It turns out, I do see Seth soon. The very next night, in fact. And the next. And the next. We basically have become inseparable, but I do manage to tear myself out of his (well-toned) embrace for a girls’ night with Poppy and Natalie, to bring them up to date on all my orgasmic news.
“So wait,” Natalie says, shaking her head. “That creeper James lured you up to a cabin deep in the woods because that would be the ticket to you coming around and falling head over heels for him?”
“Right?” I snort, through a mouthful of burrito.
“Has he never watched a horror movie. Like . . . ever?” Poppy scoffs.
“I know!” I cry. “He’s seriously the worst. So clueless!”
“But it worked out,” Natalie points out. “With Seth, who came to the rescue.”
Poppy and I sigh in unison. I can’t stop smiling about him. About us. I’m orgasm-drunk, but who can complain about that?
“Luckily,” Katie says. “That whole situation had the potential to be really, really horrible.”
Now that I’m living with her, I’m learning that Katie—the breakup artist—can be really cynical about relationships. She’s not wrong in this case, though.
“But crisis was averted,” I remind her. “And we all lived happily ever after. Well, happily ever for now.”
“You’re done with James though, right?” Poppy asks, checking.
I nod, emphatic. “Ewww, yes. I mean, he’s texted me a few more times, but I’m not even dignifying him with a response. He’ll get the hint soon enough. Anyway . . .” Just then, a text comes in. I hold my breath, but thankfully it’s not from James.
“Look at that ridiculous grin!” Natalie laughs. “Text from your new boyfriend, April?”
“Maybe . . .”
Let me know when you’re done with the girls, and I’ll come over.
Oh, boo.
“What’s wrong?” Natalie asks.
“Seth wants to come over tonight,” I say, even as I start to text him back. Cant 2night. Early morning tomorrow. Flower market.
I’ll come with u, he sends back, making my heart happy. But he has no idea what he’s agreeing to.
At 3am? I ask. There’s a pause. And then three dots.
“Bets on if he’ll go with her?” Poppy says.
“I don’t know . . .” Katie makes a face.
“Are you kidding? He’s all in,” Natalie argues. “He’ll do it, for sure.”
I shrug. “Three a.m. is a valid excuse.” I’d hardly blame him for not wanting to get up in the middle of the night to go buy flowers. I mean, I love it, but that’s me—I’m slightly crazy. And sleep deprived.
I’m in, he sends finally.
Natalie whoops. I mock-frown at her. “Going to the flower market with me is hardly whoop-worthy.”
“Yes, it is,” Poppy says, serious. “Totally whoop-worthy. You’re worth getting up at godawful o’clock. Your man should know that.”
“He’s not my man,” I say. “Yet.”
Katie slides an arm around me and pulls me close into a side hug. “Just a matter of time, Apricot.”
I don’t want to seem overly hopeful, so I return to my phone. I text him where and when to meet me.
His response makes my insides melt, even as I laugh.
As you wish.
Even though I’m used to the early, early flower shopping, I’m not used to doing it with company. Especially hot, sexy company that requires mascara and a cute outfit.
I’m also not exactly a morning (middle-of-the-night?) person, so on the way, I stop for a vat of coffee. I get Seth one, too and drive to the Chelsea wholesale flower market, a little sleepy, but a whole lot excited to see him.
I park the van and make it out onto the street by the front doors. There he is, waiting for me. I have to admit, I’m kind of surprised. It is, after all, dark-thirty. I half-expected him to bail.
“Please tell me one of those is for me,” he says, nodding toward the cups in my hands.
I nod and hand him his. He takes it and leans to kiss me. It feels like a whole lot more than just a “thank you for the caffeination” kind of kiss.
“Hello,” I say when we come up for air. “I should bring you coffee more often.”
He grins. “So, want to show me the ropes?”
I tilt my head. “You’re really interested, huh?”
“I’m a curious guy.” He grins. “Teach me all your flower-buying ways.”
So I do. I lead him inside and take him around to all my favorite vendors, showing him how to test the flowers for freshness, why it’s best to order in season, and why I don’t mind spending a bit more for the very best blooms. As I chat with my vendors, placing orders for my upcoming events, Seth stays out of my way, but I can tell he really is interested. Maybe even a little impressed.
“I can’t take those calla lilies,” I tell Amelia, apologetic. She’s one of my favorite flower importers. “They wouldn’t last in the bouquets.” I sigh, thinking about the small wedding I’m planning for. The bride asked for callas and I told her I’d do my best, but there’s no guarantee with off-season flowers. She put her trust in me and there’s no way I can let her down with browning and wilted flowers for her bouquet that would look less than perfect in her photos. “Do you have any stephanotis?” I ask instead, naming a less popular—but just as beautiful—flower. “They have a different look, but I think for this casual wedding, they’ll make for a beautiful bouquet.”
