Coming Up Roses

by Staci Hart

  “That she did. She would call me synochik, make me tea in a pot older than God, and tell me about her village. Her husband and kids. Her parents and grandparents. Surviving the winter by sleeping on a massive stove made of clay. Foraging and storing food in spring and summer. The war. It’s crazy, what she’s been through. I used to go down every Saturday morning and eat biscuits with her and just listen.”

  “Wendy didn’t go with you?” I asked tentatively.

  He huffed a laugh. “Wendy couldn’t be bothered to listen to an old woman talk. She was too deep in her own head for anyone but herself.”

  I didn’t know what to say because I had nothing nice to say. So I asked a vague question in the hopes I’d avoid saying the wrong thing. “Do you miss it?”

  “LA? Nah. I loved living there, but I don’t think I’d go back.”

  “All that sunshine’s a bummer, huh?”

  A chuckle. “You have to drive everywhere. There’s no decent public transportation. The highways are a parking lot. And the people are just … I dunno. Different.”

  “Different how?”

  “I can’t say without sounding snobbish.”

  I laughed. “Now you have to tell me.”

  His nose wrinkled. “It’s just like New York in that status is a thing. What neighborhood you live in defines you or what kind of car you drive in LA—that sort of thing. But the difference is, in New York, nobody even sees you. There, everyone’s watching you, measuring you up, and putting you on a shelf. From the old lady in the rainbow-striped thigh-highs digging through the sushi at Whole Foods to the model in stilettos and fur coat in Target in the heat of July.”

  “Do you miss your old Russian neighbor?”

  “Yeah, but I send Zhenya postcards every few days. I’ve even gotten a few back,” he said proudly, reaching into my pocket too quickly for me to be shocked. When his hand came into view again, my keys were in it.

  “Postcards, huh?” I smiled at his back as he glanced at my keys and unlocked the door to my building.

  “She really liked the one of the Statue of Liberty. I told her to wait until she saw the one of the skyline. I’m making her wait,” he said with a smirk, pulling open the door.

  “Cruel,” I said on a laugh.

  We climbed the stairs without speaking as I imagined him sitting in a dusty apartment with a little old lady, listening to her talk about her life.

  Every day, Luke surprised me. It seemed to be a knack of his.

  I didn’t think I’d ever enjoyed being so wrong.

  My keys were still in his hand, so he unlocked the door to my apartment with the first key he tried.

  “How’d you do that?” I asked as he opened yet another door for me like the gentleman I’d never thought him to be.

  “What?”

  “Figure out which key it was?”

  “Well,” he started, following me in, “this one and this one are keys to the shop.” He displayed it. “And this one is less worn, so I figured it was for outside. Those tend to get replaced more often. And I figured this one was for your house. The teeth are nearly worn smooth.”

  I gaped at him.

  He smirked. “I had a job as a locksmith for a minute after high school.”

  With a roll of my eyes, I laughed. “Of course you did.”

  “Tess?” Dad called from back in the apartment. “That you?”

  “Hey, Daddy. In here,” I called back, setting down my haul on the kitchen island.

  Luke set his beside mine, but he was taking in the apartment. “Man, this place hasn’t changed at all. That same old wallpaper. But the plants … holy shit, Tess. It’s a jungle in here.”

  I chuckled. “They were Mom’s.”

  “Can’t get her to even prune them,” Dad said, wheeling into the room with a smile on his face. “Hello, son. How are you?”

  When he got close enough, he stopped, extending a callused hand. Luke took it, the knot of their square hands pumping.

  “I’m good, sir. And you?”

  “Little hungry. No chance there’s a hamburger somewhere in that bundle of flowers, is there?”

  I gave him a look. “Did you forget to eat again?”

  He shrugged, looking cowed. “I was in the middle of the commissioned officers, and I couldn’t quit until I finished. Couldn’t very well leave the beach on Normandy without its leaders, could I?”

  I kissed him on the forehead and made for the oven to set the temp. “I left dinner in the fridge. All you had to do was put it in the oven.”

