Page 8 of The Florist By Chance
“Grace…” My voice breaks.
She shrugs, but her eyes glisten. “The point is, holding on doesn’t fix what’s broken. Sometimes it just keeps you from healing. Maybe you don’t need to keep the shop frozen in time. Maybe you need to let it live again.”
The words lodge in my chest, heavy and unwelcome. I sip my water to keep from crying. Across from me, Grace picks at her salmon, giving me space. That’s the thing about her—she doesn’t push too far, but she plants the seed. And now it’s sprouting, no matter how much I want to rip it out.
By the time dessert menus arrive, my nerves are frayed. Grace orders cheesecake, I pass, and we sit in silence for a minute, the weight between us both too heavy and too necessary. Finally, she breaks it. “Mia, I love you. And I’ll say this once more: maybe talk to someone. A counselor. Someone who can help you sort through grief before it eats you alive.”
I stare at her, the lump in my throat refusing to budge. I want to argue, to dismiss her, but all I can do is nod. Just barely. Enough to make her smile, small and sad and proud all at once.
When we leave, the air outside is cool, smelling faintly of rain on pavement. Grace loops her arm through mine as we walk toward the lot. “No matter what happens with Luke, or the shop, or Titan,” she says softly, “you don’t have to carry it alone.”
The words echo as I unlock my car. For the first time in weeks, I’m not sure if the ache in my chest is grief or hope. Maybe both.
Chapter Four
The letter lies on the counter between us, glossy and smug in its Titan-branded folder. My eyes dart over the black-and-white print, but the words blur, stacking like bricks against my chest. Profitability. Shared ownership. Acquisition. Every syllable feels like a trap, like Mom’s legacy is already slipping through my fingers.
Luke leans on the counter, arms crossed, watching me like he’s waiting for me to crack. Maybe that’s what he wants. He hasn’t said much since Ms. Eldridge left, but his silence feels louder than anything.
“Don’t look so grim,” he finally says, voice casual, too casual. “Six months isn’t nothing. We can figure it out.”
I snap my head up, the sting of his words sharper than he probably means.We.As if this is his fight. As if he’s been here holding the pieces together while I’ve been juggling customers, bills, and grief. My throat tightens, and before I can stop myself, the words tumble out hot and accusing.
“Of course you’d say that. You probablywantTitan to swoop in. Cash out, let someone else deal with the mess.”
Luke straightens, his brows shooting up. “Excuse me?”
Grace had warned me I’d push people away if I kept swinging like this, but the words came out before I could stop them.
The room feels too small, like the walls are inching closer. I press my palms against the counter, grounding myself in its worn edges. “Don’t act surprised. You left once before when things got complicated. Why wouldn’t you be relieved now that there’s an escape hatch?”
His eyes flash, and for a second, I almost see the boy I used to trail after, desperate for a glance, desperate to matter. But now, the look he gives me is anything but soft. It’s hard, cutting. “You really think I’m here because I want a corporation to bulldoze your mom’s shop? That I’d come back just to watch Titan slap its name over Collins Florals?”
I want to take it back, the accusation, but pride pins the words to my tongue. My pulse hammers as I clutch the letter again, crumpling the edge in my fist. “I don’t know what you want, Luke. I just know I can’t lose this place. Not after losing Mom. Not after everything else.”
My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate it—hate that he hears the fracture I’ve been trying to hide. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his gaze soften, just a fraction, before he looks away.
Grace had looked me in the eye over pasta last week and told me grief wasn’t a business plan. That I couldn’t keep trying to turn the shop into a shrine just to feel close to Mom. I’d laughed it off then, but right now, the truth of it clawed at me.
Luke mutters something under his breath, grabs the screwdriver from the drawer, and tightens the shelf bracket that’s been sagging for weeks. I don’t say thank you. I don’t say anything. But my chest gives the smallest ache because that wasMom’s shelf, and I hate that he noticed it needed fixing before I did.
The silence stretches, the letter a silent referee between us, daring one of us to speak first.
Grief swells up like a wave I can’t push back. The paper blurs, not from the words this time, but from the sting of tears I refuse to let fall. For weeks I’ve shoved it down—Mom’s absence, the way the shop feels hollow no matter how many blooms I crowd into the displays, the pile of bills I shuffle but never solve. And now Titan’s letter stares back at me, bold as a judge’s verdict. Six months. Like there’s a clock hanging over my head, ticking louder with every second.
I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles ache, grounding myself in the old grooves Dad carved into the wood years ago when he used to fix things with his hands instead of buying new. I tell myself I’m steady, but my chest betrays me, rising and falling too fast, too shallow. How am I supposed to do this? How am I supposed to keep customers happy, balance the books, order inventory, and somehow smile through it all while I still wake up expecting Mom to be humming in the back room? I can almost hear her voice, low and warm, drifting over the faint whir of the cooler. The memory squeezes tighter than grief—it’s longing, sharp and endless.
I don’t have time for it. I don’t have time for her absence. Every minute I waste missing her is another bill unpaid, another order misfiled. I shove the ache down deeper, the way I’ve been doing since the funeral, since the sympathy cards stopped coming and the reality set in that no one’s going to swoop in and save me. The shop is supposed to be proof she mattered, that her life meant something more than empty vases and fading petals. If I lose it—if Titan takes it—then what do I have left?
The letter crinkles in my fist, and I loosen my grip before I rip it in two. That would be satisfying for a second, sure,but then what? Titan doesn’t go away just because I tear up a piece of paper. They’re too big, too slick, too determined. I’ve seen their glossy stores downtown—every bouquet wrapped in neat cellophane, every petal polished like it was grown in a lab. Soulless. Efficient. Nothing like this shop, with its uneven shelves and the smell of damp soil that clings to your clothes after five minutes inside. This shop breathes with Mom’s touch, even now. And I can’t let them suffocate it.
I glance at Luke. He’s still watching me too closely, his expression unreadable, like he’s dissecting me. Like he knows I’m breaking under the weight I keep pretending isn’t there. I hate that. Hate that he might be able to see more than I want him to. I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, even though inside everything feels like it’s collapsing in. My chest is hollow, like something’s been scooped out, leaving me trying to balance on air.
He doesn’t get it. He can’t. He wasn’t here every day with Mom. He wasn’t the one she handed the keys to with that soft but serious look that saidI trust you.She believed I could handle this, and I believed her. But maybe she was wrong. Maybe I was naïve to think love and determination were enough to keep a business alive.
My pulse hammers at my temples. The silence in the shop presses in, heavy and merciless. If Luke speaks, I don’t want to hear it. If he stays quiet, I don’t want that either. Either way, the storm in me doesn’t calm.
No matter what he says, no matter how determined he suddenly wants to be, I’m not sure I can carry this weight—not Mom’s absence, not Titan’s deadline, not all of it at once. And the scariest part is, I’m starting to wonder if the fight is already slipping beyond me, like sand through my fingers.
