Chapter Twenty-Two #2
I tug it over my head and move to the table where he has his flowers spread out for arrangements. Asters and goldenrods and a delicate-looking flower with a thin stem, its pink petals rounded at the edges.
I pick one up and hold it up to the light. “What’s this one?”
Frank pushes his glasses up his nose with his knuckles. He only wears them when he’s arranging, and he grumbles about them the entire time. “Cosmos,” he says.
“Like the stars?”
He shakes his head. “Named for the Greek kosmos, meaning ‘order’ or ‘the natural harmony to things.’ See that stem and the way the petals are almost translucent? They curl up to maintain the balance of the plant. Order,” he says. “Harmony.”
“They’re pretty,” I say quietly.
Frank nods. “They’ll make a fine addition to the crescents we’re making this morning.
Now that you’ve deigned to join me for our preallotted time—” He gives me a stern look over the top of his glasses that’s diluted by the smile he’s trying to hide.
“I can bring out the rest of the flowers I’ve been keeping in the back.
Pick out what you want for your base, and we’ll go from there. ”
I grin, thinking about Gabriel’s funeral parlor comments. “I’d like to use lilies.”
“That’s just fine with me.”
Frank disappears to the back while I set up the rest of my station.
Frank and I have been meeting most mornings for our informal arrangement classes.
Frank shows me what to do, and most of the time I butcher it, but it’s nice.
Listening to all his random facts about flowers and soil moisture and local species.
It’s soothing. Like listening to rain fall against a tin roof or sitting in the corner of a crowded café.
It’s a reminder that I’m not alone. And neither is Frank.
“Do you want dahlias again?” Frank yells from the storage room.
“Yes, please!” I drag the lilies closer, careful to not bend their stems. Frank had given me hell about manhandling the blooms, and now I’m careful to use a delicate touch.
Out front, a group of kids run past the window.
They’re in their Halloween costumes for the fall festival, plastic masks strapped to the front of their faces.
One is holding a broomstick and another a ninja sword.
They’re laughing and stumbling over one another, being loud in the way kids always seem to be, enthusiasm spilling wild and unchecked.
I smile as they disappear down the leaf-strewn sidewalk, almost mowing down a pedestrian as he turns the corner.
My smile grows brittle and my chest seizes tight.
Because the man they almost trampled is familiar in all his candy-colored-polo glory. I’d know that slick-looking smile anywhere.
It’s Brad. He’s still here. And he’s still looking for me.
I drop the vase I’m holding and it shatters against the floor. But I barely register it, gripped by my panic instead. What if he comes here? What will I do? What if—what if I can’t get back to Gabriel? What if I don’t have a chance to say goodbye?
My hands shake, and my magic takes advantage, slipping through the cracks of the door I’ve locked it behind. It curls around me, protective, coiling up my arms and brushing cold over the back of my neck. It whispers to me, and I try to ignore it, I try to pack it away, but—
I can’t.
It’s too much, too fast. I lose my grip on my control, and my magic pushes outward, the lights in the shop flickering. Months and months and months of keeping it suppressed has weakened my resolve. My magic is furious, bursting at the seams.
Frank calls my name from the back, and it only makes everything worse. I panic. My shadows expand, rattling the glass shards that are strewn across the floor.
The flowers in my hand begin to wilt.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no.”
The petals of my lilies turn black, crumbling to dust until I’m holding a bunch of bare stems. I watch in horror as my shadows lick across the table, shriveling the rest of the flowers to dry, useless buds.
My magic doesn’t spare a single thing, flaring out and killing every flower Frank has.
Not just the items on the table, but the finished arrangements sitting prettily on the counter.
The ones in the buckets on the back wall.
His precious peonies he keeps off to the side, never for any customer to purchase or touch.
“Stop,” I beg, tears filling my eyes. I clench my hands into fists and try to call it back. “Please. Stop it.”
But my magic spares nothing. When all the flowers in the shop are hollowed husks, my shadows flare hot, vibrating in victory. Then they extinguish without so much as a whisper, leaving a hollow void in the middle of my chest. I rush to gather up as many damaged flowers as I can, my hands shaking.
“I can fix it,” I mutter, the first hot tears spilling down my cheeks. I sniffle. “I can—I can fix this.”
But I can’t. There’s too much damage. And I wouldn’t know what to do if I tried.
Footsteps echo from the back. Frank appears in the doorway with an armful of dahlias, his smiling eyes on me. But his smile fades when he sees the tears on my cheeks.
“What’s this?” He rushes forward, dropping the flowers on the edge of the table. The table full of rotten blooms, black and gray and crumbling.
He goes still.
“What—” He has to pause and gather himself. His eyes quickly dance around the room. “What is this?”
Watching Frank catalog the damage is unbearable. It’s the worst sort of torture I’ve ever had to endure. He touches the edge of an aster, the lavender petals now a dull gray.
His entire life’s work, and I’ve snuffed it away with a snap of my fingers. His tribute to his wife and I took it from him.
“How did this happen?” he asks.
I abandon the flowers in my arms and go to my knees instead, collecting the broken glass. I don’t want Frank to step on it. I don’t want Frank to get hurt.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—I tried to save them, but I couldn’t—” I stop and crumble to the floor, overwhelmed, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the flower shop. I look up at Frank. “I’m so sorry.”
He inhales sharply, tugging his glasses from his face. Awareness trickles into his expression, and then recognition. He’s looking at me like—
He’s looking at me like he’s seen a ghost.
“Frank?” I climb to my feet, uneasy. “What’s wrong?”
He backs away, rattling the worktable when he knocks into it.