Page 112 of Pansies

“No, I get it. It’s always harder choosing, right?”

A nod.

“Well. First things first, eh? Let’s get the shop open.” Alfie pushed himself back to his feet. “Tell me what to do.”

Fen drew in a shaky breath. “Okay. Yes. Okay.”

It wasn’t the most glamorous morning Alfie had ever spent. But it wasn’t the worst either. The work was mainly physical—and quite demanding at that—but he actually kind of enjoyed it. Being useful in such a straightforward, slightly primitive way. Also he got to show off to Fen, doing quite a bit more bending and flexing than was strictly necessary.

He washed and sorted flowers, hauled them about—surprising how heavy the flimsy buggers could be en masse—cleaned buckets and the coolers and anything else that looked messy, including the leaves and packaging left over from Fen’s baskets and bouquets. Fen also taught him some basic flower care, which was so far outside anything he would have felt okay with a few weeks ago that he was slightly startled by how comfortable he was. How much he liked looking after flowers, getting rid of the dead and wilted ones, making sure they were properly fed and watered, and that their leaves were neatly stripped. You had to be firm but gentle too, which Alfie reckoned played directly to his skill set.

Fen, meanwhile, did all the arrangements and set up theshop displays. And Alfie had to struggle to stay focused because he was very distracting. Not just in an obvious way, like his arse being all perky and tempting in his tight jeans. But the way he moved, with a dancer’s effortless grace, the strength of his arms and his supple wrists, the dexterity of his tough, callused fingers. He was singing too, along with whatever music he was playing—something about blueberry pies and being corny like Kansas.1

They made it though. And were open exactly on time. It was honestly a bit of an anticlimax because it wasn’t like there was a queue or anything—only incredibly guilty people were going to be on the doorstep of a flower shop at 9:00 a.m.—so all that happened was Fen flipping over the sign. And then they went straight back to what they were doing.

By about eleven, Fen was wrapping up the last of the orders, his creations lined up along the counter in the back room. He looked absorbed in his work, hands moving expertly among the flowers and greenery, tweaking and coaxing them into position.

“You’re really good at that,” Alfie said, coming up behind him and drawing him into an embrace.

Fen leaned back, snuggling his hips in tight. “Thank you. Mum taught me. So it’s like… Oh, this is so cheesy…but it’s like she isn’t gone.”

“That’s not cheesy. I think it’s nice.”

“She loved flowers.” Fen stroked a rose petal with the pad of his thumb. “The way they live their whole lives for a moment of beauty.”

Alfie wrinkled his nose doubtfully. “I think I’d rather last a bit longer, myself. Like one of those bushes you can’t get out of your patio.”

Fen turned so he was pressed up against Alfie’s chest, where he hid his face. “Oh, Alfie, I hate basically everything aboutrunning this fucking shop, but I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to stop doing the thing she taught me.”

Alfie didn’t really know what to say, so he just held Fen tightly, curving his body round him.

“There’s magic in it. Making flowers for people. It’s full of stories: births and deaths and marriage, love and guilt and gratitude, everything we are, good and bad and in-between.” Fen sighed. “She was better at it than me, though. Everyone wanted to talk to her.”

“People’ll get used to you.”

“I’m not sure I care. I gave up wanting acceptance from this place a long time ago.”

Alfie remembered the slinky-hipped lad he’d danced with a few nights ago. “You never know. Things change.”

“Maybe. But I don’t know if I can.”

“Wouldn’t want you to.” He kissed the edge of Fen’s brow. “So are you going to let me see your books or what?”

For a moment, he thought Fen was going to refuse again, but then he flapped a hand towards the corner of the room. “Fine. Go ahead.”

Alfie tried to see what he was being directed to. “That’s a wall, mate.”

“Besidethe wall.”

“I thought that was a bin.”

“Um. No. That’s just where I…put things. You know, papers and things.”

“That’s where you put papers and things,” Alfie repeated.

Fen cringed. “I’m sorry. I know, it’s a disaster. But dying is really expensive, especially when you have a bunch of legal costs on top of it. And then there’s the mortgage on my London place, which I should really let David buy me out of, except then I reallywill be stuck here forever, and I won’t even have a home of my own anymore.”

“I told you. We’ll sort it out. It’s going to be fine.”

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