—31— Wyatt
Wyatt
Cash was right. Shocker.
I’ve been over the books for the past several days.
I cut some expenses. I made long lists. Reviewed my current pricing schemas and compared them against what I was charging Bellamy.
The income he brought in was certainly meaningful, but the rush jobs, constant discounts, and extra demands chewed through so much of the bonus profit.
I guess that’s exactly what a man like Grant Bellamy is.
Impressive on paper. Hollow in reality.
I need to make changes. Not for Diego who called me out. Not because my sister has this wimpy, pushover idea of me I’m trying to prove wrong. Maybe not even for my parents who are—I’d put money on it—drunk in an RV park someplace, happy as can be.
Maybe I’m not even doing this for me.
“Ms. Linny,” I recite in the mirror late Monday morning when no one’s at the shop because we’re closed.
“Due to rising s-supply costs, I, uh, regretfully must increase the price for out-of-season—” No.
Too corporate. “Dolores! Hi! Um … Flowers cost more now.” Ugh, seriously?
“Tracy, I’m so, so sorry, but I must charge extra for rush deliveries, even on Sundays … ”
I sound like I’m holding her begonias hostage.
And I can’t seem to say anything without apologizing first.
Am I sure I can even enforce the changes I’m making?
Why do I keep hearing imaginary laughter in my ears? Seeing eye rolls and indignant scoffing? Whispers at church … That Wyatt, he’s gotten so greedy, his head is so big, he thinks he can charge what he’s worth and get away with it at our expense? How dare he!
I clench shut my eyes, exhausted.
And it’s barely noon.
Cash comes crashing into the shop—Didn’t I lock the door?—flings his backpack behind the counter—Why does he always have a backpack? He’s not in school anymore—and says, “Hey, Mr. C! What’s poppin’?”
I come out of the back. “We seriously need to track your hours on these off days.”
He stops and blinks. “We track them on my on days?”
“Really, Cash. Whenever you help out, I need to pay you.”
“I told you it’s fine, Mr. C. Chill. I’m just—”
“No,” I say firmer. “None of these favors and freebies. I refuse to keep accepting it. When you’re here, you’re getting paid. That’s it. No negotiations.”
He lifts his eyebrows in surprise, looking almost hurt.
Then: “Even if I just stop by to, like, hang out?”
I lean in. “If you’re hanging out, then you aren’t allowed to do anything but hang out. Not even a teensy misting of the roses.”
“Aww, but that’s my favorite!”
“No.” I point at the computer. “Are you here to work? Or here to hang out? Clock in if you’re working, because I’ve got a whole list of to-dos while the shop’s closed. I’m making … changes. Big ol’ changes.” I rethink it. “M-Medium-sized changes. Sorta.”
He’s already looking at the screen. “You increased prices?”
“Some. For items I had already discounted. I ran numbers. I’ve been shorting myself. In a few ways, actually. By the way, are you feeling personable and particularly full of energy today? I could use some help with something.”
He peels his eyes from the screen and looks at me. “Uh …”
I pat the phone on the counter. “We need to make some calls.”
His eyes drop to the phone like he’s never seen one before.
This is going to go so well.
For the next few hours, we’re calling all of my clients.
Every last one of them. I have a new pricing schema.
I’m offering deals that benefit us both.
We divide and conquer my call list one scary little conversation at a time—even if I’m mere inches from putting my finger on the panic button with every caller.
But they surprise me. “Oh, that doesn’t bother me at all,” says one lady. “And I’ll be sure to stop by tomorrow!”
Then another: “Well, I’ve been waiting for you to charge what you’re worth, son, so that’s that.”
And yet another: “As long as your cute face is still open for business, you can count on me and my girls from the book club!”
I hang up the phone after one particularly chipper call, squint at the counter in thought, then wonder if Mayor Nadine did seem a little friendlier than usual when she approached me after church service yesterday.
Is she responsible for this?
Why is everyone in town so … unusually friendly?
Cash and I take a break on the curb outside in the breeze, it being a surprisingly mild day.
He made sandwiches at home with a plan to share one with me, which I found unexpectedly touching, coming from him.
Then wondered if it was actually his mom Stella who had the thought, being an occasional flower connoisseur herself.
It doesn’t matter either way; the sandwich goes down just as tastily and is just as much appreciated.
