—Epilogue—
The orchid is blooming.
I hate that Diego won’t shut up about it.
Like, one flower.
A single one.
You’d think the man resurrected a rainforest.
It has found the perfect spot in my front kitchen window now. Diego is its king and servant. He knows precisely how much water it needs and when. Studied where the light hits. When to rotate it. I’ve had to listen to him talking about it for months.
Don’t get me wrong.
I’m low-key delighted, high-key proud that my boyfriend has mastered the delicate art of keeping a plant alive.
Even if it means, after waking up late one Friday morning, I stumble tiredly into the kitchen to find my dear Diego tending to his orchid before he’s even put on the coffee.
His eye catches something through the window. He waves. It’s one of Nicole’s sons, handsome and full of charm, hanging a pretty blue wind chime on their porch, and he waves cheerily back.
Diego is just in his boxers, by the way.
Oh, how so spectacularly ineffective our attempt at privacy has become.
One of Nicole’s sons is gay, by the way. Just heard it last week through Lottie’s book club ladies, who can’t say which of the Berry brothers is gay, only that one of them most definitely, totally is.
Yep. I’m in the group chat, too, now.
Thanks, Lottie.
“We ordering out or staying in tonight?” asks Diego through a mouthful of toothpaste.
I spit into the sink and nudge him. “Bonnie’s thing.”
“Ahh. Forgot.” He spits too, then eyes me. “No chance of—?”
“If I have to be there and Mindy and Joel have to be there and even somehow Lance and Chad got roped in—”
“Okay, okay, okay.”
I put a toothpasty peck on his lips and say, “Thanks, love. I’m off. Gotta get a head start on training the new gal.”
“Y’know I hate when you do that,” he says, wiping toothpaste off his mouth.
“Say hi to the boys at the shop for me! Oh, and don’t be late to the thing—six o’clock, head there straight after work.” His answer is a growl. “Love you, too,” I sing as I waltz away.
Another growl. He loves me.
The cool winter breeze blows over my face (bear in mind, this is Texas we’re talking about, so “cool winter breeze” is a comically embellished account of this seventy-something-degree December air I’m currently relishing) as I enter the shop.
Cash is already fast at work showing the new gal around.
Her name’s Marissa. She was in Cash’s graduating class, a friend of his friend Savannah’s, and is super bubbly—sometimes a touch more so than necessary.
Having been in the Theatre department at Spruce High, she’s got a natural charisma I’m sure (or rather: hoping) customers will appreciate.
“Mr. C!” Cash greets me, trips over himself coming in front of the counter, bumps into a shelf, grabs hold of a potted peperomia before it teeters right off the edge, sets it back in place like that didn’t just happen, and throws on a pleasant smile.
“Just showing our new employee the ropes! How’s your morning? ”
I’m blessed to have him, honestly.
“Oh! Before I forget: Joseph sent a reply about the Christmas party,” he goes on, “and loves all your ideas and was curious if you gave any more thought to the Bellmans’ New Year’s thingy?”
Needless to say, Joseph’s niece’s Very Fairy Fantasy party was a total hit, and every parent was raving about it from one end of Brookfield to the other.
The whole rest of September leading into October were two of my busiest months ever.
I acquired so many new clients, Cash and I could barely keep up with them.
Marissa was a happy little accident that resulted after a number of other applicants (yes, I get those now, apparently) fell through.
We just had to wait for her to return from her first semester at college, and now she’s officially my winter-and-summer-seasons helper.
And it’s just in time, because between my clients both local as well as in Fairview, Brookfield, and even as far out as Little Water, I’ve got my thorn-shucking hands full.
I recently received an email from Grant Bellamy.
Directly. Not from his secretary this time.
With a surprisingly generous offer.
It was clear he had heard my name around town. Probably got sick of hearing it, for all I know. He informed me that Brighthouse, despite all their manpower and factory-power and money, simply do not have that special sort of “unmistakably personal finesse” that my work has.
In other words, his clients are now complaining.
“Why do our flowers suddenly suck?”
“Why have all the arrangements been lacking soul lately?”
“What happened to your secret superpower flower guy?”
But of course he doesn’t mention that part.
I only know it through Joseph, who has turned out to be quite the gossip himself, having opened up to me over the past several months we’ve worked together.
With him, the line between client and friend is often blurred, but neither of us seem to mind.
