She’s counting the last of the cash, and then she too leans back to relax for a moment, running a hand through her hair as she glances across the counter over to Becca, still ensconced in her office doodling away. “Tell me about it. Last I checked, I worked in a flower shop, not a fast food place. Is this why people in other retail industries hate it so much?”
I laugh and bob my head. “Pretty sure, yeah. But hey, good news for our income this month.”
“Sure, as long as we kept enough flowers in stock to fill all our remaining orders this weekend.” Monica shoves the till closed and starts to meander through the store, eying up what we have left. “Your cousin is one of the ones graduating Sunday, right?” she calls over her shoulder.
“Yep. Lilacs and lilies,” I reply. “Because at the last minute, Mom called to tell me she hates gardenias and lavender.” I roll my eyes. Monica doesn’t need me to elaborate. She knows how my mother—how my whole family, in fact—are. They demand things last minute and always expect them to be perfect. I feel like half the time they do it because they know I won’t be able to get things perfect when they wait until the last minute. That way they can ensure they always have something to complain to me about.
Monica finishes pacing around the perimeter of the store. “Well, you’re in luck, then, and we might be able to avoid Mama Jordan’s rage for a few more nights. Because we’ve got just enough lilies and lilacs left for one last bouquet.”
“Can you put those aside for me?” I ask, relieved. “You know how she is.”
“Trust me, I wouldn’t sell these flowers for three times their value, girl. I would not want to get on your mother’s bad side for doing it,” Monica replies with a grin.
We spend the next half an hour destressing and hanging out with Becca, admiring her drawings. At the same time, Monica complains about some of the more difficult customers she had during the rush today. I share a little more about my worries for the weekend and my family. Then Monica asks if I found the woman who I think hit my car, and I worry at my lower lip with my teeth, nervous about how much to tell her. She’s already very protective of me, and it was her kid in the car with me, after all.
“Well, actually…” I start, just as a bell tinkles over the door to announce another customer. Ah, the rush continues. I jump up to my feet to help, eager to stall this conversation for a little bit longer if I can. “Hi, sir,” I call across the shelves. “Can we help you?”
“I hope so.” He smiles at me, though he looks a little bit worried. “I was wondering if you had any lilacs available for a small bouquet.”
My stomach sinks a little. I glance at Monica, and then the fridge that contains the last bouquet of lilacs in the store.
“We’re actually all out,” Monica replies for me, moving to block his view of the fridge.
His face falls. “Oh, I see.”
“We just had a rush,” she says apologetically. “We weren’t really expecting it. Maybe we can help you find another flower to your liking?”
He’s shaking his head, already moving toward the door. “That’s all right,” he says. “My wife is just very particular. She prefers lilacs above anything else, you see, and she just wound up in the hospital last night, so I really wanted to surprise her with some. But I understand, if it’s been a busy week for you all…”
I slide out from around the counter, unable to help myself. “Actually, I think we might have just a few left. We could make up a small bouquet for you.”
“Oh, really?” His face brightens. “That would be great, if you could.”
“Naomi.” Monica bars my way. “Those flowers are for your—”
“My friend,” I interrupt. “Who doesn’t really need them anyway. It’ll be fine. I’ll figure something else out.” My family can have their second favorite flowers for one day. A graduation is important and all, but next to this guy’s poor wife who’s in the hospital wanting her favorite flower? Well, it’s less of a big deal. Besides, I’m pretty sure my cousin doesn’t care about what kind of flowers we have at all. It’s mostly just my mom who will make a huge deal out of not getting exactly what she wanted.
So, I forcibly move Monica from in front of the fridge she’s still blocking protectively, and pull out the vase holding what was supposed to be my family’s bouquet. I pluck out the lilacs from it and throw in some other flowers to fill out the bouquet. By the time I’ve finished making the arrangement, the man’s eyes are alight with joy and he’s smiling from ear to ear.
“Thank you so much,” he tells me, again and again. “This will make my wife so happy. It’s exactly what she’ll love.”
“Good, I’m so glad.” I smile back at him. “Tell her I hope she gets well soon, and that I know the hospital will take good care of her. I’m friends with one of the doctors. They do a really great job.”
His smile deepens, and he reaches across the counter to shake my hand profusely. “Thank you for that,” he tells me.
After he leaves, I sink back against the counter and steal a glance at Monica.
“Your mother is going to kill you,” she points out.
I huff out something between a sigh and a laugh. “Trust me, I know.”
Monica shakes her head. “I’ll save some roses for your funeral, then,” she adds, and we both laugh this time, as she goes back to tidying up the store. I think that maybe, hopefully, she’s forgotten about our earlier line of conversation, until she pauses halfway through sweeping.
“So… you were saying, about the woman who hit you?”
I swallow hard. “Yeah. Actually… I think I did find her.”
Monica nearly drops the broom she’s holding. “At the preschool?” She darts a glance at Becca, then, realizing that her voice rose to nearly a shout when she said that. With an effort, she takes a deep breath and lowers it again. “Who was it?”
“Do you know a Mrs. Randall?” I ask.
To judge by the way Monica scowls, I guess she must. “Are. You. Kidding. Me?”
“I think it was her, at least. I’m like, 99% sure. But I tried confronting her, after school. I cornered her in her classroom.”
Monica balls her fists. “Let me guess, she tried to play dumb?”
“She acted like she had no idea what I was talking about. Even though I could see it written all over her face. Talk about a shady bi—” we both glance at Becca. “Big mean lady.”
“She is mean,” Becca pipes up.
“Trust me, sweetie, I know.” Monica shoots me another sympathetic glance. “I once had to work with her for a bake sale at school. She yelled at me for baking cookies because they were glutenous. For a bake sale! I didn’t get the memo that the entire bake sale needed to be gluten free. But who yells at a person over something like that?”
“The kind of person who’s willing to hit your car and run and then lie to your face about it.” I shake my head, glaring.
“You really should call the police. I’m serious.” Monica forces herself to uncross her arms and carry on sweeping up the floor. “She should not be allowed on the roads, if that’s how she drives around school zones.”
“I know. I just want to be completely, 100% sure that it was her before I do anything drastic…” We both fall silent as the bell tinkles at the front of the shop yet again.
I look up to find a young woman with mousy brown hair lingering in the doorway, eying the cases around her like a startled deer. I smile at her. “Hi, there. Can we help you?” Will the rush of people today never end? This is more customers than I’ve seen in this shop in the last three months combined, all in one day.
“Yes, hi.” She forces a smile and walks up to the counter, though she moves slowly, checking over her shoulder repeatedly like she’s nervous someone might be following her. “I, er, I have an order to pick up.”
“Sure thing.” Monica takes over. “What’s the name?”
“Angel,” she says, and I still in the middle of wiping down the counter to stare at her a little more close
ly now. “Angel Robinson.”
Alarm bells start to ring in the back of my mind. Angel. Like the name Jason used on the bathroom wall. And Robinson, his last name. Did he order flowers for someone? For who?
I swallow hard. “Um, are those flowers for someone else, or…?”