“What...on earth?” June's voice cuts through your reverie.
Bashfully you whirl around, hoping against hope that you can block out the sight of your unexpected gift. “I...uhm...”
But June's already there, manicured fingers on her lemon yellow hips. You decided long ago that June was pretty much the most beautiful woman to ever walk the earth. An amalgam of American genetics mingled with a dash of magic gave her rich brown skin and hazel eyes and hair so dark and curly that the sun could get lost in it. Her eyes narrow and then go wide
“Are those what I think they are?” she asks in a voice made for radio.
“Maybe?”
She rolls her eyes and skims past you. Gentle as can be she bends to a blossom that matches her outfit and takes a deep whiff. Her lips, glossy and bright, curl into a cat like smile. “Entarnian,” she says in perfect elfish. The tiniest points in her ears, nearly invisible beneath the wealth of her hair, belie a distant heritage. “Oh, sweetie, these are incredible.”
You assumed as much, but getting June's stamp of approval means that these flowers are pretty much exactly as expensive as you thought they were.
“I was afraid of that.”
June blinks. “Afraid? Why?” She pulls away from the arrangement. “Who are they from?”
You bite your lip. Honestly, you aren't sure. You've been on a lot of dates in the past few months, and only one of them went well. No, you admit, it was perfect. Sure, it was just dinner, and a walk, but you'd really felt something. You thought he had too, but then he didn't call. He didn't text. It's been nine days since you heard anything from Nick Jaokby and you are pretty sure you aren't going to hear from him ever again. At first you were angry about it. Now you're just confused.
“I don't know. I went on a date with that banker last night.”
June's nose wrinkled. “The thrice-divorced? Oh...sweetie.”
You shrug. You hadn't really wanted to go on the date either, but you had hoped that dinner and a show would pull you out of this five day funk you've been feeling. It hadn't. Mr. Peter Prescott was pretty much everything you dislike in a potential partner. It wasn't his looks, those were plastic perfect, it was everything else about him. He'd spent the first ten minutes of your date demanding to know if you'd even slept with an elf and it had pretty much gone downhill from there.
You desperately hope that the flowers aren't from him, but they seem like exactly the kind of thing he might send in the hopes of guilting you into a second date. The very thought of it makes your stomach turn sour.
“I don't know,” you repeat.
“Well, only one way to find out.” Quick as a lash June's hand dives into the greenery. The roses chime merrily, creating a delicate music. Moments later her hand reappears, clutching a tiny, pink card between her fingers. “There we are.”
You see your name written in hurried script. It's not the fine, practiced hand of a florist, but there is something charming about it all the same. June passes it to you.
“Open it.”
You raise your brow. “You aren't the boss of me.”
It's not true, and you both know it. June, who is your best friend, is also your direct superior. She just crosses her arms and gives you a long, deadpan look.
“Alright, alright.” You tug at the envelope flap and a little card spills out. It's not particularly large, but you think it's bigger than the average floral notecard.
You hesitate to open it. Right now the note, and the flowers, could be from anyone. Right now they are Schrodinger's flowers, and you kind of like them that way. Perhaps someone from your family is celebrating, and everyone you are related to got a bunch of overpriced, musical flowers. Maybe they are from a secret admirer who is practically perfect in every way. Maybe...just maybe they are from who you'd really like them to be from.
You don't even realize you are holding your breath when you open the card.
I wanted to say I'm sorry The note begins. Your heart gives a hopeful leap.
Ward told me that I wasn't supposed to call for three days or I'd look stupid. I looked stupid anyway because I broke my phone when putting my warbag into my locker. I didn't know how to say I'm sorry. Ward said to send flowers. I didn't know what kind. I hope these are okay.
At the very bottom of the card, hastily scrawled in what little space was left, is a phone number.
“Well now. That explains it.”
You bite your lip. You want to believe it. You really do but there is that tiny, ugly voice in the back of your head screaming at the top of its anxiety crafted lungs that breaking a phone doesn't delete all the information. He could have found another way to get your number. Right?
And yet, maybe he couldn't. Or maybe he was nervous. Or maybe...
“Stop it,” June says.
You look up from the card. “Stop what?”
“Stop thinking whatever you are thinking that's putting that look in your eyes.”
You close the card. “What look?”
“The one that says you are going to overthink whatever that card says until you make yourself sick.” Gingerly she plucks the card from your grasp. You let her take it. As she reads it her lips curve. Her eyes go bright. “Awww!”
You roll your eyes; part amused, part annoyed. You wish that you had the same reaction. You wish the only thing you felt was the sweet joy that is practically beaming out of June's demielf eyes.
“He could have called you, could have gotten my number all over again like he did before.”
June's smile wilts. “Don't do this.” She sighs and deposits the note on your desk. “I am begging you not to do this.”
