Chapter 5
Marc
Jesus, I was an inconsiderate prick. I may not know why JD had come all the way to Fairhope, AL to help in Jones’ place, but it didn’t change the fact that he had. It wasn’t right to take out my frustrations with Jones on him.
Once JD had dressed and we’d scarfed down some ready-made breakfast, I led the way down into the flower shop below.
The door stuck a bit, so I’d be adding that to the list of things to get fixed.
We stepped into the back of the flower shop, which, much like the rest of the place, was piled with the usual odds and ends that had accumulated over time.
Watching JD take in the chaos, I was suddenly really glad I’d already swept a few times and made a path to the dumpster out back.
He completed his preliminary survey of the space and looked at me.
“What’s the plan?”
I took a breath and reminded myself that he wouldn’t have come in Jones’ stead if he didn’t expect to do some manual labor.
“Biggest thing I think for now is getting this place cleaned out. I’ve cleared a space in the back for anything that’s still in decent condition or can be repurposed.
Everything else can go,” I said, gesturing to an area far to the right of the rear exit, then pointed out the tools I’d either found, bought, or brought.
“Anything you need should be there, and I figure we’ll break around eleven for lunch. Sooner if we need to.”
Would probably be sooner since it was barely five in the morning and a microwave breakfast sandwich would only carry us so far.
I’d need to go back to the store and get more protein-heavy food for all the physical labor we’d be doing.
Not to mention, guys built like JD burned through calories like nobody’s fucking business.
I’d had a few guys in my unit I’d had to look out for, make sure they were getting the required calorie intake.
“Heard. I’ll start in the receiving area, if that’s okay?” JD gave me a mock salute, wearing his ever-present grin that had undoubtedly won him as many fans as friends over the years.
It took a second to reorient myself from the task I’d already mentally begun. “Uh, yeah, that should be fine. Let me know if you’re unsure about anything.” He nodded, then set to work.
I walked toward the front of the shop, removing the curtain which now boasted more holes than identifiable patterns and served as the divide between the front and the back of the store.
I was still undecided whether I wanted to replace it or shift the current design so that, much like the pizza parlor in town, customers could see the inner workings of where the real magic was made.
I tossed the threadbare fabric into a large rolling garbage bin Aunt Petunia typically used for cuttings when she was working at the front counter instead of in the rear.
A mushroom cloud of dust emerged, and I shook my head before dragging it the rest of the way to the front.
Aunt Petunia had warned me it was bad, but nothing could have prepared me for how bad.
When I walked in yesterday, I’d stood in the exact spot I always had behind the counter and felt my heart break.
I’d only been able to bring myself to do the most minimal of cleaning before the movers arrived.
It had been my intention to get more work done last night, but the heartache had been too fresh.
Then JD had arrived instead of Jones, and, yeah, there was only so much I could take in one day.
As I pulled out the various lists I’d begun—equipment to be updated, signage I wanted repaired or replaced, and even the bouquets I wanted to display in the window—it wasn’t heartache I felt.
It was anger. My family should never have allowed the shop to get like this.
It had been a gut-punch learning only a year into my enlistment term that Aunt Petunia had gotten sick.
And it had felt like a punishment when her health had taken a turn for the worse the following year while I’d been deployed—something I’d been assured wouldn’t happen.
Then, of course, my unit had been taken captive that same year—also something that wasn’t supposed to happen.
I braced myself against the counter and forced myself to take slow, deep breaths.
The counselor I’d spoken with after the rescue insisted that the trauma I’d endured in captivity would take time to process and might never fully go away.
He was undoubtedly right, but I also hadn’t told him the full extent, especially about the guilt that plagued me for being there when I should have been here.
Spending summers here, working side by side with my great aunt, were some of my happiest memories.
But instead of taking care of her, I’d been playing at soldier, no thanks to my father.
Thank fuck for Alex. At least I could always count on my twin, if not the rest of my family.
She’d always had my back, even when she didn’t understand why something was important to me.
She acted as the bridge connecting me to the rest of our family.
If it weren’t for her, I’d likely end up as ostracized as Great Aunt Petunia.
It wasn’t that the family didn’t care. It was so much worse than that. They couldn’t be bothered.
I wasn’t sure when I’d abandoned my ever-multiplying lists to walk around and violently throw things into the garbage bin.
Just like the back of the store, the front had become the worst sort of catch-all.
Dead, dried-out plants littered tables and benches that had seen better days.
Broken bits of pottery seemed to cover every available surface, along with an inch’s worth of dust. Even the sidewalk planters looked like they were one hurricane breeze away from disintegrating.
Honestly, it was a mercy that someone papered over the storefront so no one could see what a travesty Petunia’s Petals had become.