  “You always take care of me, Pigeon.”

  Once I had the fridge open and my hands were full of casserole, I kicked the door closed with a thump.

  Luke leaned in as I pulled off the foil, wetting his lips. “What is it?”

  “You can’t be hungry. You just ate almost an entire pizza.”

  “What?” he asked innocently. “My mother says I’m a growing boy, Tess.”

  I laughed. “This, Luke Bennet, is Betsy’s Super Tuna Noodle Saproodle.”

  Dad groaned hungrily. “If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have made a meal off pistachios.”

  “Well, you have twenty minutes to work up your appetite.”

  “You’re welcome to join me, Luke. We’ll be eating off that casserole for two days, easy,” Dad said.

  “I’d love to,” Luke answered with a smile that made my heart do a loop-dee-loop. “I was just telling Tess I can’t believe this place hasn’t changed at all. That’s the same couch we used to play Mario Kart on.”

  “Still have it,” I said. “Play you after dinner.”

  “You mean, you’ll lose to me after dinner,” Luke corrected.

  A laugh burst out of me. “You never could beat me, and I know you’ve got to be rusty. Dad and I play at least three times a week.”

  “And she can’t beat me,” Dad added. “So I’ll beat you both after dinner.”

  Luke and I locked eyes, spitting out, “Dibs on Donkey Kong,” at the same time.

  Then we were all laughing.

  Luke looked around the room, scanning everything with the gears in his head whirring. “You know, it wouldn’t take much to get this place out of the nineties. Eighties?”

  “It was Betsy’s mom’s before we lived here. A lot of this was nostalgic. I think that wallpaper and the curtains are from the seventies. All recent decades are represented.” Dad smiled fondly, looking around the room. “I’ve thought about remodeling forever, but I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  This time, my heart had a very different reaction—a painful squeeze. He’d never admitted that to me, never even mentioned it. And the thought of changing this place soured my stomach.

  Luke smiled, completely unaware. “Honestly, it wouldn’t take much. The floors are in great shape. But we could paint all the cabinets, maybe splurge on countertops and appliances. There’s a warehouse discount place in Hell’s Kitchen—we can get stuff cheap. And I know a girl whose dad does stonework. Countertops, flooring, that sort of thing. I could install crown molding real easy, just for the cost of materials. I’ve got all the tools,” he said, almost to himself, too deep in his imagination to even seem to remember we were there. “We could pull the wallpaper, paint … it’d be like a brand-new place.”

  The pizza we’d eaten for dinner climbed up my throat. “We couldn’t ask you to do that,” I said, hoping he’d agree.

  It was like I didn’t know him at all.

  “Are you kidding? Man, that would be fun to do. It’d be no trouble. Might take a little bit, just because I’d need to do it between the stuff for the shop, but we’ve got it in great shape down there. I’ve got time.”

  Dad smiled at Luke. No, it wasn’t a smile. He was beaming. “I can almost see it. But the only way I’ll agree is if you let me pay you.”

  “For materials,” Luke insisted. “That’s all. I’m not a contractor. I’m not licensed. Some things will need to be done by the pros, like counter installation. Let me get
some numbers together for you and for now, we’ll just agree to talk about it. What do you say?”

  I didn’t hear my father respond, just watched him grinning and shaking Luke’s hand and looking thrilled while I panicked.

  Luke wasn’t wrong—this place was a time machine, and that was exactly the way I wanted it. I’d thought Dad did too, but he’d been thinking about this, wanting to do it, and he’d never told me. Probably because he was worried that I’d feel exactly like I did. Like I’d been betrayed. Like he was ready to move on. Like he wanted to forget.

  But I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to forget anything. I didn’t want to change anything. Because it would start here with the wallpaper and the kitchen where Mom had taught me to cook, and it would end with her closet cleaned out and her things gone, donated, lost forever. Where would I go when I needed her if her closet was empty? Because even now, I had a little spot under her dresses where I’d sit when I needed her. Where I’d imagine I could still smell her perfume. Where her favorite polka-dot dress hung, where the sweater with the big cable knit waited for me to slip into when I needed a hug.

