“Is this a peony or a carnation?”
I glanced at the photo Alex flashed as I tugged a dress over my head in the bathroom of the ballroom where the reception was about to start.
I’d been here the whole afternoon, in jeans and a tank top, to make sure the centerpieces and greenery looked perfect as Camille and Adrien Smyth renewed their wedding vows under a custom floral arch a few blocks away in a garden.
A vow renewal had been Camille’s idea — accented by a lush ceremony and a grand reception — and over the past several months, she’d steadily worked her guest list to include almost the entire town. Everyone loved her, and everyone considered her and Adrien’s relationship the gold standard.
It was too bad their son hadn’t picked up any of their tips.
“That’s a peony, Alex, duh. Also, you were supposed to help me install the greenery. Camille is going to ask what you thought about the process.”
Alex and I had been friends longer than we’d been coworkers, which was probably the reason she rarely listened to me. But in reality, it was because Alex didn’t listen to anyone.
She shrugged. “Just say I enjoyed it. She’ll believe you. She loves you.”
Despite Camille Smyth’s son being the worst human on the planet, she was a saint. She was beloved by everyone, most especially by those in our neighborhood.
And she’d taken me under her wing in high school, noticing my interest in flowers went beyond simple admiration. Since then, she’d carved out a spot for me at Smyth’s Florals, her shop of nearly 30 years.
It should have been odd that my boss’ son was my ex-boyfriend, but four years had taken the awkwardness out of the situation.
Four years since he’d dumped me.
Four years since I’d smashed his record player.
And I still hated him.
“Done, hashtagged, posted, let the weekend begin,” Alex said triumphantly once she’d finished drafting a caption for the shop’s social media.
She evaluated my dress. “Hot. I never see you in a dress,” she said, eyebrow raised. “Trying to make a certain someone regret dumping you?”
I scowled, digging in my bag for my lipstick. Even though I was considered a tomboy, I loved how bold shades of red lipstick accentuated my natural pout, creating the perfect blend of innocence and daring.
My mom hadn’t been very involved in my dating life when I’d been a teen — too busy arguing with my dad — but she’d found the time to express her detest of my lipstick. She’d say I didn’t need to add to my look because I already had “bedroom eyes.” I hadn’t known what she’d meant, asking Derek later. He’d blushed and stammered, turning away at the question, and walked directly into a rose bush as his brother howled with laughter.
“I don’t give a shit what Derek thinks,” I said to Alex with a smirk, capping my lipstick with a sharp click.
She laughed. “And one day, I may believe you. You’re so levelheaded and calm. Nice, even. I’d argue most people think you’re more a stranger than real person—”
“Gee, thanks.”
“And then he’s mentioned, and your head pops off.”
“That’s not true,” I said, raking my fingers through my dark chestnut-colored hair.
I’d meant to run home to shower and actually style it, but because Alex had been no help, I was stuck with slightly messy bangs, the ends of my short, wavy bob curling under my ears and grazing my chin.
“You look like a sexy 1920s flapper,” she said.
If I were a 1920s flapper, she was a 1990s blonde bombshell, all beachy blonde hair, pink lips, and ocean blue eyes, a stark contrast to my dark brown.
We’d been friends ever since she’d strode into the flower shop, asking what bouquet was the cheapest but would inspire the most jealousy. I’d been fresh off my heartbreak, sitting quietly at the front counter. Camille had glanced at me, saying she’d let me handle this one before disappearing to her office.
And so Alexandria McCall, the girl who had more boy drama than we had flowers for, quickly became my best friend. She was everything I wasn’t — bold, assured, and unforgiving.
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
I shrugged. “I hear his voice a lot. He calls the shop every week.”
I usually didn’t answer unless I was on the other line and didn’t have time to run to the front counter to check the caller ID display. It didn’t matter how many times this happened, he was notorious for assuming his mom picked up, launching into whatever he had to say without bothering to ask.
“I’m not your mom, Derek,” I’d always snap — a gut reaction in tandem with my heart jumping at his deep, slightly smoky voice against my ear.
“Ugh,” he’d groan. “Can you get my mom, Eli?”
“Can you say ‘please’?”
“You always do this, you know,” he’d say, his voice rising over his ever-present loud background music. “You always make things so much harder than they need—”
“Oh, yeah, I’m the enemy,” I’d interrupt. “I’m the terrible person in all this, aren’t I? That’s what you’d love to believe.”
His response would be to crank up his music, something with intense drums, forcing me to yank the receiver away from my ear, fury burning my cheeks.
We’d take turns on who would hang up first.
Other than hearing his angry voice every couple weeks, Derek and I had perfected the dance of avoidance, having nothing to say to the other. It had been easy to dodge him since he lived two hours away to attend Middletown University.
And because I had access to Camille’s meticulous calendar, I knew what days he’d be in town, careful to avoid the Smyth house on those earmarked nights and to duck out when he’d pick her up at the shop for lunch.
“But when’s the last time you’ve seen him?” Alex asked. “Like, his actual body and face?”
“Since he left,” I said, slipping on flats, a deviation from my usual worn, vintage high tops. “Maybe once at the Smyths’ annual holiday party. But he turned and walked out the back door before I stepped in the kitchen. Are you ready? Are you working the bar tonight?”
Alex groaned, dragging her feet as we walked in the ballroom. Since she was part-time at the shop, she supplemented her income by working with a catering company. Most importantly, she supplemented her self-described boring life by dating a bartender in the crew.
I scanned the room, quickly scoping out early guests to make sure he wasn’t here yet.
I’d been practicing our run-in for a while, still unsure what would happen if we made contact.
I knew it would have been impossible to skip out on tonight’s event, not after how much Camille and Adrien had welcomed me into their home. So I was grateful for the opportunity to keep my mind on work. I would have offered to refill every centerpiece with fresh water every hour if it meant I didn’t have to sit at the family table.
Thankfully, somewhere behind the scenes, the seating chart I’d peeked at months ago had changed — my spot next to Derek quietly moved to a table farther back, next to some neighborhood kids who were more my brother’s friends than mine. I assumed the switch had been Adrien’s doing, the more practical to Camille’s whimsical.