Page 40 of Shared By my Ex's Best Friends
The air tastes of possibility, fragile and raw, like standing on the edge of a cliff just before the leap.
Chapter sixteen
MAYA
The phone is still pressed to Danielle’s ear, but she’s not saying anything. She’s just… blinking. Slowly. Like her brain short-circuited mid-sentence and now she’s buffering.
I freeze mid-movement, one hand caught in the middle of unspooling a roll of dusty rose ribbon. The box of decor at my feet feels suddenly irrelevant. A slow pit of dread settles into my stomach like a stone.
Then, finally, “What do you mean the peonies aren’t available?” Danielle squeaks, her voice jumping an octave. “But—no, that’s not—”
She pauses, lips parted as she listens, her knuckles white where they grip the phone. Then she blurts, panic rising fast, “They’re the entirecolor palette!”
My eyes snap to her. Peonies. Of course it’s the peonies.
The second she ends the call, her arm drops like dead weight to her side, and she turns to me. Her expression is pure devastation.
Eyes wide and glassy. Jaw slack. Like someone told her the wedding has been canceled and also the Earth is probably going to implode.
“Maya,” she says, her voice wobbling like it’s standing on the edge of a cliff. “I think I’m going to cry.”
“Nope.” I drop the ribbon like it’s on fire and cross to her in two quick strides. I gently take her elbows, grounding her. “We are not crying. We are going to take a breath and figure it out.”
“But the floristbailedon us,” she moans, throwing her head back dramatically. “Two days before the wedding! Two days!”
“She didn’t bail,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm and rational, even as my heart picks up its own little panic rhythm. “She’s dealing with a shipping delay. That’s not the same.”
“It isexactlythe same,” Danielle says, flopping into one of the rental chairs with the kind of flair that would win an Oscar in a drama. “What are we supposed to do without the peonies? The invites, the linens, the bridesmaids’ dresses—everything was chosenaroundthat soft blush color. Now it’s just…gone.”
The blush color she wanted, then didn’t want, than wanted again.
“You could pivot to hydrangeas?” I offer weakly.
She levels me with a dead-eyed stare. “Hydrangeas are funeral flowers.”
“Only when they’re blue,” I say, then immediately regret it.
She lets out a strangled groan and buries her face in her hands. “This is a disaster. I should’ve eloped. I should’ve married Chris at that Taco Bell on Route 14. HelovesTaco Bell. I could’ve walked down the aisle to the sound of chimichangas sizzling.”
“You hate Taco Bell,” I remind her gently. “And Vegas. And Elvis impersonators. And doing things without a seating chart.”
Another groan. This one louder.
I reach out and squeeze her shoulder. “We’ll fix it. Promise.”
Before I can say anything else, a voice breaks through the tension.
“I might be able to help.”
I turn, startled. Ethan is leaning in the doorway between the prep room and the main hall, sleeves rolled to his elbows, penciltucked behind his ear. He looks calm, but there’s an alertness to his eyes. How long has he been standing there?
Danielle lifts her head, hair disheveled and mascara threatening mutiny. “Unless you’ve got a secret peony farm behind the venue, I don’t see how.”
“I’ve got a sketchbook,” he says simply. “And a few ideas.”
Danielle blinks at him like he just said he moonlights as a magician. “Wait… are you saying you candesignfloral arrangements?”
He shrugs, cool and calm as ever. “Not real ones, but if you’re open to alternatives—paper flowers, fabric, even local seasonal stuff—I can help reimagine the centerpieces so they still feel cohesive. Romantic. Soft. Just…different.”
