted gasp you’d hear from a character in a horror movie just as they realize they’ve been caught by the killer.
He knows about the abortion is the first thought that rattles my mind, but I know that can’t be true. Nobody in my family would disclose that to him—would contact him at all.
Guilt sluices through me. I’ve battled with thoughts of whether to call him, to tell him about the decision I made. Part of me believes he deserves to know, another part reminds me that he took away my consent to the risk of pregnancy, so I owe him nothing.
Knowing now that he’s on the other side of the phone line, that his voice is filtering through my mom’s ear, has my skin prickling with unease. I don’t ever want to hear that voice again. I don’t think I could bear it.
Mom chews on her cheek, watching me with wide, somber eyes.
“I’m going to tell him you’re not here, okay?
It’ll be all right, baby.” Her eyes drift toward the front of the flower shop as the chime on the door rings.
Nodding behind me, she plasters a soft smile on her mouth that I know isn’t meant for me before going back to the phone.
I turn around to find Weston striding up to the counter, eyeing me curiously.
“Hi,” I say, voice cracking, all that anxiety I attempted to fight back funneling up my throat anyway.
“Um . . . I need a bouquet.” Weston rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, like purchasing flowers from me is the most painful thing he’s ever endured.
Apparently, it’s been decided we can’t stand each other, as he’s been avoiding me like the plague since Friday.
I’d be more pressed about it, but as I hear my mom say, “Willow isn’t here, Parker,” from behind me, I can’t find the capacity to care at the moment.
Wes’s gaze darts from me to my mother, narrowing with confusion as he assesses the situation at hand. She’s turned her back to us, speaking quietly, but there is no doubt Weston’s hearing every word.
“She’s okay, I promise,” Mom continues.
I shoot Weston a sickly-sweet smile. “A bouquet of what?”
“I understand you’re concerned, but if she wanted to reach out to you she would—”
Weston frowns, brow furrowing as he overhears what my mother is saying.
I loudly clear my throat, drawing his attention back to me.
His eyes flash to mine. “Uh . . . flowers?”
I can’t tell if his aversion to this interaction is because he’s trying so hard to eavesdrop on my mother, or if it’s just because he can’t stand me.
“Please don’t call again, Parker.” Mom sighs from behind me, and a small portion of the anguish bubbling inside my veins settles itself.
“What kind of flowers?” I ask Weston.
He’s still watching my mother as she slides the phone into her pocket, facing the two of us with a placating smile before excusing herself to her office, and promising me she and I will talk at home.
Weston drags his eyes back to me. A long second ripples between us as he studies me for some sort of reaction to the conversation he’s just overheard, and I’ve tried my hardest to pretend wasn’t happening at all.
His gaze searches my face for something, and I’m not sure what he finds within it, but finally, he mutters, “Honestly . . . I don’t know. They’re for Penelope. I’m meeting her for lunch next door. I thought it would be nice to surprise her with . . .” He runs a hand through his hair.
I’m just grateful he chose not to press me for more information regarding the situation he walked in to.
I’ve seen Weston twice since Friday. I ran into him one morning while he was leaving the beach and I was heading down to it. He gave me one of those closed-lip smiles and curt nods that you offer strangers who pass you on a hiking trail.
Then I ran into him outside my parent’s garage one morning when I was returning one of the paddleboards.
Sometimes I go out to the harbor on the north end of Pacific Shores for a change of scenery.
When I got back, Weston was stepping out of the shower my dad built outside the back door of the garage.
That interaction was definitely awkward for both of us.
He was shirtless. I was drooling. I was exiting the back door as he was leaving the shower stall, and we caught each other off guard.
He startled, inhaling so sharply he began coughing.
My mouth dried out at the sight of him wearing nothing but a towel, slung so low over his hips I could make out the V that led from his stomach and down to his . . .
I shake off the thought.
“That is nice. It’s thoughtful,” I say softly, forcing my brain to find some other plane of existence outside fear over Parker’s unwelcome resurfacing, and curiosity over Weston’s sculpted body.
“Here . . .” I walk around the counter to the buckets of flowers that line the floor beneath the front windows.
“Penelope loves daisies.” I grab a handful.
“Sunflowers.” I pluck two of those from their bucket.
“Her favorite color is green,” I add, pulling a stem of eucalyptus from a bundle.
“Maybe . . . a few pink cosmos for a pop of brightness?” I hold the bundle out to him. “What do you think?”
He tilts his head, studying them intently. “Looks good.”
I nod, walking back to the counter, laying them out and trimming the stems before wrapping the bouquet in construction paper and tying it together with white twine.
“How do you know what her favorite flowers are?”
“I’ve known Penelope my whole life,” I say, turning around. “I guess we just absorb information about people we care for over the years.”
He chews on the inside of his cheek as he pulls his wallet from the back pocket of his worn jeans. They fit him too well. “Is it bad that I don’t know what her favorite flowers are?”
“I don’t know. Do you know other things about her?”
I trade his card for the flowers, entering the price for a standard arrangement and subtracting the employee discount before running it.
“I know how she takes her coffee, and I know she doesn’t like to eat breakfast but likes eating breakfast food for lunch. Her favorite artist is Georgia O’Keeffe, and the Hanging Gardens of Babylon are her favorite Wonder of the Ancient World.”
“See? I didn’t know any of those things about her. We all absorb different information.”
Although, I did know her favorite artist was O’Keeffe, she helped me write an essay for my advanced art history course after my professor told me I needed to study someone other than Monet—who is my favorite.
He smiles, and by instinct, I return it.
No. Dammit. We’re not supposed to smile at each other.
“What time are you meeting her?” I ask.
“Right now.”
“Great. I’ll walk you over.” I need the distraction. I need to leave this space, even if only briefly. I can feel Parker’s presence all around me in here, and I’m desperate to run away from it.
Weston frowns. Back on track. “I don’t need an escort, Willow.”
“I’d sure hope not, considering you’re a grown-ass man, Weston.” I close the register and hand him back his card before calling in the direction of the back office, “Mom, I’m going to take a break and see Penelope for a second. I’ll be right back!”
“Okay! Tell her hi for me.” Her voice floats softly from the hallway behind me. There is relief in her tone, like she too knows how badly I need to step away.
I begin walking toward the doors, but Weston makes no move to follow. “Are you coming or . . .?”
“Yeah.” He huffs, stepping up behind me. I reach for the handle, but his arm shoots out before I can, and he leans around me, holding the door open. “I’ve got it.”
He’s close enough that his breath fans against my neck, and I’m shadowed by the hovering of his body. I inhale swiftly, met with the scent of his cologne—something clean and woodsy.
“Thanks,” I murmur, slipping into the afternoon sun.
“What do you need to see Penelope about?” he asks gruffly, walking a beat behind me as we cross the ten feet that separates Honeysuckle from The Wicked Wildflower.
“I can’t just say hi?” I shoot back.
He brushes past me, grabbing the bakery’s door before I reach it and holding that open too. For how reticent he is, he at least has manners. “Of course you can, but it feels a little like you’re tryna follow me, Willow.”
I let out a low whistle as I sidle up to the counter. “That ego sure is something.”
He leans against the register, tossing me a grin before his face straightens again and he turns to Allie, who is now standing in front of us on the other side. Her brown eyes are wide, darting between Weston and me.
I desperately want to pull her aside and tell her what just happened with Parker, but I know now isn’t the time, so I push that despair further down—into the very pits of me, until I’m convinced I’ll forget it happened at all.