Tagging: @monthlywritingchallenges
The bell above the door jangled, the immediate warmth and humidity of the flower shop hitting Eddie. The scent of blooms and potting soil was strong, but not unpleasant. Clutching the bag of fries and burgers, he approached the counter in his easy, loping gait.
You stood at your crafting table, a scattering of leaves and flowers on the scratched, stained surface. You had a look of immense concentration on your face, brow furrowed as you built a bouquet. A streak of yellow pollen was visible on one cheek.
Eddie rapped one ringed knuckle against the table. “I come bearing gifts,” he said, lifting the grease-spotted bag.
Your eye flicked toward him, a grateful gleam in it. “Perfect. I’m starving. Give me five minutes to finish this.”
Your brother watched as your hands collected a few more blooms: purple, orange, yellow. “Pretty,” he murmured.
The corner of your mouth lifted. “Visually, yes. But the message is… pointed.”
Eddie waited– this was one of his favorite parts of watching you work. You’d turned yourself into a veritable dictionary of the language of plants and flowers. While he hadn’t wanted to shatter your dreams, he’d been a little apprehensive when you approached him with the business idea: opening a flower shop that catered to people wanting to send specific messages to others. Who besides you would know that a rose meant love when red, but mourning when crimson? Or that lilac meant ‘joy of youth’?
But people showed up. Some came in with a specific message in mind that they wanted to send; others simply wanted to send pretty flowers to someone. You also served as a makeshift therapist, listening to the customers as they described the situations that had led them to you, the ideas and emotions they wanted to convey with your blooms. And you hit the target every single time. From just a few minutes’ worth of conversation, you could create the most gorgeous bouquets. While you specialized in the language of flowers, their subtle messages, you weren’t stupid– if someone came in wanting a simple dozen roses, you’d gather them together with a smile. Eddie was proud of you for having built this business. He’d never seen you so happy (nor Hawkins so beautiful).
“A young woman ordered this,” you said, nestling one more sprig of lavender into the bouquet before tying a length of twine around the stems. “To be delivered to a Jason Carver at the dealership out on Taylor Street.” You pointed to a gorgeous yellow rose. “He cheated. And because of that,” your finger moved towards the lavender, “She doesn’t trust him anymore.” You turned the bouquet, showing off a vibrantly orange lily. “She hates him… understandably, of course.” You motion to the yellow carnation and another orange blossom, this one made up of multiple tiny flowers. “She’s rejecting him, telling him to let her go. Good for her.” The corner of your mouth lifted, a slightly devious grin, as you tilted the bouquet towards your brother, showing him a hidden cluster of spiky, yellow flowers. “I added the tansy on my own– a declaration of war. You don’t get to stick it in your fiancée’s sister and get away unscathed.”
Eddie chuckled. You’d always had an… interesting sense of justice. You wouldn’t do anything outright, dangerous, or physical– that was his forte. But you could get the whispering busybodies of the town tittering, spreading gossip like wildfire. You had a standing weekly date with both the little old lady who owned the stationery store next door and the moustachioed man who owned the bakery across the street. You would deliver a fresh bouquet for them to ‘brighten up their space’; the conversation would turn to what they’d recently heard from their patrons. That opening allowed you to slip your own intel in, which would then get transferred to the following day’s customers of cinnamon rolls and fountain pens. If you’d decided that this Jason Carver was an enemy, despite not having slighted you personally, he would probably be a little low on commission this month… maybe the rest of the year.
He watched as you carefully set the bouquet in a crystalline vase before crossing over to the register, reaching for the stack of blank cards. For those who weren’t as fluent with such a specialized language, you offered your clientele the opportunity to spell the message out as clearly as they liked. On this card, you wrote Goodbye, cheater. You let the card sit for a few moments, letting the ink dry fully, before sticking it between some stems, dead center. You stepped from behind the counter, over to a large wall cooler in the corner, where you placed the completed bouquet. The colors seemed all the more vibrant under the fluorescent cooler lights.
“Dustin doing the delivery?” Eddie asked as you stepped back towards the sink in the corner, the water hitting the metal loudly as you washed away the pollen, dye, and nectar lingering on your skin from your recent work of art.
