by Max Monroe
As I’m the blood sister of the former resident, the single-guy paraphernalia littering the place is an actual nightmare. But hey, I guess I can thank the stars, the sun, and the moon that I’m not living in my childhood bedroom.
Still, my New York friend count is at a staggering zero, and I’m not even going to address the reality that when it comes to the whole find-a-man task, I’m woefully behind the curve.
I just kind of forgot to make it a priority.
I was too busy reading Stephen King novels, studying hard to keep a perfect GPA, and chasing a level of perfection high enough to trigger unmistakable pride from my hard-to-please father.
Bruce Willis—aka my dad—is a man of too many words and most of them are stubborn, cantankerous, and filled with enough sarcasm to make Amy Schumer’s new Netflix special look watered down.
For as long as I can remember, his life has revolved around two things: his family and his business—Bruce Willis & Sons Floral. Established in 1980, my family’s florist shop has become one of Chelsea’s pride and joys.
Ironically, my dad only has one son, my brother Evan, who lives in Austin, Texas.
So, really, it’s just Bruce Willis & Wife & “Temporarily Back Home from Graduate School but Not Planning on Working Here Forever” Daughter Floral.
But that’s too long to fit on the storefront marquee, so I’m stuck dealing with all the looks I get, wondering if I’ve undergone gender reassignment surgery.
And now I, Mabel Frances Willis, am a twenty-four-year-old, college-educated, sexually stunted woman, who’s barely held a penis in her hands.
Prospects on penis-encounters aren’t looking great with that old-lady moniker, but thankfully, everyone calls me Maybe. A nickname that was created because my parents realized about two years into my life that the name Mabel wouldn’t suit me until I reached an age where senior citizen discounts and Melba toast became a constant in my daily routine.
Although, maybe Maybe isn’t the world’s greatest nickname.
The utter definition of the word revolves around indecisiveness.
Do I want to meet a man? Maybe.
Do I want to have sex? Maybe.
Do I want to live the rest of my life as some virginal literary spinster with more cats than chairs in my house? Maybe.
See what I mean?
“Maybe!” My dad’s voice fills my ears again. “Where are you?”
With the way he shouts, you’d think the shop was a ginormous warehouse, but it’s barely 1500 square feet.
“I’ll be there in a sec!” I call back, but he doesn’t wait. He never waits. Waiting is nowhere in Bruce’s vocabulary.
“Okay! But I need to know one thing! Did Phil follow up on the Carmichael wedding?”
“Yes!” I shout back and add my resume to the email in progress.
“And what’s the status?”
“The bride is still convinced she wants tiger lilies and cascading orchids in her bouquet!”
My dad’s Dr. Evil-inspired chuckles echo off the walls of the shop. “Sounds like that bride is about to take her dear old dad for an expensive ride!”
Oh my God, get me out of here.
I hit send on my email and cross my fingers that this publishing house—Windstone Press—will actually call me for an interview. Once the little whooshing sound that signifies my message was sent fills my ears, I shut my laptop, step back out into the main shop, and prepare to face the Bruce-themed music.
“Where in the hemp oil have ya been?” he asks, crossing his beefy arms over his chest. “I thought you were going to man the front.”
“I had a few resumes I needed to send out.”
“To who?”
“Publishing houses.”
“Which ones?”
I sigh. “New York ones, Dad.”
“Pretty sure I had that one figured out.” He grins at my sarcasm. “So, that’s what you do with a degree in books? You work in publishing?”
A degree in books. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
I majored in English Literature and got my master’s degree at Stanford University, one of the most prestigious English Lit programs in the country. With the way he talks, you’d think I went to some back-alley online university and obtained a degree in dog walking, but it’s not worth the explanation. I’ve said all of these things no fewer than a thousand times, and this is still how the conversation always goes.
“Yeah, Dad, that’s what you do when you get a degree in books,” I respond blandly. “You work in publishing, preferably as an editor somewhere.”