  I took a breath, pressed my thoughts down until they were flat. Folded them until they were small. Tucked them away in a drawer in my mind. And carried on.

  I scooped up some flowers, and when Luke saw me, he followed suit, as I’d hoped. The conversation shifted, as I’d also hoped.

  “Be back, Daddy,” I said with levity I didn’t feel. “Twenty minutes, and your belly will be happy.”

  He chuckled, navigating into the living room. “All right. Meanwhile, I’m gonna get warmed up so I can properly whip you two on the track.”

  Luke followed me to my room, setting his flowers down next to mine on the bed while I busied myself prepping. I turned on my ring light and moved things around in front of my backdrop to stage a shot.

  “Wow,” he said from behind me. “This is where you take all your pictures?”

  “Mmhmm.” Avoiding his eyes, I sorted through the flowers, making an arrangement almost without thought.

  “We should set up a bigger space at the shop. Somewhere you can shoot installations or … I don’t know. Somewhere with room for you to really spread out.”

  “I don’t need more room,” I said a little more firmly than I’d meant.

  As usual, Luke didn’t pick up on it. He stepped between the ring light and the backdrop, turning around with a smile on his face. That smile melted my worries like chocolate in the sun—sticky and messy and impossible to clean up, just like Luke Bennet.

  But I was smiling back, simply because there was no choice to be made—whenever he smiled, I smiled.

  An idea struck. I handed him the bouquet and picked up my camera.

  He gave me a look that was somehow both suspicious and amused. “What do you want me to do with these?”

  “Look hot,” I answered, looking through the lens.

  He laughed, looking down at the bouquet, blushing bashfully. I pressed the button, the shutter clicking to the same mad beat as my heart. He was so earnest, the compliment affording a rare view of modesty so often hidden by his unwavering confidence.

  I glanced at the screen. It was perhaps the hottest photograph I’d ever seen, featuring two of the most beautiful things in my world—flowers and Luke Bennet.

  The only thing that would have made it better was if he’d been shirtless.

  I sighed dreamily. “Really, you must be an alien or something. Normal people aren’t this good at everything. I should start calling you Ace.”

  He made a flippant sound, stepping toward me so he could look himself. “Trust me, there’s plenty I’m bad at.”

  “Name one thing.”

  “Relationships,” he said without hesitating, but kept talking to cover the admission. “Advanced math. Cooking. Ice skating.”

  “Ice skating?” I echoed around a laugh.

  He shrugged. “Weak ankles.”

  When I laughed louder, he smiled, set his flowers on the bed, and stepped into me. His big hand circled my wrist, his thumb shifting against my palm.

  “Are you okay?” he asked simply, but those three little words held a quiet knowledge that threatened to break me open.

  Luke Bennet saw through me more often than I liked.

  I opened my mouth to say yes. To lie, to hide how I felt because it was irrational. Because admitting the truth would hurt.

  I wanted to say yes, reassure him that I was fine. But with Luke searching my eyes for the truth, I couldn’t tell him anything but the truth he sought. “I don’t want to change the house, Luke. I don’t want the wallpaper gone, and I don’t want the kitchen to be different. I don’t want any of it to be different. Because if it’s different, I won’t remember. I’ll forget everything. I’ll forget her.” Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, the words gone, cut off by the squeeze of my throat.

  The lines of his face softened, his brows drawing together. His hands, so warm and strong, framed my face, tilting it up so our eyes were locked.

  “I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I’m so sorry, Tess. When your dad said … well, I just thought …” He took a breath and let it out slow. “It sounded like he wanted a fresh start, and I didn’t even take a minute to consider you might not want the same. If I had, I’d have known better. I’d have asked what you wanted before telling you all the ways I’d rip your home apart.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I assured him, leaning into his palm. “I think Dad does want a fresh start, and I’d never stand in the way of that. This is his home. She was just as important to him as she was to me. So if this is what he wants, I’ll do it. I just don’t want to.” Tears fell—stupid, heavy, fat tears that I didn’t want any more than crown molding in my living room. I tried to look down.