Diego and I even have an open-ended invite to dinner with him the next time we find ourselves out in Brookfield while he’s in town.
As for Mr. Bellamy: I politely but professionally turned down his offer on account of not being able to accommodate another big client, what with my schedule already so booked up for the busy upcoming holidays.
He wrote back that he understood, thanked me for my consideration, and said if I had an opening in the near future, to please let him know as soon as possible.
Even provided his personal number—just in case.
I took note of the desperation bleeding from his words.
And pretended not to take deep satisfaction in rejecting them.
For lunch, I hop over to Whitaker Auto to surprise Diego with some takeout from Biggie’s, saving him the trip.
Of course I bring a little extra for Joel and Carl, who’ve come to expect my “boyfriend drop-ins”, they secretly call them.
We eat at a covered picnic table out the back door of the shop—a lovely recent addition that was originally located under a shady tree in Spruce Park before Mayor Nadine decided to replace all the tables, and Joel’s father was the lucky recipient of this particular one, still in decent enough shape to be put to use.
When Carl tells us how he’s planning a surprise trip with the family to see his stepson Toby and Toby’s boyfriend Vann out in Dreamwood Isle, I lean into Diego and say, “Your aunt and uncle better still be planning to invite us out to their beach house soon or else I’m gonna have a word or two to say in the group chat about keeping promises. ”
Diego smirks at me. “I’ll call her tomorrow and give a nudge.”
Joel, after licking his fingers clean, leans over the table to say: “Wyatt, I keep forgettin’ to thank your ass for all them vintage car parts your dad donated. Just yesterday, my pops actually used one of ‘em to get an old hopeless Chevy up and runnin’ again!”
“You’re thanking the wrong guy,” I point out, then glance at Diego next to me, who chuckles and takes a bite of his burger.
It’s true. One lovely Sunday afternoon when I shockingly got both of my parents on a video call, Diego and my father had a long conversation (which bored me and my mom to tears) about his big collection of car parts that have occupied the garage for years.
He decided to “let it go at last”, essentially granting Diego permission to clear it out and put to use (or even sell) whatever he can.
I guess my parents’ time on the road has taught them to let go of material things and to embrace a bright future full of limitless possibilities and adventure.
Over a week, Diego and I cleared out the whole garage.
No deadly spiders were encountered, I’m happy to report.
And now I have a delightfully spacious garage fit for my car, a nice workout area, or maybe even a pool table for our occasional movie or game nights.
Speaking of which, Joel has more to say to me: “And, uh … not to throw any shade or nothin’ on Kirk and Bonnie’s eleven-year-old’s birthday party we’re all bein’ forced to attend, but since it’s just a couple hours, and it bein’ a Friday night and all, would it be a big deal if Mindy and I, say, hung out at y’all’s place afterwards for a bit?
Nothin’ big. Not a whole movie night thing. ”
It’s never not a whole movie night thing.
“Mindy put you up to this?” I ask back politely.
Joel grimaces. “We’ve got the sitter ‘til midnight.”
“I don’t see why not,” says Diego unexpectedly. I look at him. He throws a shrug at me. “Could invite Nicole and the boys over. Kinda been looking for an excuse to, haven’t we? So damned busy lately, we keep putting them off.”
I consider a nightcap with Mindy and Joel and our neighbors afterwards. A little chat. Maybe some drinks. Laughter and fun and breaking the ice with neighbors we’ve been living next to all these months and never really getting to know too deeply.
Sounds like a fun way to kick off the weekend to me.
Fast-forward to our birthday party obligation.
At Pepperoni Pirate.
Surrounded by tweens playing games and snatching pizza off the table whenever a new dish arrives.
Our ears are blasted in half an hour. The floors are sticky with spilled soda.
No one knows the time. Someone said there’s a cake coming, but we’ve been here for the obligatory hour, and there’s still no cake.
“Would we be terrible people if we just … headed out early?” asks Mindy when we’ve been sent to gather kids for presents.
“I’m pretty sure Bonnie would understand.
And Billy and Tanner finally got here with their boys, and I’m—Hey, you!
Presents! Go back to the party room! Get your friend with the red Mohawk, too!
—I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t be missed.”
“Probably not,” I agree, then find a couple of boys by an air hockey table. “Hey there, guys! Who won the game? Head back to the party room if you wanna watch Kirkland open his presents!”
“You two! Back to the party room! Watch your little pal open whatever your parents bought him!”