（Nothing But） Flowers
And how is Uncle Noah this evening?” I ask, our eyes meeting as I stroll across the crowded restaurant patio to greet him.
He stands up, grinning as we embrace, but as we pull away I notice a flicker of concern in his expression. He’s picked up on my slightly nagging tone, a drop of venom swirling through my otherwise playful choice of words.
“Does that bother you?” he asks, the two of us taking our seats across from each other.
Unlike the neighbors, I actually care what Noah thinks. I guess even the most ruthless, bloodthirsty sharks need a pal.
I’m immediately embarrassed that he’s picked up on my simmering annoyance, but I shouldn’t be surprised. Noah is one of the most perceptive people I know, especially when it comes to hidden emotional states.
He’s damn near supernatural, but I’m self-aware enough to acknowledge at least one explanation for Noah’s heightened perception: that I’m so calculated that it makes anyone seem borderline psychic with empathy.
I let out a long sigh, shaking my head. “I’m sorry,” I offer. “It’s cute that Marlo started calling you that. It’s just …”
“You wish you could spend more time with her and you feel personally slighted by how much she likes me.”
I nod.
“Well, I can think of one way to fix that,” Noah says. “Work less.”
“Do you have any idea how much my rent is?” I counter.
“So rent a smaller place, she doesn’t need all that stuff.”
“She doesn’t know what she needs,” I reply sternly. “People have no fucking idea what they actually need.”
This moment hangs between us, and in the silence it gradually dawns on me who I’m talking to.
“I’m sorry,” I continue, shaking my head. “Fuck. I’m sorry. You’re so good to us.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Noah replies. “You were good when I really needed it.”
“Copper Ridge Cheer Squad forever,” I chirp with a nod. “Go, Falcons.”
“I’m talking about the cancer, Poppy.”
I sit with this for a moment. “Yeah,” I finally say, leaning back in my chair.
I haven’t even brought up the Eddie Michaels accident, yet here we are, bathed in the shadow of the grim reaper. That’s life in a nutshell, I guess: we all get to choose our own path, but eventually each journey ends up at the same spot.
A glorious orange-and-purple sunset blooms behind us, flooding the horizon with its melting vibrance. The sky is no bigger here than it is anywhere else, but for some reason the desert makes it feel that much more massive.
Noah seems to notice at the same time I do, and for a moment we just sit and appreciate the view.
Eventually, I pull out my phone, handing it over to Noah as my face morphs into a pleading, puppy-dog expression. No explanation is needed, just one simple word. “Please?”
Noah rolls his eyes and snaps a series of pics while I hoist my drink. He hands the phone back and I quickly make my post.
A waiter comes over and tells us the specials, adding that this place is known for their breakfast cookies and they’re available all day. He then asks for our drink orders.
I get a French 75 and Noah opts for a beer, which is a pretty good summary of our sensibilities.
The waiter leaves and I settle into my chair. The tension I carry within my body never leaves me, not entirely, but in this moment I feel the slightest hint of relaxation, like I’ve briefly surfaced.
I can only imagine how Noah feels.
“How was treatment this week?” I ask.
“Radiation sucked,” he informs me, “but they’re seeing results.”
“That’s great!”
“I show up for my appointments. I take my pills,” Noah says. “I’m still rubbing that cream on my scar.”
The cream—yet another unexpected perk of having all these adoring followers. You never know when one of them will be in the position to hook your friend up with a clinical trial for cutting-edge melanoma treatment, along with access to some of the best specialists in the area.
“And you still have a full head of hair,” I observe.
“For now.”
“They said you’re getting better,” I remind him.
Noah nods. “Yeah, but it can always turn. One minute you’re walking around, whistling a little tune, enjoying the sunshine … the next minute you’re dead. Bodies are fragile.”
He’s right about that. Visions of the corpse that fell from her cubby flash through my mind, images of that sickening, flattened face smeared across the clear plastic of her body bag. It’s a vivid painting of coagulated blood, bone fragments, and shattered teeth.
I see the gun club stripping her down and then battling against the awkward dead weight as they wrangled a wedding dress onto her.
As I drove away, I glimpsed the mob in my rearview mirror.
They were propping the cadaver up against a hay bale, then placing a dark wig onto her smashed head, ready for target practice.
“I’d prefer something quick,” Noah says, breaking through my mental haze.
