‘Oh my God.’ Her voice is flat. ‘You are actually a stalker.’
Sam swallows, trying to dredge up the apology he rehearsed which has suddenly packed bags and fled. His dry lips part and then he raises the fabric rolls.
‘Because you, um, s-sew,’ he says.
‘What is your problem?’ Moxie doesn’t open the door further and definitely doesn’t accept the gift. ‘Were you actually living upstairs like a creepy psycho? Like … why? Who are you?’
She’s talking to him, so that’s progress, right?
I had nowhere to go, he wants to say. I’m the boy of nothing and nowhere. I’m invisible and forgotten, a thief of dust and cobwebs and house keys.
‘I’m nobody,’ is what he says and he knows it’s all wrong.
‘I checked with all my brothers.’ Moxie’s eyes narrows. ‘None of them knows you. And look, I appreciate that you saved Toby’s life, which is why I didn’t tell my dad you broke into our house. But that’s it. Repaid. Now take your creeper self somewhere else.’
He doesn’t argue, doesn’t tremble. He takes a step backwards and lays the cloth on the doormat again. ‘I really am sorry.’
Her glare is broken bricks and betrayal. She slams the door.
Sam leaves without another word. He gets past the rosebushes and across the street before he dares glance over his shoulder.
The front door is open again. She stands on the veranda, arms folded, watching him and glaring as the light summer breeze plays with the corner of her top.
She doesn’t call out after him.
But he notices the material is tucked under her arm.
‘For your girlfriend?’ The florist has tiny rosebuds painted on each fingernail, the pink the exact same shade as her hair. Sam concentrates on her hands as they find the price tag on the tiny pot of geraniums and hopes she doesn’t notice his panic.
A wild antelope with tigers on its tail probably looks more chill than Sam in a florist’s shop.
‘Um, not exactly … um, not my girlfriend.’ Sam rakes fingers across his sunburned scalp.
‘Oh, boyfriend?’ the florist says.
‘I mean, she’s not my girlfriend. I screwed up and I’m trying to say sorry.’ Shut up, please, Sammy, just close your mouth.
The florist looks at him. He picked up the plastic flowerpot, no bigger than his hand, in the ‘on sale now’ section. Five bucks. He’s scraping together twenty-cent pieces until he lifts another wallet. Except that Moxie would burn these flowers to ash if she knew he’d stolen money for them.
Well, she’ll most likely do that anyway.
Why is he doing this?
She made her opinion of him very clear before—
But it’s wrong. This is all wrong. He didn’t mean – he isn’t that person – he just wants—
‘Hmm, I think you need help.’
Sam’s eyes snap away from the florist’s hands to her face. The sympathetic look in her eyes startles him.
‘How mad are we talking?’ the florist says. ‘Because flowers send a message, you know. And an orange geranium is more like “Hey, I think you’re cute” instead of “I screwed up royally and I’m sorry”.’
Sam knows this.
He should’ve lifted another wallet. But it’s excruciatingly hard without Avery working in tandem, as a lookout or distraction.
He went to see Avery yesterday, waited until Vin’s car wasn’t there and then broke in to find Avery pulling apart a CD player. Destroying more than fixing. Avery was deep in shutdown mode, which always comes after he spins out. So Sam got three jumbled sentences and a keening wail when he suggested they leave together.
Sam left alone.
It’s not like he has anywhere better to force Avery to come. Although a stupid pulse in his heart wishes Avery would ask Sam if he was all right. Just once.
Yeah, OK, stop. It’s not Avery’s fault he can’t look at a face and read the lonely pain.
‘Well.’ Sam shakes the hair out of his eyes. ‘She um … slammed the door in my face.’
‘Ohhh,’ says the florist.
‘She said I have problems.’ Sam scuffs the toe of his shoe against a bucket of paradise lilies. ‘She maybe called me a creep.’
The florist makes a sympathetic tsking sound.
‘Which I’m not,’ Sam adds, quickly, looking up. ‘I’m not a creeper. It’s a huge misunderstanding and she won’t give me time to say sorry and—’ He stops, a rope knotting around his throat.
‘Ouch.’ The florist taps her manicured fingernails on the countertop. ‘I do hate to say this, because it’s not exactly good for my business, but it sounds like flowers are not your fix. I’ll give you a solid piece of advice.’ She leans elbows on the register. ‘When a girl says “no”, what she actually means is no.’
Sam’s shoulders sag. ‘I just want to say sorry. I don’t …’ He swallows. ‘I’m not asking for a second chance.’
The florist sighs and for a second Sam thinks it’s the typical I’m so done with you sigh he’s used to. He’s ready to flee, but the florist scoots out from behind her counter and strides over to a bucket of roses. She folds her arms, surveying them.
Sam trails after her. ‘I don’t have … much money.’
‘I believe in good apologies.’ The florist clasps hands together. ‘Chivalry is not dead! And you’re kind of adorable. So if you put on a button-down shirt and get a haircut and –’ she glances down at Sam’s ragged shoes and dirty jeans ‘– hmm, yeah, do something about everything else too – then you have a chance. But we need to abandon the flowers.’
‘Um,’ says Sam, ‘you’re a florist?’
‘I keep a store of options.’ She crooks a finger at him. ‘Follow.’
He does.
She walks him to the back of the store, where huge flower arrangements give way to a rustic shelf made of vintage ladders that trail vines and fake butterflies. Boxes with bows of purple and gold and cinnamon sit in pyramid piles.
Chocolates.
‘I only have five dollars,’ Sam says.
The florist smiles. ‘I can work with that for a good cause.’
Sam peeks up at her through tangles of blond hair. ‘Do you have caramel?’