“You think you’ll be able to find a job in the city?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Not to stress you out, but it’d be a real kick in the gonads if you can’t put that expensive degree to good use. Me and your mom could’a had a tropical love nest somewhere.”
Love nest? Jesus. Now I’m stressed and skeeved.
“I’ve been back home for two weeks, Pops,” I say as much to myself as I do to him. “These things take time.”
“Well…” He pauses and gives me a good hearty pat to my shoulder. “I guess I should just be thankful I get to see your smiling face here at the shop for a little while, huh?”
My chest eases a little, and I’m reminded of why my mom and I haven’t arranged to have him meet an early grave. “I guess so.”
“You certainly brighten the place up,” he adds with a secret smile that reminds me so much of Evan it’s not even funny.
Whereas I am nearly the spitting image of our mom—long brown hair and big brown eyes—my brother could be our father’s twin.
Which, surprisingly, isn’t a bad thing.
With hazel eyes, now salt-and-pepper hair, and a strong jaw, my dad has always been a handsome guy.
“Not to mention,” he adds a little too loudly. “You’re a real nice change of pace from cranky Betty.”
“I can hear you!” my mom chimes in, and my dad chuckles through a big ole, full-teeth smile.
“I know you can!”
“And like you should talk!” she adds. “You’ve been on a rampage since you found out that daisy shipment was running one day behind schedule!”
“Now, listen here, Betty.” Bruce turns away from me to shout in her direction. “It’s the end of May, and everyone and their mother wants fresh bouquets! Which means, unless someone wants trouble, no one should get in the way of a florist man and his godspamming Gerbera daisies!”
My mom cackles. “Yeah, so we’ve all heard!”
My always-bickering, but still somehow in love parents, ladies and gentlemen.
If I added a white horse and shoved my dad in knight’s armor, they might as well be a Disney flick.
“Sheesh.” Bruce just smirks at me. “What’s stuck in her craw today?”
I grin and jerk my chin toward him. “Pretty sure you should recognize a thorn when you see one, Mr. Florist Man.”
Thankfully, Bruce takes jabs almost as well as he hands them out, and he leaves me with a smirk as he heads to the back to do whatever it is he does back there.
“He’s a real pain in my ass today,” my mother says as she sidles up next to me at the cash register.
I laugh and roll my eyes. “He’s always a pain in your ass.”
“Yeah.” She snorts. “You’re right. Every day for thirty years, he does something that makes my kettle steam.”
I bite my lip to stop myself from laughing at my mom’s metaphor and shrug. “It’s safe to say there’s no hope for change, then.”
“No. I guess not.” Her smile turns soft. “If there’s one thing to be said about Bruce, it’s that he always keeps me on my toes.”
“Oh yeah. Lifelong toe-walking is great for you. Just ask a podiatrist,” I mutter, and my mom doesn’t hesitate to defend her husband.
“He means well, Maybe. You know he only wants the best for you.” Her wise brown eyes crinkle at the corners. “Just try to remember his intentions come from the heart. And when it
comes to his little girl, that sometimes-grumpy heart of his is enormous.”
“But that’s the thing, Mom,” I retort. “I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m a grown-ass, twenty-four-year-old woman.”
Her responding smile is far too knowing and sage. “Oh, honey. Twenty-four is so young. You have so much life to live and learn. You’ll see.”
All I can do is sigh. Because what can I say to that?
I don’t know that my mom will ever think I’m grown up, and Bruce does mean well. He wants me to be happy. I know that.
It’s just hard to remember during a bout of criticism.
The bell above the front door chimes, and a man wearing khaki shorts and an “I Heart New York” T-shirt steps inside. He has a camera strapped around his neck and a petite, gray-haired wife by his side.
“Hello. How can I help you today?” my mother greets, and the man glances around the front of the shop.
His eyes scan across the floral displays and sample bouquets of lilies and daisies and roses. “This is Bruce Willis’s shop, right?”