“I just don’t wanna see it coming. Waiting is too …
” He hesitates, his voice wavering slightly.
In this flickering moment, I feel like I’m looking at an eight-year-old boy.
“Too scary,” he finally says, then clears his throat and sits up a bit.
The matching surge of emotion that bubbles up within me is deeply uncomfortable. It’s enough for me to finally change the subject.
“How’s work?” I ask.
Noah leans back in his chair and stretches with his whole chest, taking up space in the world.
He’s fit, and it shows when he moves in this tight shirt that can barely contain his biceps.
If I were straight I’d already have broken his heart by now, but fortunately I’m not, and instead I’ve found myself with something I never thought I’d have: a best friend.
Still, the moment causes a faint lump in my throat as I notice that his muscles aren’t quite as swollen as they used to be. Slowly but surely, his battle with cancer has been chipping away at him, his own body betraying itself.
“It’s fucking wonderful,” Noah says. “I’m happier than I’ve ever been.”
“Working at the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway is fucking wonderful?” I blurt. “You don’t wanna, like, travel the world or something?”
“I like my job,” he replies. “I like going up into the mountains every day, and it only takes ten minutes.”
Despite his toned features, Noah wouldn’t be caught dead in a gym. He’s an outdoorsman at heart, one of the rare Palm Springs guys who love this city for the proximity to hiking trails, not the ample dick.
Because of this, I actually kinda understand why a job running the Palm Springs Tram feels right to him. Technically speaking, he works for the parks department, which makes all kinds of sense.
The waiter soon returns with our drinks, carefully placing each beverage before us and then taking our orders. Noah gets the bacon cheeseburger, while I opt for a salmon salad with vinaigrette dressing.
Of course, this doesn’t stop him from reaching over a few times and stealing one or two bites of my salad.
He does this without asking, not because he’s a prick, but because he’s too impulsive to even register the movements of his own hand.
Like a giant child, Noah has a habit of acting without thinking, or speaking without knowing where the words will lead.
That’s probably why he and Marlo get along.
As the sky continues its transition from day to night, I can’t help reveling in how normal it all feels. Marlo will be home later—she’s currently enjoying herself at a friend’s birthday party—but for the next few hours it’s just me and Noah kicking back and appreciating each other’s company.
I notice now that “Another Long Day” by Eddie Michaels is playing over the restaurant speakers, his undead voice floating along behind the chatter of the other patrons and the clink of busy silverware.
I momentarily consider bringing up the crash, asking if Noah saw the video this morning, but I stop myself.
The specter of death has loomed enough over tonight’s conversation.
“Any hot dates?” Noah asks.
I almost spit out my drink, literally reaching up to cover my mouth so I don’t accidently spray him. I wipe up the tiny stream of French 75 that runs down my chin and then swallow what’s left, shaking my head.
Noah is laughing, too. “That crazy of a suggestion, huh?”
“I don’t have time to date,” I remind him.
Every woman I meet is already dead, I think, but I don’t say this part out loud.
“I told you to get on Raya,” he presses. “Or date one of your many fans. What are we up to now? Like a hundred thousand followers?”
I scoff. “Please. Two hundred and sixteen thousand.”
“And you don’t want to date any of those beautiful ladies?”
I shake my head. “I think that’s problematic—dating fans.”
“It is?”
“I don’t know, actually.”
Noah takes a long sip from his drink, slowing the conversation down again. “It might be nice to find someone who can look after Marlo with you.”
“That’s what you’re here for,” I reply.
Noah rolls his eyes, but the wry smile on his face assures me that, when push comes to shove, he appreciates the position.
I’m not entirely sure how it all happened, but one day I looked up and realized that we’d built ourselves a strange little family.
I’m suddenly struck with a powerful desire to tell Noah about my other life, to confess it all and finally have someone to talk to about the objectively bizarre shit that I go through on a monthly, sometimes weekly, basis.
It would be so nice to not always be the—
I stop right there, cutting off the blooming weed of a thought before it grows any larger and starts infecting the rest of my perfectly pruned mental garden.
My phone buzzes, cutting into my thoughts with a sharp, sudden jolt.
“Sorry,” I blurt, pulling out the device and revealing an unknown number. “This might be the birthday party mom.”
Noah gives me a gesture to pick up. I take the call.