  But he held my face where it was. “Tess, let me make you a promise.” He waited to make sure I was listening, his face somber and sincere. “I promise you, if I end up helping do this, I will not erase your mother from your home. There are ways to keep things and change them. You’re not going to lose her. I’ll promise you that over everything.”

  I nodded, my face twisted up and a sob lodged in my throat, one I couldn’t swallow, no matter how hard I tried. And Luke pressed a kiss to my forehead before wrapping me up in the safety of his arms, shifting his weight to rock me.

  He let me cry as his promise sank in. I knew without a doubt that he’d uphold it with all his power.

  And for the first time, I wished with all my heart that I could keep Luke Bennet for my own.

  14

  JUST THE TRUTH

  TESS

  Two weeks flew by in a blur of flowers.

  Bouquets and arrangements. Window installments. The greenhouse. Buckets and buckets of flowers in every color. I dreamed of the feel of stems in my hand, the scent so overwhelming, I could still smell it when I woke.

  I wondered if it clung to me, just a part of who I was now. Never had I made so many arrangements, and as our crop thinned, I had to get creative, mixing flowers I wouldn’t normally consider together. We’d begun to supplement with deliveries from Long Island and Chelsea while our plants replenished. Mr. Bennet began looking for more vertical growing solutions with Marcus, and Kash had already started planting more bulbs.

  Because if it was going to keep up like this, we’d need more plants, and maybe a few more florists.

  After years of decline, it was maybe the best problem we’d ever had.

  Just like another problem I had.

  It wasn’t Luke’s good humor—his ability to make me stop, slow down, and laugh, even when I was beyond capacity, was nothing short of magic. And there was no problem with his attentiveness. He gave that in abundance along with a healthy helping of fun, excitement, and spontaneity.

  The problem was that, for the last few weeks, I’d had a real hard time reminding myself of what Luke and I were and what we weren’t.

  Spending every night with him didn’t help. Not all night—we
were bound to the flower shop, since we both lived with our parents. Never before had it felt like an inconvenience. But now, I’d have killed for an actual bed, a shower, or I’d even settle for a door to lock. Of course, I told myself that was good. It kept some boundaries in place.

  Because I was not allowed to fall for Luke Bennet. Not beyond his body and his company.

  We were not a thing.

  Luke didn’t do things.

  It’s temporary, I reminded myself over and again.

  It was a now thing, and I never looked beyond today. Not aloud anyway. I tried not to think about how I’d feel if he came in and ignored me, if it all of a sudden ended without warning. As much as I told myself it was fine, that what happened tomorrow wasn’t important, that I was living in the moment, there was no small amount of expectation that I would see him. He would be charming and gorgeous and would kiss me like I was the only woman on the planet. And then he would leave, I would go home, and we’d wake up to do it all over again.

  But I wasn’t Luke’s girlfriend even if it did feel like we were dating. Not that we’d actually gone on a date. Or really been anywhere but our parents’ houses or here. In this shop. All day and every night. I’d come in on my days off. Luke had built me a small studio in the back for our Instagram, which he helped me shoot, citing his brief experience as a photographer’s assistant in LA as credentials. I’d posted the photo I’d taken of him in my room, and our account had blown up, so I’d taken to photographing him some, hauling things, making pieces for the installments, and more than a few times with flowers.

  No lie—posting pictures of a hot guy with pretty flowers made for a whole lotta Instagram love.

  When girls started coming into the shop looking for him, I tried to tell myself I didn’t want to drown them all in the farmhouse sink. Judy had placed an order a day for weeks, and Luke would send Jett every time. But that had nothing to do with me other than the fact that we were busy with work. Luke wasn’t my boyfriend. He wasn’t my anything.

  Oh, the lies I told myself.

  That night, we’d just locked up the shop, waving at passersby who had stopped to stare in the window with a gesture to the sign—New installment, 8a. Blanche’s donuts and coffee! And then we drew the elegant curtains we’d hung last week and started hauling supplies from the back.