I continued to wheel the bin around, gritting my teeth every time I ran over debris, and shoving things in until the bin was overflowing.
Rather than wheel it back to the dumpster, I opted to push on and gather the larger items into one spot.
I was perhaps too optimistic about finding anything salvageable.
What remained of the hand-decorated flower pots?
Shattered. The little display shelves with packets of seeds?
Disintegrating before my very eyes. And the seed packs were so stuck together, I’d have no choice but to plant them “wildflower garden” style if I had hope of using them at all.
Small wooden crates: falling apart at the joints.
Watering cans: rusted-out bottoms.
Main display tables: too degraded to support weight.
Even the damn sink by “Self-potting Station” looked like it would need a professional plumber and not a former Army Specialist armed with internet tutorials.
The whole place was a nightmare. And it was all my father’s fault.
I didn’t care if he had a strained relationship with his aunt; he could have done something.
At the very least, he could have let me come here after college instead of pushing for me to “at least try a manly career.” Joining the Army hadn’t given me some contrived sense of masculine insight or “improved my character”.
It had given me fucking PTSD and enough guilt to flood the Gulf of Mexico.
I grabbed the edge of a dilapidated potting bench shoved against the wall beside the broken sink, intending to move it out back.
When it didn’t budge, I grumbled and retrieved the sledgehammer from the collection of tools.
Was it overkill? Probably. Did I care? Not one bit.
I’d exercise my demons like a normal person by destroying shit.
I swung it overhead and brought it down on the failing wood with a grunt. Splinters flew in every direction, but to my disbelief, the bench remained firmly attached to the wall.
“What the fuck?”
I tightened my grip on the hammer and swung again. More pieces went flying, more of the bench collapsed to the ground, but several obstinate pieces remained firmly in place. With an irritated growl, I swung again and again until I was panting for breath and struggling to heave the hammer overhead.
“Easy there, Weathers,” JD said, catching the flailing sledgehammer before I could clock him in the face with it. “I think it’s dead.”
I blinked a few times. First at him, then at what remained of the potting bench, which turned out to have been bolted to the wall.
A wall that now needed to be fixed, thanks to the hole I’d ripped out of it.
JD released the hammer now that there was no more danger of me accidentally swinging it at him, and I leaned on it as I tried to catch my breath.
“You’d mentioned wanting to break for lunch, but when you didn’t come back, I figured you’d gotten distracted and didn’t realize the time,” JD said, looking cool as a cucumber. And what the hell was that about? Why wasn’t he as much of a sweaty disaster as I was?
“Ugh,” I groaned, leaning more heavily on the hammer and stretching my tired arms. “Do I even want to know what time it is?”
“It’s three.”
I made a miserable sound and released my hold on the hammer so we both could fall to the floor with undignified thuds. “Fuck me.”
“I mean, if you’re offering,” JD said as cavalierly as he said everything except actual orders.
A laugh burst out of me, then another and another. The harder I tried to stop them, the more they came, until I was literally rolling on the filthy fucking floor.
“I can honestly say that is not a reaction I have ever gotten to that proposition before,” he said, sounding equal parts surprised and amused, which only made me laugh more.
When I finally sobered, he squatted beside me, putting his ridiculously thick thighs on display right next to my face. Not interested in falling down that rabbit hole of memories, I adjusted my attention to his face.
“Come on, let’s get some food in you. I think you might be delirious with hunger.
” To emphasize his point, he smacked my stomach.
I grunted, and it was a coin toss whether I’d be sick or simply pass out.
When it was clear that I wouldn’t puke all over his shoes, he held out a hand to help me up.
I grabbed his forearm and let him hoist me upright.
“Sorry, it’s been a long couple of days.” I shook my head. “Scratch that. It’s been a long couple of months.”
“Tell me about it over burgers and beers?” he offered with a small grin.
I wasn’t sure if it was the exhaustion, the laughing fit, or I just needed a friend that desperately, but for the first time in what felt like ages, I actually felt like smiling back. “Why the hell not? But forget the burgers.”
“What’s wrong with burgers?” he countered with what I would never dare call a pout… out loud.
My grin widened. “Because, Gallagher, you’re in the South, and if it ain’t fried, it ain’t worth it. Plus, I’d sell my soul for some catfish right now. Ooh, and jalapeno hushpuppies.”
“Catfish?” he mouthed, and I chuckled as I walked past him back toward the stairs to the apartment.
Fairhope may be a relaxed sort of town, but it did expect some decency.
It wasn’t until I was wiping the layers of dust from my arms and legs that I realized I was covered in a multitude of tiny scratches, most of which were bleeding, from my standoff with the potting bench.