Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
And what I did to him.
This is between me and Diego. And the roses on the ground we stepped on in our passion.
Passion? Is that what I’m calling it?
I think about Diego all morning at the flower shop. How can I not? I accidentally lop the head off a rose in my distraction, like I’m decapitating a traitor. Then I try to turn it into a corsage or something I can salvage, cursing myself at the back counter. “You are blooming,” I recite, some wicked old thing my dear mom used to say to me over and over when I was a child fending off tough circumstances at school, mean classmates, unfair crap. It doesn’t help, but maybe through some deep-seated trick of psychology, it makes my parents feel less far away, less helplessly out of reach.
I’ve been kissed before.
I’ve had boyfriends. My first one was mean. My last one was—well, he was also mean, but in a different way.
I attract a certain kind of guy, I guess.
But Diego’s different.
And he stopped himself before kissing me. Yes, I noticed. He stopped right in front of my face, as if asking for permission first.
All of that anger in him. All of that determination it must’ve taken for him to come over to my house at that hour, to march up those steps, to put himself in front of me.
Was kissing me the plan all along?
Or an accident?
And if this conundrum couldn’t get any worse: I was the one who initiated the kiss when he hesitated.
I took a bite of the forbidden papaya.
It was juicy.
And I wanted more.
Yikes, sorry, what a terrible metaphor. But seriously, can I be blamed? I’m running on an hour or two of subpar sleep and can barely hold myself back from beheading roses that have done me absolutely no wrong.
But now I’m worried I went too far. Or didn’t go far enough?
It could very well be that I should have chased him back to his house, tried stopping him, said something, done something.
Now all I can do is wonder.
And resist an urge to stop by the auto shop during my break.
To keep myself from doing just that, I take my happy ass in the opposite direction of the auto shop and park myself at Country Lovin’ for lunch. I treat myself to the town’s best crepes, because why the hell not? Nothing about today or last night makes any sense, so why should my lunch? The more time I spend treating myself to these scrumptious crepes, the less time I waste worrying over who I kissed.
And touched.
And let pin me to the wall.
And flung against the railing of my porch.
And gripped his body like it was the last thing I’d ever know.
Or the first.
I drop my fork on the floor. Twice. By the fifth time I ask for a refill of juice, Ken himself comes out of the kitchen to make sure I’m okay. I’m shoving a mouthful of crepe in when I tell him I’m super. It’s clear upon my departure that neither he nor Mr. Love himself are buying it.
Then I turn the corner and reach the front of my shop.
Only to stop short when someone’s standing at the door.
Diego.
Then he turns to face me.
Oh. Not Diego. “Afternoon, Mr. C,” says Cash, a recent Spruce High graduate, swiping aside curly black bangs out of his eyes. “You look terrible.”
I stop. “I’m going to interpret that as concern for me.”
“It is.”
“Then thank you.”
He adjusts the strap of his backpack and peers past me into the shop. “Need help today?”
I frown. “You work Saturdays.”
“I know.”
“It’s Thursday.”
“Also know.”
I nod as though I understand (I do not) and unlock the door, letting us in.
Cash drops his backpack behind the front counter like it’s his bedroom. Been doing that for years. First as a kid who wandered in after school one day to look at plants and avoid some teenage drama that awaited him elsewhere, and then finally as a Saturday employee when I gave in last spring and put him on payroll.
“I can’t pay you for twice a week,” I remind him.
“Didn’t ask.”
“Cash …”
“I’m bored.” He looks around. Gently flicks a leaf. Pokes at one of the ferns. “Nico’s being a dick, Tice is useless, and Savannah just thinks the whole thing’s hot.”
“I know none of these people.”
He points at the roses in the front bucket. “Those need to be, like, misted or something?”
I’ve learned the guy likes keeping busy. Especially when he’s about to turn my store into his therapy couch. “You can pull the bruised petals, if you want. Gently.”
“How do I know which ones are bruised?”
“If they look tired, sad, or like they had a complicated night.”
He looks at me.
I look at him.
“The rose petals,” I say, frowning. “Not me.”
“If you say so.”
He pulls over a short stool and situates himself by the roses. That seems to quiet him. I pull from under the counter a box of delivery cards to stamp.