“Hello?” I start, putting the phone against my ear.
“I need you to get me a body,” says a woman’s voice, calm and direct.
An icy chill shoots through my veins. I don’t react, however, forcing a smile as I lift my finger to Noah. My lips move in a silent, exaggerated face of annoyance as I scoot my chair back and stand.
One second, I mouth.
I weave my way through the crowded restaurant, adrenaline kicking my heart into overdrive.
“How the fuck did you get this number?” I hiss. “Do not call me.”
I half expect the voice to apologize, to immediately offer some fumbling excuse about a friend of a friend who passed along my contact info and how they didn’t know the rules yet.
I’m prepared for an endless barrage of begging and pleading, groveling for me to stay on the line as they make their case.
But moments later, I realize even that wouldn’t make any sense, because nobody has my number in the first place. There’s nothing to pass along.
I erupt from the restaurant, now standing on a darkening street corner. A few other diners mill about, smoking and chatting, but it’s a far cry from the bustling eatery I’ve just emerged from.
“I run a flower delivery service,” I stress, “and if you’d like to order flowers, you’ll have to do it online.”
“I’m ready to offer you five million dollars,” the woman says.
I laugh. “Five million dollars? Yeah, right.”
“Five million dollars,” she repeats. “I’ll wire you ten percent up front so you know I’m serious.”
My mouth opens to shut her down again—to dismiss the very thought of this ridiculously large sum—but I suddenly find myself hesitating.
Somehow, this woman has my personal phone number, and apparently, she knows exactly what business I’m in.
There are plenty of things a stranger might try with that kind of sensitive information, but a silly little joke is not one of them.
The danger bells are ringing loud and clear. However, there’s another bell chiming along with them. It’s something even more primal than fear, a siren’s call that I can never seem to ignore.
Opportunity.
If this offer is genuine, I’d be an absolute fool to pass it up, and if it is some kind of trap, I’ll figure out a way to trap them back. I’m not afraid.
What if you get arrested? What if Marlo loses her mother?
There’s a stock answer for this, something I’ve been telling myself since I first stumbled into the dead-body trade.
As deplorable as most people would find my actions, the legal system is hardly as rough on grave robbers as one might expect.
Sure, there would be consequences, but compared to a bank heist, my worst-case scenario is pretty fucking solid.
That’s the whole point of this, after all. I’m taking advantage of the dead, not the living, and the potential legal repercussions reflect that simple fact.
“How did you get my number?” I repeat.
“If I’ve got the money to retain your services, then I’ve also got the money to find your number.”
For the briefest moment I pick up on someone in the background, a slightly deeper voice whispering something.
“Who is that?” I snap.
Another long pause. When the woman speaks again, her tone has shifted completely, much more casual and relaxed. “Listen,” she begins, “I know it’s strange to get a call like this, but there’s not enough time to move through the usual channels. This needs to happen now.”
“Tonight?!” I scoff.
“Five million dollars,” she reminds me.
I let out a frustrated sigh, my disbelief steadily growing. “Fuck you. There’s no way this is real.”
“It’s real. The ten percent up front is already in your account,” she replies flatly.
I laugh. “Sweetie, how would you even know what account to put it in?”
“Does it matter?”
I pull my phone away from my head, blown away by the audacity of this caller, then curiously open my banking app.
When I see the most recent deposit, my breath catches. “Oh my God,” I murmur.
I refresh the app, as if this might somehow reveal an error in the code, then again, and again. The payment remains. My mind is working frantically now, sorting through a whole new cascade of information and context. “How do you know I won’t just take this money and run?”
There’s a little more hushed talking on the other end of the line, the deeper background voice returning for a moment. They add a few unintelligible words, then disappear.
“Because you’ll never be happy with second place,” the caller finally says. “That cash in your account is good enough for some people, but five million is the blue ribbon.”
This time the number really hits home, no longer bouncing off me in the chaos of the moment but actually puncturing my skin and sinking deep. I’ve had plenty of giant paydays in this morbid line of work, but none of them come anywhere close to five million dollars. Certainly not in a single night.
Finally, I break, letting out a long sigh. “Alright, what kind of flowers am I getting you?”
“I don’t think there’s a code for this one,” she replies.
“Something personal?”
The voice hesitates. “I want you to bring me the body of Eddie Michaels.”