Page 7 of The Florist By Chance
The bell over the door jingles again. For a moment, hope flares—maybe a customer, a distraction. But it’s just the wind pushing it open, rattling the frame before it clicks shut again.
The sound makes it feel final, like the shop itself knows the clock has started ticking.
And for the first time, I wonder if I’ve dragged us both into a fight we can’t win.
Chapter Three
The restaurant hums with Friday night energy, a soft clash of silverware, laughter, and clinking glasses. A wall of greenery spills from hanging baskets overhead, all ivy and ferns, like someone thought plants would soften the hard edges of brick and steel. It’s cozy, though. Safer than the shop. I slide into the booth across from Grace and pretend my chest isn’t tight.
She’s already halfway through a glass of iced tea, one hand wrapped around the sweating glass, the other tapping absently against the wood table. Her smile is the kind that doesn’t let me keep secrets. “You look like you wrestled with a tornado before coming here.”
I force a laugh, smoothing a wrinkle out of my cardigan. “Just the shop. You know how it is.”
Grace arches a brow. “Mia, you’ve got a smudge of dirt on your cheek. Tell me you didn’t run here straight from yelling at a gladiola.”
I grab my napkin, dabbing at my face, but the heat rising in my cheeks isn’t from embarrassment. It’s the truth pushing at my throat. I don’t want to say it. I also know Grace won’t let me get away without saying it.
Our server appears, rattling off specials, and I latch onto the interruption like a lifeline. I order pasta I probably won’t eat. Grace asks for salmon, thanks him, and then fixes me with that same sharp gaze that made her the best debate captain in high school. “All right,” she says once he’s gone. “Spill.”
I twirl the edge of my napkin, knotting it into tight little ropes. “Luke’s back.” The words taste bitter, like medicine I never wanted.
Her eyebrows jump. “Back as in—your Luke?”
“My brothers best friend Luke,” I correct, maybe too quickly. “The one who left without a backward glance and suddenly thinks he gets to run Collins Florist like it’s a failing startup he’s here to flip.”
Grace leans forward, forearms braced on the table. “And how’s that going?”
A humorless laugh escapes me. “Depends on whether you like shouting matches between the roses and the register.”
She whistles low. “So, about as well as oil and water.”
I nod, fingers tightening around the napkin. “Every time I try to make a decision, he’s there with some business-school answer. Budgets, projections, efficiency. I’m trying to keep Mom’s memory alive, and he’s acting like sentiment is a liability.”
Grace tilts her head, her eyes softening. “And what about you, Mia? Are you acting like the shop is a business… or a shrine?”
The word hits me square in the chest. Shrine. My mouth goes dry. I stare at the little vase on our table—two daisies drooping toward the salt shaker—and my throat aches. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s honest,” Grace says, not unkindly. “Your mom loved that shop, yes. But she also loved you. She wanted it to thrive, not suffocate under the weight of her absence.”
I swallow hard, blinking against the sting in my eyes. “You don’t get it. Every corner of that place… it’s her. The way she lined up the ribbon rolls, the notes she scribbled in the margins of her order book. If I change too much, it’ll be like erasing her.”
Grace reaches across the table, her hand warm on mine. “Or maybe it’ll be like letting her dream keep breathing.”
For a moment, I can’t say anything. The restaurant’s noise dims, like someone pressed pause. I want to pull my hand back, to retreat into the familiar anger that feels safer than grief, but her grip is steady. Steady in the way Grace has always been.
The server returns with bread, breaking the spell. I yank my hand back and tear into a slice I don’t even want. “Luke wouldn’t understand that,” I mutter. “He doesn’t even try.”
“Or maybe you don’t let him.” Grace’s voice is calm, but it slides under my skin. “It sounds like you two are locked in a battle neither of you can win, because you’re both trying to prove something. He may be trying to prove he’s not the screw-up who left. You’re proving you don’t need anyone to keep your mom’s legacy alive.”
I set the bread down, untouched. My appetite has fled. “So what—you think I should just hand him the keys? Let him bulldoze everything she cared about?”
“No,” Grace says firmly. “I think you need to figure out what you care about. Is it the shop? Or is it clinging so hard to the past that you can’t imagine a future?”
My chest tightens. I want to tell her she’s wrong, that she doesn’t understand what it’s like to lose a mother and then feel her shadow in every corner. But then I see the flicker in Grace’s eyes, something raw and unspoken. “What about you?” I ask, sharper than I mean to. “You always have the perfect advice. What are you holding on to?”
Her lips press together. For a second, I think she won’t answer. Then she sighs. “I’ve been holding on to the idea of afamily that doesn’t exist. You know Mark and I split months ago. But I still keep the wedding china in the cabinet, like it means something. Like if I keep dusting it, maybe the marriage will come back.”
The confession stuns me. Grace never talks about the seperation. She’s been the picture of composure, filing paperwork, showing up to work, cracking jokes like nothing cracked her. But now I see the cracks. They match mine.