My mom nods. “It is.”
“Holy shit,” he mutters to himself more than anyone else. “I can’t believe Bruce Willis owns a floral shop.”
Oh, here we go…
“Is he…uh…is he here?” he asks, and my mom tilts her head to the side.
“Is who here?”
“Bruce Willis.” The man stutters over his words. “I’d…I’d love to get a picture with him.”
Most people might think it’s funny, entertaining, even, that my dad shares a name with the Bruce Willis, famous Hollywood action star. And truthfully, they’d be right. It gets quite confusing for the tourists, but it’s been a serious bright spot for me in the past two weeks.
Especially when they stop in, trying to get autographs and roses from the man who kicked ass in Die Hard, only to find my sixty-year-old father in a golf polo, khaki shorts, and loafers.
“He’s not here.” I busy myself filling the cash register with fresh paper. “He’s in LA. Shooting Die Hard 9.”
“Maybe.” My mom nudges me with her elbow, but I ignore her.
The man’s eyes light up with equal parts confusion and excitement. “There’s going to be a Die Hard 9?”
“Yep. Die…Hardest.”
Sure, it could be misconstrued as a little cruel, but I can’t help myself. This is a daily conversation in the shop. I have to spice things up every once in a while.
He scrunches his brow. “But I thought there were only five Die Hard movies…”
“I guess you’re four Die Hards short, then.” I shrug. “But can we interest you in a fresh bouquet of roses by Bruce Willis for your pretty wife?”
His wife smiles at me and then turns a “you better buy me some damn flowers” look toward her husband.
“Uh…” He pauses, but when his eyes meet the stare of doom, he quickly agrees, “Y-yes. Of course.”
“And Bruce doesn’t think I do anything around here,” I whisper toward my mom as the man proceeds to pick his main squeeze a fresh bouquet of pink roses from one of the displays.
She rolls her eyes and grins at the same time. “You’re incorrigible.”
“And a fantastic saleswoman.”
She pinches my side with a firm grip, and I laugh.
My mom handles the money exchange with Bruce Willis’s number one fan, and I walk toward one of the front displays and take inventory.
“We’re running low on the wild flower bouquets,” I call over my shoulder just as the bell chimes the couple’s exit. “Do you want me to cut some fresh ones, or do you want to?”
“I’ll do it,” she responds, and I hand her one of the empty water buckets before she heads to the back.
With my mom otherwise occupied in the back room and my dad likely taking a secret cigar break, I connect my phone to the Bluetooth speakers of the shop to play some music.
While Bruce is adamant he doesn’t smoke stogies anymore, we all know the truth. One whiff of him when he strides back into the shop after four o’clock says otherwise.
I scroll through my playlists and click on the fourth one from the top. Today feels like a Billie Eilish kind of day.
In the name of keeping busy and making this day go by as fast as possible, I drag a trash can over to the DIY-bouquet section and start picking through each bushel of flowers, throwing away the ones that are dead, have lost too many petals, or managed to get a little too smashed for my liking.
But I only get halfway into my task when the bell above the front door chimes another customer’s entrance.
Crouched down and riffling through the sunflower section, I call over my shoulder, “Just a minute!”
“Take your time,” a man’s voice responds, which I’ve always felt is like the Southern use of Bless your heart, so I quickly finish what I’m doing.
I toss three sad-looking sunflowers into the trash and rearrange the ones left in the bin so the proudest and prettiest are in the front and then push myself to standing. My apron is covered in petals and flower debris, so I dust off swiftly before spinning around.
But all of my hustling comes to a screeching stop, feet freezing securely to their exact location on the tile floor, when I see who the customer is.
Holy Godfather Cannolis.
Dark hair, cobalt-blue eyes, broad shoulders, and a sinfully firm body, he is the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome.
He’s also, it takes me almost zero time to realize, my brother’s best friend, my first real crush, and a guy I haven’t seen in nearly a decade.
