Elly in Bloom. Colleen Oakes

some of them.

      With a triumphant flourish, Kim finished stripping the flower and plopped it into the bucket. “You deal with her then!” She looked over at Elly. “Wow, you’re really sweaty.”

      Elly nodded and wiped her face with her sleeve. “Thanks. It’s nice of you to notice.”

      Kim, she noted, was simply glowing, her perfectly freckled skin radiating light and warmth. Elly mentally punched her. “Well, at least I don’t have tulip dirt in my hair.”

      Snarky Teenager, her other employee, walked into the work area, grabbed some marguerite daisies out of Elly’s bucket, and left.

      “You’re welcome,” Elly called after her.

      Snarky Teenager poked her head around the corner. “You’re welcome for what? For doing my job? I should thank you for letting me do my job? Whatever.” On her second day on the job, Kim christened the girl “Snarky Teenager,” and it stuck.

      She stomped to the back, her bright pink bra blazing through her sheer shirt. Kim rolled her eyes and mouthed, “Boyfriend drama.” Elly shook her head, exasperated, and wandered to the front office where she sank heavily into her oversized chair. Her damp blond hair stuck to her face. It was only April, but it already felt like the hottest month ever. The back room of the shop wasn’t air-conditioned. Even with fans blowing every which way (which resulted in having make-out hair—though everyone knew there was none of that going on), the heat seeped into her body like a steaming lotion. She never got cool and sweat trickled like a stream between her breasts. Wonderful. Boob sweat. It felt like walking in a warm, living womb.

      Kim had threatened many times that she would quit if they didn’t buy air-conditioning for the back room, but they were empty threats. Kim would never leave. She loved the flowers too much, as Elly did. And Elly loved flowers, and her store—her little piece of heaven. The front of the store was painted pale yellow with antique white accents, not unlike cake piping. English ivy snaked down bookshelves filled with wedding and flower books: The Language of Flowers, Your Unique Bouquet, Martha Stewart Weddings, and others. Her dark cherry wood desk had very little clutter on it besides a photo of her mom, a computer—a complex machine that she barely understood, and a ceramic mug with “Love” blazoned on its side and pens jammed into it. Elly grimaced at the irony of what was clearly lacking, but that mug was one of the few things she brought from Georgia. There was no reason for it; she loved her love mug. Everything was placed in the right spot on her desk, simple and clean. While looking effortless, it took a lot of work to maintain.

      To the right of the desk was a huge cottage window. It peeked out onto a tiny courtyard that faced Wydown Street. Elly and Kim had tried their hardest to decorate the barren, overgrown area—they put topiaries in the corners, rose bushes tucked into a raised brick seating area, white lights in the trees—but it still looked a little … ugly. It would always be a little ugly, but Elly liked it anyway.

      She sighed and took a sip from her water bottle, delighting in the cool liquid trickling down her throat, into the wrong pipe. Elly wheezed and choked. Just when she was feeling sexy, it all fell apart. Oh well, it wasn’t like anyone was looking anyway. She shrugged; at least her store was beautiful. Tall ribbon holders stretched across the walls, displaying a pastel rainbow of satin. Two coolers hummed all day long and added a much-needed sense of urgency to all projects. Posies had a variety of walk-ins every day—from older women, who lived in the grand mansions lining the street, to awkward high school boys buying single roses for their girlfriends. The boys were Elly’s favorites. Other than that, it was mostly brides. Ah, the endless brides.

      They would come in, their faces flushed with the excitement of their upcoming wedding, mothers, sisters, and friends in tow, clutching various wedding books and magazine cutouts. She would greet them at the door, seat them at her table and proceed to talk about such lovely things that they always left a little dazed. She had a large glass covered table, and under it were the thank-you notes from dozens of brides, all grateful and gushing. There were a small handful of brides over the past two years who didn’t like their flowers—“too earthy” was always their complaint—but the vast majority of Posies’ brides loved their flowers and couldn’t refer them fast enough.

      Elly would spend a couple of minutes every day running her fingers aimlessly over the notes. Her brides, her girls. She would often become more than a florist to each of them—a friend, a confidant, a trusted wedding advisor. This was her favorite part of the job, besides the designing. Elly loved creating her organic magic, a bundle of beauty that when handed to a bride made her gasp in delight. Elly was constantly thinking up new combinations and could sit for hours writing down flower types and color, and today, standing in front of the picture window, she let her mind wander to just that.

      She was shaken out of her freesia-induced stupor by the shrill ringing of the phone. She took a quick sip of water to clear her throat, and answered.

      “Thank you for calling Posies. This is Elly.” And so went the day. Consultations, flower orders, processing, talking with Kim, yelling at Snarky Teenager—it was all a joyful blur of work and play.

      At five, when business was winding down, Elly switched the sign over to “Closed” and watched the professionals driving by, on their way home to big lives in big houses. She sighed peacefully and leaned her head against the cool glass. Elly never dreamed she would be here. She never dreamed that she would have her own shop—her own life—after the nuclear sex bomb decimated her life in Georgia. Starting over was painful, heartbreaking, and exhilarating. She was anew. She was blessed. She was … really hungry. Pizza?

      With a new urgency, Elly switched off the lights, took one last look at the quiet shop, clicked her tongue at Cadbury to follow her, and headed upstairs to her apartment. Unlocking the door, she reveled in the air-conditioning before stripping off her apron, and pulling off her pants and sweeping her hair up in a ponytail holder. She ate her homemade pizza quickly, settling on the couch next to Cadbury. A few television reruns later, she headed up to the roof.

      The roof of her building, which was directly above her apartment, was a hundred-square-foot rubber-tarp paradise. Plants covered the ground, and there was just enough room for two outdoor loveseats covered in a beautiful terra-cotta fabric and bright-pink pillows to snuggle with. She loved to come up here to think, to nap, and to cry. Relaxing back against the cushions, Elly stared up, transfixed by the night sky, trying not to think on her past or worry about tomorrow’s wedding. Her elbow bumped the loveseat and she dashed red wine across her bare legs. She threw back the blanket.

      “Crap!” she cried out loud and then instantly felt exposed.

      She looked around and calmed herself. She was the only one up here, the only one with a roof-deck, the only one without pants. There was no one to care that she was drinking wine in her underwear, or that she had eaten a whole small pizza by herself earlier. She was alone. She was always alone. Shaken by the thought, Elly leaned her head back against the couch. It had been two long years since she had driven away from him. Him, the man whose name she would never think. Kim had been right. Clayton was … okay. She was okay. Elly lingered on the thought. She was, right? With that, Elly longingly began counting the hours until she went back to work, for at night, her loneliness awakened deep within her—a nagging finger pressing against her heart making her aware that something was missing.

      Chapter Two

      “I can’t believe that you didn’t mention to me, UNTIL RIGHT NOW, that she ordered another bridesmaid bouquet. Did you not think that was important?” Elly slammed the cooler door shut and glared at Snarky Teenager, who shrugged her hair out of her eyes and yanked up the pants that were barely covering her lavender thong.

      “Look. I’m sorry. I checked the e-mail about a week ago and I forgot to write it on the contract. I suck. I get it.”

      Elly rolled her eyes. “Don’t be sorry, just do