You nodded. “He’s coming by at one. That way, the lunch breaks for all of the dealership’s employees will be over. Jason’s shame will be witnessed by every single one of them.”
“What if he throws the bouquet away?”
“Throw away a gift from his fiancée, in front of everyone? Only a monster would do that.”
Eddie smiled as you stepped back towards him, hand held out for one of the burgers. He handed the bag over, watching as you pawed through it, stuffing a few fries in your mouth before pulling out a foil-wrapped sandwich. “You’re a devious creature, you know that?” he asked, snagging the stool from behind the cash register.
“Learned it from you,” you said with a grin as you settled on your own stool.
The two of you ate in easy companionship, the kind created from a lifelong bond that had taken you through numerous ups and downs. Laughter and the smell of fried food surrounded you, mingling with the sweet perfume of flowers.
A rumble of thunder sounded outside, a precursor to a sudden rainfall. The bell above your shop dinged, and a drenched figure stood in your entryway.
“Hey,” the man said, water dripping from his hair. “Sorry. That kind of came out of nowhere. Do you mind…?”
Eddie watched you, intrigued by the slight straightening of your spine, the small flush that crossed your cheeks. You silently shook your head, eyes wide, stuck on him like a mosquito in amber.
“Thanks.” He took another step in, away from the door, his sneaker squeaking slightly on the linoleum. “This is what I get for not listening to the forecast. But how often does ‘chance of rain’ actually mean rain around here?”
Eddie cocked an eyebrow, watching as you only nodded.
The stranger studied the two of you. “You look familiar.” His eyes brightened as he snapped his fingers. “You two live down the hall! Gorgonian Apartments, 3A, right?”
“Yeah, that’s us,” Eddie said, leaning back against the table, perched against the rough wood on his elbows, legs stretched out before him. He knew what he looked like: long, curly hair, dark, brooding eyes, covered in ripped denim and dark ink. And while you were fully capable of standing up for yourself, sometimes Eddie still liked to scare the straights. And this guy, with his polo and wet-but-somehow-still-fluffy hair, definitely fell into that category.
The man’s eyes dropped to Eddie, the slightest flicker of unease in his eyes. He stepped forward again, hand out. “Steve. 3C.”
“Eddie,” your brother said. He shook the extended hand, feeling his rings press into Steve’s fingers. He glanced over his shoulder at you, your still slightly petrified stance. “That’s my sister, Y/N.”
Steve’s attention turned fully to you. “Y/N,” he said, a small smile on his face. “You run this place?”
“Yes,” you said, your voice finally having found its way back. Only Eddie caught the slight squeak in it.
Steve looked around, his eyes trailing over the colorful blossoms. “I’ve been meaning to pop in here, see what this place was all about.” He nodded his head towards the back wall. “I manage the Family Video just down the road. I was just on my way back from lunch when…” He looked out the large plate-glass window at the rain. It had slackened slightly, the water no longer looking like a curtain, but individual drops falling. He turned back to you. “I should… get out of your hair. Let you get back to the exciting world of… flowers.”
You’d heard similar phrases sneered at you, but this time, the way Steve said it… you felt like he actually might think your job was interesting.
Your hand felt like it was moving on its own accord. You plucked a gardenia from the vase at the end of your craft table, part of your next project. You held the flower out, fingers trembling slightly.
Eddie watched with rapt fascination. Steve’s eyes widened in surprise before his own hand reached out, gently taking the bloom. He looked down at the delicate white petals before lifting the flower to his nose, inhaling its sweet scent. His eyes rose back to yours as he gave you a small smile. “Thanks.” The word was soft, warm.
You and your brother watched as Steve made his way back to the door, the bell dinging once more as he stepped back into the rain. Through the window, you saw him hold one arm above his head, a slightly futile move to keep the rain from his face. But the other hand, the one holding the flower, was tucked gently against his chest, protecting the fragile blossom.
Eddie turned back to you. “What was that about?”
“Nothing,” you said, a hair too quickly to be believable. You began to clear away the refuse from your lunch, sweeping crumpled napkins and ketchup-stained wrappings back into the paper bag.
“Mm-hmm,” Eddie hummed, not falling for it for a second. “And what does a white flower mean?”
