by Sarah Dessen
“Because his mother asked me to and swore he could actually be a good worker if directed appropriately.” I made a face, conveying my doubt about this. “Other than me and William, you’re the best director I know.”
“Don’t kiss up to me. It’s embarrassing.”
She smiled. “You know, you might find you actually enjoy having company.”
“I don’t dislike people,” I said. “I’m just not fond of him.”
This was an important distinction, I felt. But she barely seemed to hear me, already turning to call his name as she gestured for him to join us. He brought the pen and pad with him. Of course.
“They’re expecting you by ten sharp,” she told me, handing over her copy of the invoice. “Make sure you get everything.”
I took the paper from her, not answering, and turned back to the door. Before I could push it open, though, he reached around and did it for me. “After you.”
My first thought was to just stop in my tracks, right where I was. The next was how petulant I was acting, like a child. Strange how you could barely know a person and they were still able to bring out the worst in you. I took a breath, nodded at him, then stepped through the door. Up close, I saw there was another tiny pink boa feather in his hair.
He would not. Stop. Touching. Everything.
It had started with the vents, which he spent the first five minutes of the drive—I was watching the dashboard clock—turning this way and that to achieve what he referred to as “maximum cooling velocity.” Then he moved on to his side of the dual thermostat dial, turning it to basically Arctic, followed by loosening and tightening his seat belt. Now it was the radio.
“Stop,” I said, as he changed the station yet again. When he’d asked if he could, I’d said yes, thinking he’d do it once or twice. This was our fourth round of my presets, and my headache was increasing with each push of a button. “Just leave it on one thing, would you please?”
“I can’t listen to bad music,” he explained. “It’s like a thing with me.”
“Fine.” I hit the AM/FM button. “Talk radio it is.”
I realized my mistake almost instantly. As it was the top of the hour, the national news was on.
“Authorities have released the names of the five victims of yesterday’s shooting in California.” The reporter’s voice, seemingly like everyone on public radio, was level and calm. “All were students at Riverton High School, as was the gunman, a sixteen-year-old male who was a sophomore. Classmates and teachers have stated he was quiet, but showed no previous signs of violence.”
I took a breath, focusing on my hands on the wheel. Ambrose was messing with his seat belt again.
“Fifteen-year-old Lacey Tornquist was a neighbor of the shooter,” the voice continued. Then that of a girl, speaking quickly, breathless. “He wasn’t a bad kid, but he did get picked on some. I never thought he’d do something like this, though. Never in a million years.” The reporter again. “The shooter’s name has not yet been released to the media. In Russia, government officials—”
I hit the button again, bringing us back to music. Ambrose looked over. “Now who’s messing with the radio?”
I didn’t answer, instead just focusing on breathing and driving. He reached out to turn the A/C down another notch. “Crazy about that shooting, huh? I watched some of the coverage with Milly’s mom this morning, when she made us pancakes. Heavy stuff.”
A truck switched lanes in front of me, and I hit the brakes, giving it space. “Who’s Milly?”
“Oh, just this girl from last night. I crashed on her couch.” He tugged at his belt again. “They were saying the kid had a fixation on other school shootings.”
I realized I was gripping the steering wheel. Ten and two, I thought, moving my hands on the wheel.
“Like, he’d done a report on that one in Brownwood. Stood up in front of a current events class and talked all about it. How creepy is that?”
I swallowed, suddenly aware of the prickly feeling space between my ears. The truck switched back to the other lane. “I can’t—”
“Seriously. Me neither. I mean, I didn’t love high school either, but come on. No need to take it out on everyone else.” A pause. “Hey, are you okay?”
I wasn’t. But I was also behind the wheel, in heavy traffic, and knew to acknowledge this would be the worst thing I could do. “Why . . .” I began, then heard a crack in my voice. I swallowed. “Why didn’t you like high school?”
