Page 7 of Bloom and Burn
I enter the house, toe off my shoes, and join my parents and their guests in the dining room.
“Here’s our Ryan, finally!” Mom announces with a beaming smile, all pride and teary eyes. She places the casserole on the table and gives me a hug. “Tell us, dear, how was your first afternoon on your own at the Orchid?”
She called me a bazillion times, so she knows already. So, this must be about impressing the Rogers. Well, let’s see. It was pretty much more of the same, until this hot as fuck stud who used to bully me walked in and I had to fight with nails and claws not to hump his leg.
But I can’t really say that, so I just give everyone a recount of the sales I made and the orders I got for tomorrow. She doesn’t miss the chance to pull out the picture of the festival arrangements that I sent to her and point out a few other ‘minor’ details that I must fix.Sigh.
Interrogation over, I help her set the table. After the Rogers’ kids finish their food, they move to the lounge and turn on the TV so they can watch some dating show. I join them, only half-listening as I try to keep up with the conversation at the table.
“—is getting married,” Mrs. Rogers is saying when I tune in, making fluttery eyes at me. “End of next month.”
Ah, she must be talking about Charlie. Ex-bully like Jack, current NHL rising star. If I’m not misremembering, he’s playing for New Jersey.
“Oh, yes!” my mom jumps in, eager to share with us her thoughts on the matter. “It’s such a shame they won’t be holding the wedding here, though.”
Right, that’s my cue to retreat to my room before the two of them launch into a discussion about exactly why Charlie and his fiancée Nadya should get married here in backwater Estacada instead of wherever they want to.
“Thanks for coming over Bryan, Cindy,” I slide into the conversation as I stand up. “It was great catching up.”
“You off to bed?” mom asks me after she takes a sip from her wine, the ‘already’ implied.
Technically, no. Nine p.m. is way too early for me, but it’s the most effective way to deter her from trying to convince me to sit down and gossip with them. I don’t mind it sometimes, but talks about other people’s weddings are guaranteed to lead into talks aboutmypersonal life, which will have them coming up with a list of suitable Estacada bachelors I should be trying to date.
No thanks, pass.
“Yes. I want to head over to the shop a little earlier tomorrow,” I say.
She nods in understanding. “I can stop by and help you out if you want me to? I’m sure your dad can make dowithout me for a few hours.” She chuckles. “He did so for years.”
Yes, but he still had an assistant. It just wasn’t you. She was elected this time around, so if she’d kept the flower shop, she’d be working two jobs.
“And I did fine today on my own. I got this.”
She looks ready to argue, frowning at me like I’ve stolen her egg and left behind just the shell. I can practically taste what she wants to say—Yes, Ryan, the Blooming Orchid is yours, but I’ve always done things this way, so you should do the same, too! It’s what we are known and loved for!I love her and I appreciate that she wants to help, but always being told what and how to do is very discouraging, not to mention suffocating.
“I promise to call if I need help, okay?” I rush out before she can challenge what I said.
With her eyebrows slanting even further down, she nods. It’s mostly because of the Rogers—she hates to be seen in a bad light—but I’ll take it.
“Good night, everyone,” I say and retreat upstairs.
My bedroom is on the third floor. It used to be an attic, but we repurposed it so that I could enjoy some semblance of privacy, even though I still live with my parents. I did rent for a while, but the prices are such a robbery that we decided there was no point in wasting money paying off other people’s mortgages. So instead, I gave money to my parents for renovations and chip in for food and bills. It’s a win-win since I’ll inherit our house down the line anyway.
I place my backpack on the desk and take out my laptop, wondering what to watch. There is a new episode of the demon romance I’ve been following, but then again, I could be productive instead of a passive consumer ofentertainment, so I dive into the rooftop gardening book since I didn’t get to read much of it in the afternoon.
This section is on watering options, discussing drip irrigation, water barrels and sprinkles, but before I can really get into the gist of things, my mind decides that a rooftop garden equals a high rise which equals a fancy apartment which equals a certain designer-suit-wearing customer I had at the Blooming Orchid today.
Sighing, I sit at my desk and stare at the glowing stars littering the beige ceiling. I’m impressed, for real. The logic my brain employed to get me thinking about Jack is out of this world. Incomprehensible. I can only speculate which neural pathway it activated in order to make this leap happen.
The bad news is that now I’m too distracted to focus on learning the ins and outs of setting up irrigation systems. I know myself—I’ll read it and then it will be out of my head a second later. It’s pointless. So, as much as I hate it, I give into my curiosity and let Jack consume my thoughts.
First things first—was he just passing by Estacada, or was he visiting someone? Passing by is a possibility I suppose, but considering how late it was… maybe it’s not that likely. Which leaves the second option—he was visiting someone. But who? As far as I know, no one kept in touch with the Kellers over the years, so I can’t imagine he has any friends here.
Tapping the armrests, I lean back in my old chair. It squawks like a dying frog. Okay, this leaves me with the wildcard: the massive house that Jack’s family still owns on the other side of town. I only know it was never sold because dad’s the mayor, but surely this doesn’t mean Jackhas returned, right? Maybe he needs the money, so he’s here to do it up.
I snort. As if—people with money problems don’t wear suits like the one he was wearing. And that watch? Yeah, it’s not that.
Craning my neck to the side, I squint at the bookshelf by the TV stand. Framed photos and small figurines sit between the books, separating them into categories only I can make sense of. Still, it takes me a while to locate the one I am looking for. Grinning like an idiot, I grab my high school photo album from the bottom shelf and plop myself onto the fluffy blue rug.