“Do what?” You cross your arms. The turmoil of emotions that's been stirring in you for nine days bubbles up inside your chest. “Not take what some guy I went on one date with says happened?”
“Nick isn't just 'some guy' and you know it.”
“I had a four hour conversation with him.” You aren't sure if you are telling her or yourself. “I was a nice conversation, but that's all it was.”
She narrows her eyes at you. June, despite being no more than two months older than you, has this amazing mom expression. Its that particular mix of I-care-about-you and you're-being-dumb that only the most nurturing of people can master without even trying. She crosses on Jimmy Choo clad foot over the other and takes in a slow breath. “Call him.”
“What?”
“I know you are already talking yourself out of it. You are already coming up with seven different excuses of why it can wait until later.”
“I'm working.” You point at your desk.
“No you aren't. You are officially on break.”
“I already-”
“I swear to god if you don't call him I will fire you.”
You return her direct look with one of your own. “No you wont.”
She sighs. Her shoulders drop an inch or so. She reaches behind her and picks up the card. “You're right. Bluff called. But darling, I love you nearly as much as I love my wife and I am telling you that by second guessing and overthinking you are going to do nothing but hurt yourself.” She presses the card to your hands. “You don't have to call him right now. Take what time you think you need but please, I'm begging you.” She touches a single finger to your forehead. “Stop thinking the worst of people.”
She squeezes your shoulder, and walks away to leave you with your own thoughts.
You don't think the worst of people, honestly. You just know that sometimes people are the absolute worst. Some more than others. It's printed clearly on the front page of newspapers, emblazoned across social media. It's all there, plain as day. You aren't Nick, you aren't sure that everyone is just trying their best.
Your thoughts come to a crash behind your eyes. Nick. The memory of him saying those words with the fervent tone of a true believer rolls through you. He said it so honestly, with such genuine hope that you found yourself looking at the world a little differently. You started to notice things, nice things. At least for the first few days. Then he hadn't called and you'd stopped looking.
You sigh to yourself. So what. So he didn't call. It was only nine days, not the totality of your existence. Nine days was nothing.
Even so, that ugly voice wont shut up.
You spend the rest of the day at your desk. At five o'clock you gather up your things, including the flowers and take the trolly home. You stop at your favorite deli and pick up a sandwich for dinner. You give half of it to the little old lady who lives in the apartment next to you. She comments on your flowers, asks about who sent them. You give a vague “oh, no one” answer before retreating to the sanctuary of your apartment.
You read and reread the note a thousand times. You come up with worst case scenarios and fairy tale solutions. You binge watch a television show and think about adopting a pet. You eat your sandwich. You smell the roses.
“Damnit,” you mutter as you pick up your phone. You dial the first four numbers and then erase them. You dial the first five and erase those two. You toss your phone down and pull your laptop into your lap so you can look at pet adoption sites and social media pages. The sandiwch in your belly starts to feel like lead.
If it had been someone else you might have been amused, maybe flattered, But this wasn't someone else. This was Nick Jakoby. You spent four hours in his company and started to see the whole world differently. You saw more kindness and hope than you ever expected to. You saw a glimpse of what it might have been like to see things the way you think he does.
And then he didn't call. Oh, you'd think about calling him. You'd even picked up the phone. He'd said that he'd get in touch with you and you had believed him. After all the liars and the idiots and the buffoons and thrice divorced bankers you had wholehartedly believed him. You had believed he'd want to see you. That you would wake up and there would be text asking you for coffee, or something later asking if you wanted to go for another walk. But nothing had happened. One day turned into two, and two had turned into nine and by the end of it all you hated him for not keeping his promise.
But more than that you'd hated yourself for not sucking down your own anxiety and reaching out to him first.
“Damnit,” you snarl and pick up the phone. Before you can stop yourself you are jabbing his number into your phone hard enough to make the screen rainbow.
Ring
This is dumb, you tell yourself. You are in a bad mood. You should not call him right now. You should hang up. Wait for your mood to settle. June is right. You overthink things. You drag yourself down. You let your hope for the best get drowned out by your expectancy of the worst.
Ring
What are you even going to say if he picks up? That you've missed him? It'd be the truth. You have missed him. But that's not the point. Maybe you should tell him you are angry that you haven't heard from him. You've been worried. That would be true too. But is it the whole truth? Nothing but?
Ring
The call connects with a brief click and smoke sound. The first thing you hear is his breath, a sharp intake of air that sounds hopeful. He says your name like a prayer. You sag against your couch, pull a pillow into your lap and push your phone harder against your ear like that can somehow bring him closer.
“Nick?” you ask.
“I am so glad you called.” He says it the way he says everything. Like he means it.
“I am too.”