He pushed the curl aside. “Well, it was really myriad reasons. First, I don’t do well in standardized learning environments. Also, I have problems with conventional forms of authority and a compromised attention span, and can be super annoying.” As if to underline this, he changed the radio station again. “Those are direct quotes, by the way.”
“From counselors?”
“And teachers. Psychiatrists. Peer evaluations.”
“Your peers said you were annoying, I assume?”
“Nope, that was one of my shrinks.” I raised my eyebrows. “I know! I was like, wait, that’s not a doctor term! Is annoying a diagnosis now? And if so, can I get meds for it?”
He laughed then, in a can-you-even-believe-it kind of way, shaking his head. Then he looked out the window, drumming his fingers on one knee.
I could see my exit now, the one that would take us onto the two-lane road that made up the rest of the trip. I put on my blinker, switching lanes so carefully you would have thought I was taking the driving test with a DMV worker beside me. Only when we reached the top of the ramp, the heavy traffic now a distant roar below, did I realize I’d been holding my breath. Keep talking, I told myself.
“Did you really go home with one of those girls last night?”
He stretched the seat belt away from him, then let it snap back. “Well, yes, in the technical sense. But nothing really happened. I crashed on her couch, and in the morning her mom came out in her bathrobe and offered me breakfast.”
“Doesn’t Bee worry when you don’t come home?”
“Nah. I check in. And remember, I’m annoying. She needs a break every now and then.”
“She seems like a really nice girl,” I said.
“She is.” He said this simply; it was clear it was fact. “It’s not easy always having to be the good one, but she’s a natural. You have any siblings?”
I shook my head. “Nope. Just me and my mom.”
“Huh,” he said.
Don’t ask, I told myself. Then I asked. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said. I waited, making it clear I expected more. “Just that, you know, it explains things. How you like to be alone.”
“I don’t like to be alone,” I said.
“Right. You just don’t want to be with me.”
I looked over at him. “That’s not exactly true.”
“Right. You basically did all you could to not have to be with me right now, including telling your mom you don’t like me,” he pointed out. I blinked, surprised. He’d been in another room, after all. He said, “My annoyingness does not affect my hearing. I’m like a dog, it’s so good.”
“I’ll have to remember that.” I cleared my throat. “Anyway, I’m sorry I said that. It’s just . . . I’m used to working alone, and—”
“Look, you don’t have to explain yourself,” he said easily. “I’m not for everyone.”
Again, this was said with such ease, a plain truth. What was it like to be so confident even in your failings that you weren’t the least bit bothered when other people pointed them out? I was almost envious.
We were close to Kirby’s now; I could see the greenhouses, as well as the bursts of color that were their outdoor plantings, in the distance. When it came to florists, my mom only recommended the best, usually choosing companies that catered to the exact needs of the client. If you wanted perfect
, sculpted centerpieces of roses and lilies, picking Lakeview Florist or Occasions was easy. But if your taste was more natural, bohemian wildflowers-in-mason-jars—increasingly popular among younger brides—Kirby’s was the place.
I pulled into the dusty lot, right up to the squat building that housed the office. This was a family business, another reason my mom preferred them. If you called with a problem, there was no corporate voicemail system, just a hand cupping the receiver while someone bellowed for Mr. or Mrs. Kirby, who were usually out in the fields tending the plants themselves. “Okay,” I said, reaching back for my bag and pulling out the invoice. “We’re here for Gerbera daisies, glads, lilies, and sunflowers. Ten buckets total. Mrs. Kirby will always try to add on an extra bucket or two she’s trying to move, but we don’t have room so we have to be firm.”
“Ten buckets,” he repeated. “Gerberas, glads, sunflowers, lilies. No extras.”
Huh. Maybe he was right about that hearing. “Correct. It shouldn’t take longer than a half hour total if we don’t get caught up talking.”
“Keep it short. All business. Thirty minutes max.”