“Depends entirely on the flower,” you said dismissively.
He was used to you sticking your heels in when he tried to get you to talk about things you didn’t want to. He leaned forward on your craft table, snagging another one of the white blooms from the vase. “What about this one?”
Eddie could see the war in your expression– the desire to share your knowledge against wanting to avoid his teasing.
“Happiness,” you said quietly.
“And?” Eddie had heard your rants about how flowers held different meanings, depending on what they were paired with, when they were given, their color… he’d once told you it all sounded made up and you’d threatened to melt his favorite Metallica album, holding the vinyl dangerously close to a lit candle. And given what he’d just witnessed… there had to be another, deeper reason you’d given this particular flower to the fluffy-haired stranger.
You sighed, turning on your heel, busying yourself by straightening the already-straight stack of cards by the register. “Admiration.”
There it was. “Admiration,” Eddie repeated, slowly. “You like that guy?”
“Manager,” you corrected.
“He knows where we live.”
“Because he lives in the same place! It’s not unusual to know your neighbors.”
Eddie made a noncommittal noise. He watched you trying very hard to avoid his eye for a few more moments before standing, his lanky frame unfolding from the stool. “I’ve gotta get back. Records aren’t gonna sell themselves, y’know.” He headed for the door. “I’ll pick you up at six– don’t walk home in the rain. I’d hate for our neighbor to think I’m a bad brother.”
____________________________________________________________________________
Eddie, thankfully, let the ribbing die down. The next few days passed in quiet familiarity for the two of you– no visits from newly acquainted folk. Eddie did catch you looking down the hall towards 3C once, but he kept his mouth shut.
Toward the end of the week, as Eddie stood, fumbling for his keys, his eyes drifted down the hall. He noticed a small pot sitting on the welcome mat a few doors down, full of tiny, blue flowers. Eddie took a few steps closer, bending over to look at the blossoms. His eyes trailed over the blue petals surrounding petite yellow centers. Shaking his head, Eddie straightened and went back to 3A. He let himself into the apartment. Kicking the door closed behind him, he dropped the grocery bags on the small kitchen table.
You were in the main room of the apartment, half watching a televised game show. At your brother’s entrance, you looked up from your spot on the couch. “Did you get cheese? The good kind?”
Eddie dug into one of the bags, pulling out a thick block of marbled cheese. “Does this suit your majesty’s standards?”
You rose and stepped over, taking the dairy product from him. You immediately opened the package and broke off a corner, popping it into your mouth. Your eyes closed, and you made a small hum of pleasure.
Your brother shook his head. “Savage,” he muttered, a small smile on his lips.
You flipped him off (lovingly) before popping another chunk of cheese into your mouth. The two of you unpacked the groceries, moving around each other in the small kitchen with practiced ease.
“So,” Eddie said, folding the last paper bag and shoving it beneath the sink, in with the army of others. “Looks like our neighbor received some flowers.” He saw the slight tension in your shoulders as you stood, back to him, arm frozen midair as you were putting away a jar of peanut butter. “Little blue ones. Pretty. Probably… innocuous, right?”
Later that night, once Eddie heard the shower start, he quickly pulled one of your flower books from the shelf beside the couch. He knew it was a long shot– he had no idea what the plant he’d seen outside Steve’s apartment was called, or even what letter it might start with, and he didn’t think any of your books were categorized by color. But he started flipping through the pages, eyes scanning each glossy image for a flash of blue. His ear was pricked, listening for the telltale sounds of your shower wrapping up.
He flipped back a page, two pages, his fingers having moved faster than his brain. But there, on page sixty-five, the same blue blooms, the same yellow centers.
Forget-Me-Not, the caption read.
While this particular tome didn’t go into the language of flowers, Eddie could piece together what this one meant.
____________________________________________________________________________
The next day, you were finishing up the last in a set of ten identical bridesmaid bouquets when the bell above the door rang. You were in full concentration mode, the metallic sound not penetrating your focus. You didn’t even look up until you were suddenly very aware of a presence standing on the other side of your crafting table.
Steve stood there, a soft smile on his face. “You look… busy.” His gaze trailed over the bouquets lined up in front of you, an artistic barrier separating the two of you.
