Page 15 of Wild Flower

I brush the dirt off my hands and scowl. Carl Donohue sounds like the name of a man who should be selling cars onThe Price is Right. AKA: mama-cat-nip and Becca repulsion oil.

“I’m not interested,” I say, misting the pink Medinilla flowers that drape out of their orchid pots next to my mother.

I doubtCarlcomes with the six-pack abs of a merman, or the long hair of an Underworld god. (Yes, mermen are ripped. Have you seen the way they swim? You would have mad-abs if you pumped that big fin through the water doing an Olympic-worthy butterfly stroke). I also doubt Carl has a Midas-touched sidekick with hair spun in gold.

Archer and Finn have ruined men for me indefinitely, and poor Carl is nothing but bird poop on the floor.

“You can’t keep hiding behind your plants and never date anyone,” my mother chides.

“I’m young, mom. I’m supposed to mess around and hook-up with strangers. You know, the wholemake sure you regret nothingstrategy. Plus, nobody dates anymore.”

“That’s not true. You have a date on Friday with Carl. And don’t fool yourself, Rebecca. Twenty-six is not young.”

“Oh?” I sass. “Is twenty-six so old that my vagina doesn’t work anymore? If you’re going to give me the grandbabies lecture, please put all your eggs in the Helena basket, as I’m clearly a dried-up old hag. Did you lie to Carl and tell him I’m a teenage nymph, still a virgin and ready to be impregnated?”

“Language, Rebecca! Have you ever considered that maybethat’sthe reason you’re single?”

No. I’m single because every man I meet can’t heat the pudding.

Except for last night.

“Have you ever considered that it’s not the end of the world that I’m not married yet?” I counter, which only causes her to glare at me like I’m still sixteen. Maybe Miranda has a point about living near my mother. We always bicker in each other’s presence, and it’s gotten so bad it’s not a decision anymore: it’s muscle memory, it’s habit.

“You know,” my mother says with a frown. “If you were honest, and you actuallywereoutsowing your wild oats…” Her mouth purses together with distain. “I might not worry about you so much. Not that I condone that behavior, mind you.”

I grit my teeth. In the same breath she says,go be wild, but not reallyat the same time. She’d blow a gasket if she knew what I did last night.

“What if I said I met someone?” I ask, my stubborn streak rearing its angry head. “Would you stop trying to set me up with the Carls and Chads of the world?”

“Haveyou met someone?”

“Maybe I’ve met more than one someone,” I toss back carelessly.

“Don’t bethat woman,” my mother scolds. “You string a man along and he’ll resent you for it. You string two along and you’ll get burned. Be an upstanding woman.”

My insides glower. What if I want both at once? Huh? Is it stringing a man along if I enjoy them at the same time—and they like it?

“Not that I believe you’ve met anyone,” mom adds. “You spend all your time obsessed with these flowers.” She gestures to my greenhouse like I’m a foolhardy heroine in a Victorian novel who needs to realize marriage is the only way to make your way in a man’s world.

“Well, owning a small business takes time and effort. It doesn’t run itself.”

“It would if you created therightkind of business. Or hired more employees than one.”

“I’d love to have more employees, mom, but money doesn’t grow on trees. However, if you give me some space, I might be able to Frankenstein these plants together into one.”

My mother grips the tea cup and shakes her head. “I love you, Becca, but sometimes I think you’re your own worst enemy.”

“Because I run my own business?”

“Because you love these flowers more than any man.”

“I don’t need a man to save me!”

“No, all you need is to play in the dirt like a child,” she snaps. “Sometimes I wonder if letting you use this plot of land was a mistake. Maybe we enabled you with this hobby, I don’t know. But you’re meeting Chad on Friday.”

“I thought his name was Carl.”

“Yes, Carl. Right!” She frowns. “That’s what I meant.”

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