Amelia nods. “I do. And you’re right about the callas—they’d be fine for today or tomorrow in a vase, but I wouldn’t trust them for a bouquet, either.” She laughs. “Brides can be so hard on their bouquets—they need to be sturdy and fresh. Let me grab some of the stephanotis from the back.”
I take a pile of the beautiful and perfect stephanotis and some other things that will help fill out the bouquets.
“I’ll carry those for you,” Seth offers when we leave the booth.
“Thanks.” I hand him the packages. “So, how’s Florist 101 so far?”
He smiles. “It’s more than just arranging flowers isn’t it?”
I laugh and say, very slowly, “It’s a real, legit business! Who knew?!”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, sheepish. “Just . . . I guess I never realized how much goes into it. The planning, and all the design, too.”
“And that’s only half the job,” I add. “It was a real crash course in running a small business. I just want to style the flowers all day, but I have to deal with inventory, suppliers, pricing . . .”
“See, you’re a superstar,” Seth says with an admiring smile.
I smile back. It’s nice to see he gets it; some of the guys I’ve dated just think I’m sitting around, arranging flowers in a vase.
“So, what was your inspiration?” he asks as we walk. “Have you always loved flowers?”
I nod. “As far back as I can remember, my mom always had plants in the house. Herbs, potted plants, and flowers. There were always growing, colorful things. In the summer, we worked on a vegetable garden, and I like that, too—there’s something really satisfying in growing your own food. But flowers are really my thing. They brighten up a room just by being. I mean, look at how much they brightened up those patients the other day.”
He nods.
“Thanks to you,” I add. “That was a really nice thing. Thoughtful.”
He shrugs it off.
“Plus, flowers have a whole language. People have been using them for hundreds of years to express how they really feel. It’s a living love letter, in a way.” I pause. “I know, I’m being dorky.”
“No,” Seth protests. “Well, just a little. But I like it. You’re an artist and a businesswoman and you’re passionate about what you do. If that’s dorky? Dorky is not a bad thing.”
He tugs me close for a kiss, and I happily sink against him.
Flowers and a hot makeout. This day is definitely off to an amazing start.
Seth helps me gather the rest of my flowers and we head back to my shop. I expected him to take off, but he insists on helping me put everything away. It’s early, still too early for Remy to be here, so I appreciate the help.
“So, what are you dorky about?” I ask curiously, once everything’s unloaded and put away.
“Nothing,” Seth says. “I’m the epitome of cool. Not one dorky thing about me.” He says it with a straight face, but I can tell he’s teasing.
“Come on,” I say, hooking a finger into one of his belt loops to pull him close. “There has to be something. I don’t know anyone who isn’t dorky about something. If you’re hiding it, that just means it’s maximum dork.”
He looks down at me, searching my face for something. Maybe deciding if he can trust me. Does he have a weird fetish? Something he’s really ashamed of? I’m intrigued. And a little scared. But mostly intrigued.
The best way to get it out of him is to be reassuring. “If it’s D&D or other nerd stuff, you don’t have to worry,” I add. “I’ve seen it all. I once had to do a Star Wars-themed wedding where the bouquets were lightsabers. The men’s boutonnieres were these tiny action figures backed by baby’s breath. I’m not even kidding.”
He laughs. “Baby’s breath? That sounds so . . . I don’t know . . . wrong.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “Actually, baby’s breath is just a classic filler that goes into arrangements. It’s from the carnation family.”
“Sounds medieval,” Seth says.
“Anywaaaaayyyy,” I drawl. “Don’t change the subject. I want to hear about you. What gets you geeked up?”
He blows out a breath. “Fine. But I’ll have to show you. You have some time?”
I glance at the clock and nod. I have another hour before opening. “I need to eat, too, so if we can work that into going to the Death Star or crazy sex club or wherever, that would be good.”
He throws me a smirk as he grabs my hand, tugging me out of my shop.
We don’t go far. About ten blocks away, Seth leads me through a jingling door into a diner. And I’m not talking about one of those new, retro, hipster spots, either. It is legit old-school, complete with red leather booths (the duct tape on the fabric adds to the authenticity) and matching chrome and leather stools that seem to grow out of the floor. It smells like coffee and syrup and sounds just how you’d expect: the clinks and clatters of china mugs on saucers, the yelling of “Order up!” coming from the high window to the kitchen, and the chatter of the many patrons—most of whom seem to be well over seventy. In fact, as I look around I see we’re obviously the youngest people in here. Whatever, it smells great and these people all must know something—the place is bustling. Not to mention, I’m starving. It’s perfect.