My phone rang then: Jilly, most likely wanting to catch up while en route from one KitKat activity to another. As I hit IGNORE, preferring to wait until I was alone, Ambrose said, “Wait, what was that? Your ringtone?”
“Nothing,” I told him.
“It sounded like this awful pop song—”
“Nope. Let’s go.”
I pushed open my door, getting out as he did the same, then followed me through the propped-open screen door. Inside, rows of plants sat on makeshift tables made of sawhorses and plywood, a row of walk-in coolers along one wall.
“Louna Barrett.” A woman’s voice came from behind a tall basket of ornamental greenery. “Right on time, as always.”
“Hey, Mrs. Kirby,” I replied. “How are you?”
She stepped out, wiping her hands on her apron. She was a tall and broad black woman with a melodic voice, and everything she said sounded important. “Very good, very good. Have some gorgeous peonies I want to show you, on special. Your mom’s favorite.”
“They are,” I agreed. “But space is tight.”
“You can always make room for a few extra blooms,” she replied, then noticed Ambrose. “Who’s this? A boyfriend?”
“No,” I said, a bit too quickly. “This is Ambrose. He’s working with us for the summer.”
“Oh. Well. I’m sure you can forgive me for getting hopeful that you might have found another romantic prospect.” She turned to him, shaking her head. “So heartbreaking what happened with that boy of hers.”
This was so unexpected that for a moment, I couldn’t even respond. Mrs. Kirby was a talker, always had been. The previous fall, I’d come out here to collect a client’s rehearsal dinner flowers and, in an unusual move for me—everything when it came to Ethan was different—mentioned I had a boyfriend. It was almost embarrassing, thinking back to how happy I’d been, how I’d worked this fact, and him, into just about any conversation. When she asked after him the next time I saw her, I was so raw I told the truth. Both mistakes. Big ones.
Ambrose was looking at me. This he couldn’t miss, even without the good hearing. I said, “We’re really kind of pressed for time, and my mom wants pictures before we pack up the car. Can we go ahead and look at what you have?”
Mrs. Kirby, like any long-winded person, was used to being redirected. “Of course, sweetie, whatever you want,” she said. “But you have to see these peonies. I can’t let you leave without at least a glimpse.”
She started toward the back, and I immediately fell in behind her, making a point of not looking Ambrose’s way at all. Whatever was on his face as he worked this out, or guessed at it—surprise, pity, empathy—I knew I did not want to see it. I would take annoying, instead, all day long.
Forty-five minutes later, we were pulling back onto the two- lane highway, eleven buckets of flowers strapped with bungee cords into the back of my banged-up Suburban. I’d caved on the peonies, mostly just because I didn’t have it in me to face down the hard sell. And they were beautiful, fragile and fragrant with lacy edges. They’d look gorgeous in the jars I’d be unpacking and cleaning later that day for Charlotte McDonald’s wedding, and if she didn’t agree, I’d eat the cost myself. They were my mom’s favorite.
I kept waiting for Ambrose to ask me about Ethan. While we waited for Mrs. Kirby to confer with her husband, who came in from the fields in overalls and a straw hat, about prices. As we carted the buckets to the car, arranging them like a puzzle to make everything fit snugly. And now, when we were finally alone and back on the road, the car around us so fragrant that I had to crack my window.
But he didn’t. Instead, he messed with the vents again, the seat belt, the radio. Also, he sneezed; it happened, especially when you weren’t used to so many flowers in such a small space. Over the course of about three miles, I went from dreading him bringing it up to just wishing he would. At least then, it would be happening and not about to happen. After another mile, I figured I’d just go ahead and tell him, to get it over with.
“Can we stop?” he asked suddenly, nodding at a little store that was just ahead. “I’m parched.”
Of course he couldn’t just say thirsty, I thought, annoyed. “Sure,” I said, glancing at the dashboard clock. “We have to be quick, though.”