“Wedding season,” you explained. “It can be a beast.” You picked up one of the vases and made your way around the counter, stepping around Steve towards the cooler. You carefully set the bouquet on a chilled shelf and turned to start the back-and-forth process of transferring the rest.
“Here,” Steve said, reaching out for another waiting vase. “Let me help.”
You stood there, the glass door of the cooler pressed against your back, the mechanically chilled air brushing against your skin. You noticed the care Steve took in carrying the vase to you, the gentleness with which he transferred it to your hands. The two of you worked in silence for a few minutes until all ten bouquets were on display. You carefully shut the cooler door, one last rush of chilly air puffing out into the humid room.
You turned, finding Steve standing a few steps away. “Thank you.”
He nodded, his eyes trained on your arms. You looked down at the colorful, inked flowers on your skin, statements you’d specifically chosen. Steve seemed enamored by them, his eyes caressing them gently. “What, don’t you deal with enough real flowers in a day? You had to get permanent ones?” His eyes lifted, shining at you with humor, a gentle tease.
“I just wanted some… reminders. Talismans. Things to… bring about what I need.” You stepped around him, settling back behind your table, feeling more solid with the plank of wood between the two of you.
“What you need?” he repeated, an eyebrow cocked.
You nodded, taking a breath before launching into your well-versed spiel. “Flowers aren’t just… pretty things that you put in your home for a week and toss when they turn brown. They all mean something. There’s a language in their petals, if you care to understand it.”
“A secret language,” Steve said slowly, appreciatively. His eyes dropped down to your ink. “So… what’s that one mean?” He pointed at an orange bloom near your right wrist.
You turned your arm, fully showcasing the curling petals dotted with black. “Wealth.” You smiled slightly at the memory. “Eddie was a little… worried about me opening the shop. He wasn’t sure how profitable it would be and didn’t want to see me get hurt, financially or mentally. But I knew I could turn this place into a thriving business, and he fully supported me. I just… wanted to give the universe a little nudge in helping keep the books in the black.”
You pointed at a bowed bluebell inked above the tiger lily. “However, wealth does nothing without humility. You get too prideful, and things are likely to fall apart. So, while I love my shop, I need to remember that I’m nothing without the people of this town, or the blossoms themselves.” You twisted your arm again, a yellow marigold nearby. “And if I let my creativity die, the shop will die as well.”
Your finger moved to a brilliant pink rose, higher up your arm, near the elbow. “But, above all, happiness. That’s the biggest thing to strive for, the highest accomplishment in any of our lives.”
“Wow.” Steve’s eyes moved over to the static images on your other arm. “What about those?”
You looked at your left arm. Maybe you should do these rapid-fire, without so much flowery language (pun intended). You pointed at a vibrant purple iris on your bicep. “Wisdom.” A spire of pink snapdragon lining your forearm, stretching from elbow to wrist. “Strength and grace.” A delicate white daffodil, with a perky yellow center, blooming from your inner wrist, rising halfway up your arm, standing straight and tall. “Hope.” You looked at both arms, your own colorful bouquet, a smile on your lips. “I’ve got others,” you said, picturing the red dahlia on your chest, the color so deep that the center was almost black, representing the unwavering bond between you and your brother. On your left hip, a golden black-eyed Susan, something Eddie had insisted you get after your first foray into using flowers to send spiteful messages for the hurt, your unique version of justice. A dainty ring of white chamomile blossoms surrounding your right ankle for peace. “In more… hidden places.” You lifted your head, eyes wide– you hadn’t meant for that to sound as sexual as it had.
The corner of Steve’s mouth lifted, not in a lecherous or desirous way, but in a soft appreciation. “You’re a walking garden.”
You felt a flush creep over your cheeks.
“So,” Steve said, his voice dropping slightly. “If someone were to have left a pot of small blue flowers on my doorstop… ones with five petals each, and little yellow centers… what sort of message would those be trying to send?”
You cleared your throat. “Sounds like forget-me-nots. Maybe the… sender was worried that you wouldn’t remember them after a new introduction.”
