Page 41 of The Dead Romantics

I’d always written how grief was hollow. How it was a vast cavern of nothing.

But I was wrong.

Grief was the exact opposite. It was full and heavy and drowning because it wasn’t the absence of everything you lost—it was the culmination of it all, your love, your happiness, your bittersweets, wound tight like a knotted ball of yarn.

The bell above the door chimed as I came into the flower shop. It smelled like roses and lilies and my grandmother’s potpourri that she always kept in the bathroom. There was an older gentleman behind the counter, fixing up a flower arrangement. An old-timey radio played Elvis in the background.

“Mr. Taylor,” I greeted, wondering if he remembered me from seventh-grade English class.

He looked at me over his thick glasses, and his eyebrows jerked up. “Miss Florence Day! If it isn’t you, I swear.”

I fixed a smile over my mouth. “It’s me. How are you?”

“As good as I can be, as good as I can be,” he replied, nodding. “Been doing up flower arrangements as quick as I can, but it don’t seem quick enough these days. So much going on. Are you here to place an order?”

“I—oh. No. Well...” Movement caught the corner of my eye, and I turned to watch Ben not so subtly try to hide behind a bouquet of roses on a table. Because that wasn’t conspicuous at all. Istudiously turned back to the florist, intent on ignoring him. “I was wondering if you knew where I could find a thousand wildflowers?”

“Athousand?” Mr. Taylor scratched the side of his head.

“I know. It’s a lot.”

“I don’t really stockthatmany wildflowers, and if I did that’d be...” Before I could stop him, he took out a beat-up old calculator and punched in some numbers. “About fifteen hundred dollars.”

I blanched. That was more than my part of the apartment rent for the month, and I mostcertainlydidn’t have that kind of money. “Well—um. That’s good to know, I guess.”

“Is this for your father’s funeral? I could pull something together—”

“Oh, no. No, no, no, I couldn’t possibly.”

“Of course you can! Xavier was a good man. I’m sorry. I know it’s tough. How’s Bella hanging in there?”

“Mom’s okay,” I replied, but it struck me that I didn’t reallyknowif she was fine or not. I tried calling her after my chat with Rose, but she didn’t pick up. She and Carver might’ve still been in the meeting with the lawyer. I didn’t know how long those things took. “And anyway, I’m just running some errands for her. Trying to make things easier. Dad left a laundry list of things to do for his funeral.”

Mr. Taylor barked a laugh. “Course he did! Mind if I ask what else you need doing?”

So I told him—the flowers, and the murder of crows, and the party decorations, and Elvis—

“You know, there’s an impersonator who always sings up at Bar None. Your dad loved him. He’d stop by every Thursday night before heading to his poker game and make the poor guy sing ‘Return to Sender.’ ”

“Bar None,” I echoed, remembering that Daddidlove to go have a drink or two before poker nights.

“Yep. Always got them hips goin’ and everything.” He mimicked the impersonator as best he could without throwing out a hip. “Maybe that’s who your dad meant?”

“Maybe,” I said. It was worth a try, at least. I’d go first thing tomorrow. “Thanks—that’s a big help.”

“Always. Lemme know if you change your mind about those wildflowers,” he added as I waved goodbye, and then he gave a start, as if he remembered something. “Oh, Florence—I’d hate to ask...”

“Yeah?”

“As I said,” Mr. Taylor fretted, “we’re up to our gills in orders and running a bit behind—those flowers your dad ordered may arrive a bit late.”

My heart jumped into my throat. “He ordered flowers?”

“Earlier this week,” Mr. Taylor replied. “A bouquet of daylilies, to Foxglove Lane.”

So, not wildflowers. Of course Dad wouldn’t make it that easy. But Foxglove Lane... I knew where it was. But why would he send flowers there? I didn’t know why I said what I did next. Maybe it was to glimpse into the everyday life I’d missed. Maybe it was to walk, for a moment more, in Dad’s shoes. I said, “I’ll deliver the flowers.”

“Oh, I couldn’t ask you to—”

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