Seth nods toward two empty stools at the counter so we sit. I pluck a sticky menu from the holder, trying to solve the age-old conundrum: pancakes or waffles?
“So,” Seth says. His tone is odd enough that it makes me look over at him.
He looks like he’s about to say something, but a waitress behind the counter appears, a full pot of coffee in her hand. “Heya, Seth, coffee?”
“Like you have to ask, Linda?” he grins, sliding his cup toward her. “This is April, I’m guessing she’d like some, too.”
“Yes, please,” I say, smiling up at the waitress who looks like she just came out of central casting, cast in the role of “sixty-something snarky diner waitress who is world-weary and takes no shit,” complete with big hair, glasses on a chain around her neck, and gum that she keeps cracking.
We give her our order (waffles!), and she teases Seth about his choice of the hungry man special before heading back to the kitchen.
“So,” I say, taking a sip of the surprisingly good coffee. “I’m very eager to see whatever it is you want to show me after we eat. I bet it’s something super dorky like the M&M’s store, or . . .” I gasp, playfully widening my eyes. “Wait. Are you taking me to the sex museum?”
He laughs. “No, it’s neither of those things. CandyShack is way better than the M&M’s store, and the sex museum? Come on, April. That’s a tenth-date thing, at least. I’m not a creeper.”
I laugh.
“No, silly, this is what I wanted to show you.” He waves his arms around.
“Waffles?” I ask, confused.
“Not waffles, Princess Buttercup.” He rolls his eyes. “This diner. This is what I get dorky about.”
“This diner,” I repeat, still confused.
He nods, looking bashful. “I found this place when I came to the city, and I’ve been coming here pretty much every week since. It’s . . . like a little corner of home to me, you know: the same menu, the same regulars . . . We all know each other now.”
“Like your Central Perk,” I say, beginning to understand.
“Exactly.”
I sweep my eyes around the restaurant, trying to see what he’s talking about.
“Take Sam and Al over there,” he says, nodding toward a booth in the corner. “They come in here every day to drink coffee and play dominos. They’ve been coming here for forty years. You’d think they’d run out of things to say, but no, they can talk your ear off, every time.”
Sure enough, the old men are chatting up a storm as they play, big hand gestures punctuating whatever points they’re trying to make.
“And Daniel and his wife Connie,” Seth says, nodding toward another booth on the other side of the diner. A balding man in a three-piece suit sits across from a blue-haired woman who looks like she’s fresh from the salon with her perfectly hairsprayed ’do, wearing a flowered dress that looks like her Sunday best. They’re talking about something intense, leaned close toward each other across the table. “They bicker like they’re on the verge of divorce,” Seth adds, “but they always share a piece of pie and leave together, holding hands.”
“OK, that’s adorable.”
“Then there’s Sylvio,” he says, gesturing down the counter to a man in his sixties who is nursing a coffee. “He’s had a crush on Linda for twenty years. Never asked her out, but comes in here every day, eats, gives her a huge tip and then leaves. Alone.”
“Twenty years!” I whisper-yell. “Why is it taking so long!”
Seth grins. “She’s only been a widow for the last ten months.”
“Oh,” I say, glancing at the waitress, feeling bad for her. Though, at least she has prospects. “Does she know?”
“Not yet,” Seth says. “He’ll make a move when it’s time.”
I cock an eyebrow. “With your help, Captain Meet-Cute?”
He smiles, shakes his head. “No, they don’t need it.”
I take a sip of my coffee. “So, this is your scene, huh? You’re like one of the Golden Girls?”
Laughing, he shrugs. “Sort of. I mean, I feel at home here. No one is trying to be something they’re not. No one is trying to put on a show. I get a window into everyone’s life, like I’m a part of it, too.”
He gives another bashful shrug, and I realize for the first time that Seth might actually be lonely. He hasn’t talked much about his parents, and he doesn’t seem to have any other family around . . .
I have my mom calling every week and my girlfriends and Katie, too. But who does Seth have, I wonder?
Linda sidles up to us and refills our cups without being asked before she shuffles off.
Seth lifts his full cup to his lips. “Plus, it doesn’t hurt that the coffee here is fantastic.”
“Hear, hear!” I clink my mug into his. “So, am I going to find you here propping up this counter in fifty years?”
He laughs. “I like to think I’ll have graduated to a booth by then.” He gives me a sideways look. “Why do you ask? Should I save you a spot?”
He’s teasing, but I can’t help but feel the flutter of butterflies in my belly. He mentioned the future. Really, really far in the future. And it includes me.
I know I sometimes read too much into things, but this feels different somehow. Could we have a future?