Page 3 of April Flowers

“Can I help you?”

Margot’s heart spasmed. She pressed her lips together. How could she get out of this?

But she found she couldn’t. Pete looked too hopeful. She put him to work with a few odd tasks that made him feel very important, like counting the cash register and taking out the trash. When finished, they walked back to her apartment around the corner, where Pete retrieved the ingredients for the Italian feast from his parked car. Once upstairs, Margot hurried to put the bouquet in a vase because she didn’t want Pete to think she didn’t care about the flowers. She did care about them, but only because she cared about all flowers individually. She always had. Even as a child, she’d picked dandelions from the fields of Nantucket. When she looked up from the vase, she found Pete already making himself at home in her kitchen, retrieving the good knives, the cutting board, and the olive oil. A shiver went down her spine.

Pete played love songs from the speaker. She wanted to turn them off.

“Sit down! Relax!” Pete instructed her. “What time did you get up this morning?”

“Three,” she said.

“Three! It’s insane.”

“Valentine’s Day at the flower shop is like the Super Bowl for florists,” she reminded him, sitting at the kitchen table and stretching her legs out as far as they would go. They ached. Because the bouquet on the table smelled so much like roses, she thought she might get sick. She repositioned the vase and poured herself a very big glass of wine.

“Can you pour me one, too?” Pete asked.

Margot felt as though she couldn’t do anything for anyone. But somehow, she managed to fill his glass and take it over to where he sliced onions. It was then he found a reason to kiss her—gently—for the first time that night. It made Margot want to burst into tears.

But somehow, she got through dinner. She drank a glass of wine, then poured another to drink with the pasta, and listened to Pete’s stories about work, about how his mother had called him to thank him for the chocolates he’d sent for Valentine’s Day, and about how his boss had told him privately he was considering quitting to spend more time with his children. This would put Pete in the position to take his job—which would bring about a much higher salary but more commitment.

“It makes me think, you know?” Pete said, wrapping pasta around his fork. “When I have children, I want to spend as much time as I can with them. I don’t want to miss a second. Maybe, down the line, that will mean I have to find a different position. Maybe that means I won’t make as much money as I do right now.” He shrugged.

Margot felt sleepy and loose. She very nearly allowed herself to ask Pete why he was talking to her about children. We’d never talked about children! We’d only been dating for four months!

But she realized this was probably the sort of thing couples were meant to talk about at four months. She was thirty-eight. He was forty. Most of the women Pete met on the app were probably asking him about children on the first or second date. Why hadn’t they ever talked about it?

Because I don’t know if I want them, she thought.I’ve never known.

Suddenly, it was clear that Pete wanted them. Suddenly, it was clear that if Margot was a better or kinder person, she would tell Pete right here and now about her ambivalence and fears regarding children and thus “release” him into the wild to find another woman, maybe a younger woman, a woman who definitely wanted them, and soon. Thirty-eight wasn’t the end of the road, but it was getting up there. She didn’t have a lot of time to decide.

But Pete was suddenly talking about his career ambitions. Margot took a big bite of pasta and chewed slowly, noting the care he’d taken with the spices and texture. He was good at cooking; he was good at almost everything. Right now, she couldn’t fully remember what he did for a living (something in finance?), but she knew he was good at that, too. Why wasn’t he with someone who actually liked him, who craved being with him and a future with him? Why wasn’t he with a better woman?

Maybe that’s why, Margot reasoned. He sensed she didn’t like him that much. Women probably threw themselves at him, so he was confused by me. Some part of him felt he had to win.

Margot had encountered that in men before. She felt guilty. She always felt they should get the breakup out of the way right now.

Suddenly, Margot’s phone was ringing. It surprised Margot. She usually didn’t take phone calls that didn’t relate to the flower shop, and nobody would make a business call at this hour.

“What’s that?” Pete asked. “Flower emergency?”

Margot tried to laugh and dug through the pockets of her coat for her phone. When she pulled it out, she was surprised to read Sam E.

Sam E.? Margot cursed her inability to write full names in her address book. Since she’d begun dating in Boston twenty years ago (ugh!), she’d dated several men named Sam. Sam Flint. Sam Willis. The Sam who worked at the other flower shop who’d recently made it big on the West Coast. But who was Sam E.?

It continued to ring.

“Are you going to answer it?” Pete laughed nervously. He probably thought it was an old lover (on Valentine’s Day, no less!) and that Margot was weighing up whether she should take it.

“Nah.” Margot let it go to voicemail and turned off the sound.

Pete breathed a sigh of relief and reached for the bottle of wine. “A little more?”

“Sure.” Margot managed a real smile. She was nearing the end of the night. She could go to sleep soon. Miraculously, she had tomorrow off. Gabby was managing the shop in the morning and closing it in the afternoon. She couldn’t wait.

But who was Sam E.? Maybe it was a butt dial. Maybe Sam E. was out there, remembering something beautiful that had happened between them many years ago, wondering if she wanted a late-night drink on Valentine’s Day.

Maybe.

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