Milo Ives.
He’s sporting a pressed, smart suit, and it’s apparent he’s forgone his old Converse and vintage band T-shirts and jeans preferences and adopted the wardrobe of a suave man.
I stare a little harder, and my breath catches in my throat. Dear God, if anything, he’s only gotten more attractive since I last saw him.
Pounding heart, nervous flutter inside my belly, and an embarrassingly ogling gaze, I’ve apparently left my current body behind and inhabited my thirteen-year-old self.
Briefly, I open and close my eyes just to verify what I’m seeing is real.
But it is real. He is real.
Six years older than me, and my brother Evan’s best friend since elementary school, Milo Ives was the unattainable apple of my girlish eye for as long as I can remember, and now, he’s standing right in front of me.
As he looks up from his phone, he flashes a handsome and oh-so-familiar smile my way, and my chest tightens like a damn vise.
When I was eleven, for six straight months, after his parents relocated to Florida for his dad’s job, Milo lived with us to finish out his senior year in high school.
He was busy galivanting with Evan and countless girls, and I…well, I was counting his smiles.
Sleepy, morning smiles. Excited smiles. Amused smiles. Annoyed smiles. You name it, and I memorized it like a swoony-eyed little psycho.
“Hello,” he greets, and his voice is deeper, raspier, sexier than I remember.
Probably because the last time you saw him, you were thirteen years old…
“H-hi,” I stutter through one simple fucking word.
Sheesh, it’s going to be a long encounter if I don’t get my shit together.
It takes an insane amount of work, but I finally get my feet to move me over behind the counter.
Jesus. How can he still have this effect on me?
One would think, a decade later, I’d be impervious to his good looks and natural charm.
I clear my throat once, twice, three times, and still, awkward misery fully engaged, I’m unable to find my voice.
His gorgeous smile deepens, and I have to put a hand to the counter to counteract the gravitational effect it has on my knees.
Just say something, Maybe. Ask him how things have been. Ask him how he’s been.
My cheeks heat and my stomach feels heavy, and I’m now painfully conscious of the coffee stain on my whit
e shirt from this morning.
Just do something besides standing here like a moron.
I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear with a shaky hand and force out three simple words. “H-how are you?”
“I guess I’m doing pretty good for a Monday,” he responds, and that smile turns soft on his lips. “Are you new here?”
“New here?” I repeat his words, and he nods.
“I’ve known the Willis family for a long time. Did you just start working for them?”
He’s known the Willis family? Just start working for them?
“I come in here every month or so,” he adds with a smirk that quite literally could drop panties. “It’s possible I missed you, but I’m pretty sure I’d remember seeing you here.”
Instantly, my underwear stops dissolving, and my pride takes a hike instead.
Milo Ives, the star of all of my teenage fantasies, has no idea who I am.
My pits are sweating so hard they’re testing the strength of my deodorant while I try to come up with the perfect thing to say to his strong-jawed, plush-lipped face, and He. Doesn’t. Even. Remember. Me.
Oh my God.
“I…uh…just started working here two weeks ago,” I push out impulsively, and I have to clear the awkward cobwebs that have developed inside my throat.
Seriously, Maybe? Instead of righting this awkward situation and saying, “Hey, Milo. It’s Maybe, Evan’s sister. Remember?”, you’re just going to go with the whole “we don’t know each other” vibe?!
“You’ll love it here,” he says, and genuine affection highlights the deep, raspy tones of his too-sexy voice. “The Willises are good people.”
Yeah. Sigh. I know.
“Uh-huh.”
Path of least resistance solidified, it becomes apparent Willises can be idiots too.
“Well, I just need to put in an order for a bouquet.” Too busy berating myself in my head, I just stare at him, and after the silence stretches on for ten seconds too long, he evidently feels the pressure to add, “It’s for my mom’s birthday next week…”
“Oh…oh…okay… You want to order something…”