The store was small and dusty, an older man behind the counter. As soon as we walked in, a dog approached us, quickly wagging its tail. It was skinny and small, its fur scruffy, poking out in wiry tufts above its eyebrows and around the snout. Kind of like a canine Brillo pad. Panting.
Ambrose immediately dropped down to greet it, which made it even more excited, its entire body twisting and writhing as it got petted. “Your dog is awesome,” he called out to the man, who was reading a newspaper, a pencil behind his ear. In return, he just grunted.
I walked over to the drink cooler, pulling out an iced tea. “What do you want?” I asked Ambrose, who was busy scratching the dog’s neck, making one leg bang excitedly against the floor.
“Something fruity with lots of sugar,” he replied. “I know, I know! You are a good boy!”
This time, the man looked over, irritated, and I was surprised to feel a wave of protectiveness. It was a fact Ambrose got on people’s nerves. But this guy had only been around him a few seconds. I grabbed a tropical punch that was bright pink, then took both drinks over to the counter, putting them down. Just as I did, a car beeped outside and the dog started barking, the noise sudden and high-pitched.
“Shut up,” the man growled as he punched a few buttons on the register. “Goddamn dog. Four seventy-two.”
I gave him a five, highly aware as the noise continued, a mix of a yip and a screech. “Hey, buddy,” Ambrose was saying, “it’s okay.”
“Barks every time he hears a beep,” the man said, pushing my change across to me. “And it’s like nails on a chalkboard.”
I said nothing to this, just took the drinks and started for the door. “Let’s go,” I said to Ambrose, who was still trying to quiet the dog down. “There’s bound to be traffic.”
Another series of yaps, one right after the other. The man pushed himself to his feet, grumbling under his breath, then came around the counter, walking with a noticeable limp over to a back door. “Out,” he said to the dog, as he pushed it open. “Go play in traffic.”
The dog got quiet and sat down. “Good boy,” Ambrose told him.
The man sighed. “Out,” he said again, this time snapping his fingers. Slowly, the dog stood, then walked out the door, and the man dropped it shut behind him. As he shuffled back behind the counter, Ambrose tracked him with his eyes.
“Come on,” I said quietly. A beat. Then another. Finally, he followed me outside.
We got in the car and I cranked the engine, then handed
him his drink. I’d just shifted into reverse when he said, “Hey, I need a bathroom break. Long ride ahead and all.”
“We’re already back in the car,” I said.
“I’ll hurry. Promise.”
I sat back. Quickly, he unbuckled his seat belt and hopped out, walking around the building toward the sign that said RESTROOMS.
I was just reaching forward to change the radio station (now an addiction for both of us, clearly) when the passenger door suddenly opened again and he tumbled inside. “Go,” he said. He was holding something in his arms.
“What?”
“Go. Drive. Now!”
It was only after I shifted into reverse again, for some reason blindly following this directive, that I looked over and saw that what he was clutching was, in fact, the dog.
“Ambrose. You stole that man’s dog?”
“I prefer to look at it as a rescue,” he corrected me as it wriggled wildly in my side vision.
I looked over my shoulder. “Are you serious right now?”
“I couldn’t just leave him there,” he said, as if I was the one acting irrationally. “Can you go a little faster? Just until we’re clear of the parking lot.”
I glanced in the rearview, but of course no one was following us. Still, I hit the gas hard as I pulled out, spraying gravel. The dog started barking again.
“See how happy he is?” Ambrose asked, as we picked up speed. He rolled down his window and the dog immediately stuck his head out, the wind ruffling the bursts of hair over his eyes. I looked over at both of them, then in the rearview, where now all I could see was flowers, bobbing in the breeze. Only then did I realize minutes had passed since I’d been thinking about Ethan and having to tell Ambrose that story. This should have made me happy, I knew, or at least relieved. But instead I felt sad. Sometimes forgetting was just as bad as remembering.
“Is that a dog?”
I’d been worried about catching flack for the peonies. But as I lugged them in the office’s back door, my mom didn’t even notice.