“I’m better off without him in my life,” says Cash after a bite, always turning to his deep thoughts when we’re supposed to be eating and relaxing.
And this particular deep thought edges on a thought I’ve been trying all day not to think.
Whether I’m better off with or without a particular someone.
Someone who I am totally, completely, honestly, literally not thinking about at all.
Not wondering what he’s doing.
If he’s okay.
If he’s happy.
But obviously that’s not who Cash is talking about, and this is not about me. “You mean Nico?”
“He’s just more trouble than it’s worth.”
I shrug. “Doesn’t that mean he’s worth something, though?”
Cash sits with that.
“I think you should be honest with yourself. Is Nico really the worst? Or is he just … someone you need to be a little more patient with? Maybe he’s not used to showing his best side. He needs time. He needs … someone who’ll wait for him.”
“I don’t get it,” mumbles Cash, confused.
“Me neither,” I admit, then finish the last bite of his mom’s sandwich (yes, I’ve decided to presume these were her sweet idea) and throw a smile up to the sky.
The evenings are all the same lately.
I pull into my driveway and walk straight into my house.
Because I won’t bear to look at the one next to mine.
I put the TV on because my house is otherwise way too quiet.
I hum to myself while I make dinner. Eat at the table. Open up my laptop while I eat and scroll through numbers and figures and lay out what I plan to do tomorrow.
For some reason, I can’t sleep in my bedroom.
I’ve been sleeping on the couch. With the hum of the TV.
It feels less lonely or something.
When I wake up on Tuesday morning, there’s just something in the air, like it’s thrumming with electricity.
I take the long way to work, if just to remind myself what Main Street looks like when it’s sleepy-o’clock.
I love watching other business owners doing their usual routines.
Sweeping up the sidewalks out front. Pulling out their signage or taking out boxes of trash or just walking from here to there, checking in with each other, catching up.
Then I reach my store.
And find six ladies waiting in a neat line by the door.
What in the heck? That’s my first thought.
Maybe they’re lost and need help, is my second.
When I park and get out, I find all six of them are waiting for me to open up because they each have very urgent flower-related business that only I can help them with.
This is just the start of the day.
After the six ladies are helped, Patricia Parker comes by with a smile, looking for something to spruce up her front window.
I’ve gone past it a zillion times, as she’s on my street, and know she already has four pretty pots of hydrangeas on that front sill I gave her before.
“Well, a woman’s allowed to change her mind now and then, isn’t she?
” I smile and suggest a lovely complement to her hydrangeas.
She chooses three complements, instead.
And buys a set for Bobby and Jimmy too, because why not.
Then Angela stops in wanting some flowers for her mom—and ends up throwing so many extra little things into her order that she walks out paying four times as much as she’d planned to.
Then I get a call from Jill at the vet wondering if Samuel has dropped in yet for the flowers they plan to fill their “puppy playroom” with (whatever that is) because she wants to also get something for her little sister who’s coming into town this weekend.
Moments later, Sandra and Paul Buckley (Samuel’s parents) drop in to say hi, act surprised at how lovely the shop looks as it has been a while, then snatch up an arrangement for some unspecified occasion.
In the afternoon, the rest of the storm rushes in.
Someone shows up wanting flowers for an anniversary. Then another wants a sympathy arrangement. Then comes a lady from church urgently needing something for her daughter.
Then another.
And another.
My store is crowded and I’m rushing around sweating my ass off, all while fielding the phone that’s blowing up with order after order from every last member of Lottie’s book club.
That’s when Cash drops in, likely expecting to hang out.
And is frozen at the door by the sea of faces, hair, and way too much perfume causing the walls of the shop to swell outward.
“Help!” my eyes scream without words.
Cash snaps out of it and hops over the counter (literally) to start ringing people up, still wearing his backpack.
Every face is friendly. Everyone adores whatever I suggest. I barely get a word out before the ladies start upselling themselves, grabbing every last thing.
Seriously.
Did the town hold a meeting?
Were decisions made?
Is this Nadine Strong’s madness? Lottie’s doing? Cash’s power with Stella being a former member—and I’m starting to presume head—of the Spruce High PTA?
“Was there something in the paper?” I finally have the balls to ask Nancy Harding, who never minces words with me. “Is it Noah? Did he write up and publish an article?”