“I don’t know how I could forget them.” His eyes remained pinned on you, the flush on your cheek turning into a full-body warmth. “If I wanted to send them a message back… one that said I wanted to ask them on a date…”
“Well,” you started, your heart pounding in your ears. “There’s the typical red rose, although that can be a little played out. But not bad for a beginner.”
Steve chuckled. “I think this person deserves… something more special.”
You picked up a sprig of leftover baby’s breath from the table. You held it up, twisting it slightly, the little white blooms spinning. “There’s baby’s breath– a standard in bouquets intended for loved ones.” You nodded toward the cooler where you’d just loaded the bridesmaid flowers, baby’s breath dotted heavily in all of them. As Steve turned his attention towards the cooler, you stepped past him, making your way through the shop. You felt more than heard Steve following you.
“There’s aster,” you said, pointing at a small, multi-petaled purple flower. “Or camellia, either in pink or red.” You straightened a vase of one of your more popular plants. “Carnations in most solid colors– just not yellow.”
Steve looked down at the flowers. “Not the stripes?” He asked, reaching out for a swirled bloom of red and white.
“Definitely not the stripes. That’s what you would receive in return, if the… recipient wasn’t interested.”
Steve’s hand pulled back as if singed by flame. You turned, hiding the smile that appeared on your face.
“Chrysanthemums,” you said, indicating another red bloom. You pause beside a pot of white blossoms. “Gardenias.” You watch as a flicker of remembrance crosses Steve’s expression– he recognized the flower you’d given him that rainy day he’d first stepped into your shop.
“Tulips,” you said, pointing to a taller red flower. “Less traditional than roses, but still meaning the same.” Stepping closer to the window, you motioned to two yellow flowers– one standing solitarily with a familiar, dark, seeded center; the other smaller, more delicate, a group of happy blossoms amidst the greenery. “Sunflowers. Tarragons.”
“I thought yellow was bad,” Steve said, looking down at the miniature suns.
“For carnations… at least, in the idea of love. Or,” you quickly corrected, realizing that the L-word might scare him off. “The idea… the possibility of romance.” You quickly turned, heading back for the table, as if trying to outrun the slipup.
You didn’t hear his footsteps behind you. You slowly turned, finding Steve studying a container of roses, the flowers he’d originally dismissed. But these weren’t the deep, luscious red that every guy frantically ordered the week before Valentine’s Day– these were the soft purple ones.
‘How,’ you thought, heart pounding against your ribs. ‘How could he have chosen that one?’
You watched as his eyes dropped from the blooms to the container itself. He slowly reached out, tilting the pot up slightly, looking at the writing on the side.
‘Dammit!’ you cursed your past self. For a while, you’d taken to writing the meanings of particular plants on their containers, thinking it was helpful for the customers. You’d stopped, realizing that most customers would, like Steve, rather ask you which flowers would be best in their given situations (or, more frequently, just choose their own based on color, petal shape, and ‘vibes’ alone).
But the purple roses… you’d gotten that one done. In precise white lettering, you’d written Love At First Sight.
You watched, frozen in your spot just in front of the register, as Steve carefully lowered the pot back onto its flat bottom before slowly pulling out a single, purple bloom. As he turned to you, you saw a smile on his face, one without any flicker of insecurity or doubt. He approached you, stopping a few feet away. Cautiously, as if nearing a wild animal, he held the flower out to you.
“How’s this one?” The question was quiet, barely more than a deep rumble.
You nodded, eyes on his. Your fingers shook as you took the blossom from him, fingers pinching the stem. A single thorn dug into the pad of your thumb, a grounding sensation. “Good choice.”
His eyes never leaving yours, Steve reached one hand into his pants pocket. He pulled out a crumpled ten, more than enough for a single flower. He reached around you, setting the bill next to the register. “Dinner? Tomorrow?”
You nodded, your voice feeling trapped in your throat.
Steve smiled. “I’ll pick you up at six.”
Slowly, as though not wanting the moment to end, he stepped back, heading for the door. The bell was practically deafening in the silent shop. You stood, feeling your heart drop back to a normal rhythm, your breathing even out. You lifted the purple rose to your nose, inhaling the perfume.
It was the sweetest flower you’d ever smelled.
