Page 7 of Forget Me Knot

She meanders around for a few moments, as she’s prone to do, but eventually sticks her nose into the pots of discount flowers next to my desk.

“Hey, boy.” She pulls up her face and nods at the bouquet in my hand. “That for someone special?”

“Customer.” I find if I keep my answers curt and quiet, sooner or later Charlie loses interest and gets on with her own business.

She nods again and starts picking out stems, shuffling her feet in those ridiculous shoes of hers as she goes. “Sure was some party last night, huh?”

I shrug but don’t answer. God-willing, she’ll take the hint.

“You been over there yet today?” She pulls out a fading blue hydrangea that’s all wrong with the lilies she already has in her hand. Taking the bundle from her, I replace the lilies with pale white roses and begin to build around them.

“Over where, Charlotte?”

“Next door, ya fool. And ya know I hate it when you call me Charlotte, Jackson Jones.”

I do. And I gotta admit to myself, it's strangely satisfying to get a rise out of her now and then.

“Have ya gone to see the girl yet?” She doesn’t wait for a response before moseying around next to me behind the counter, bumping my side with her hip, and strumming through the ribbon spools I’ve got organized below the work surface. “That Dinah seems like the sweetest sort of woman. Kind. Bubbly. Good sense for business. And beautiful, of course.”

Pretzel shop. Dinah. Beautiful. Don’t mess it up.

The words pass through my mind unbidden, prickling at my thoughts like a thorn that’s stuck and can’t be removed. It makes me irrationally angry that, for some reason, everyone seems to think this girl is worth hounding me about all morning. I snatch up the shears and snip the ends of the stems more aggressively than necessary, wrapping them in brown paper, and then in the burnt orange ribbon Charlie hands me.

“You sure are extra testy this morning, young man. Is that any way to treat your kin?”

I roll my eyes and hand the finished bundle to her. We’re only kin in the sense that I’ve known Charlie my entire life and her sons are two of my best friends. “On the house.”

Charlie harrumphs and clutches it to her chest but then reaches on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek, patting it affectionately. “Have a good day, Jack. I’ll see ya tomorrow.” She whistles as she leaves, throwing her hands up behind her and hollering, “I like the scruff. Your mama will hate it,” just before she lets the door slam on her way out.

I rub my jaw, where a fine shadow of hair has grown, and the music next door reaches a new decibel. Pulling my headphones up again, I do my best to block out the buzz of static that lives in my brain and the new mix of thoughts pacing through after the oddities this morning. Not the influx of phone calls or visitors. That’s not new.

I imagine the town has a sign-up sheet they pass around monthly, insisting each resident fill public service hours by hounding me daily whether I like it or not.

No, today something prickles my mind in a way I haven’t felt for some time. It’s an itch I can’t scratch. The lyrics to my favorite song that I just can’t seem to remember. The longer the day goes on, the more the lapse in knowledge sours my mood. And every minute I hear that incessant music and singing from next door, above the noise in my head, the more I convince myself I might actuallyneedto visit this Dinah character and teach her some neighborly decorum. Somewhere between boy band mixes and an Adele song that seems to go on forever, I lose all sense of patience.

Head throbbing again and nerves strained, I throw down my seemingly useless headphones and stomp out of my shop to meet the girl next door.

Unfortunately for me, when I enter the pink and orange explosion that is Knotty & Nice, she doesn’t see me right away.Meaning, I have a moment to take in the woman drawing on a chalkboard, singing at the top of her lungs, and shimmying her body like a back up dancer for one of the musicians she’s been emulating all morning.

The woman is oblivious, but in an oddly adorable way. Wearing overalls, mint shoes, a pink crop top, and strawberry blonde hair in braids, she matches her decor.

She finally turns around, startling for a brief moment, but then offers me a coy smile and crosses the room like she’s been expecting me all morning. I freeze, stunned into submission by a gut feeling I can’t explain.

The only thing I can seem to think about as she approaches is:

Pretzel shop.

Dinah.

Beautiful.

Don't mess it up.

4

CALL ME MAYBE

CARLY RAE JEPSEN

---