So, this is what heartbreak feels like.
I’ve been dumped before. Hell, I thought I could write the book on it: awkward ghosting, crappy texts, and worst of all, the whole “well, we technically weren’t in a relationship at all” routine.
But this?
This is a whole new circle of heartache hell. It’s been a week since Seth dumped me, and I still can’t think about it without tearing up. Because as brutal breakups go, letting me down on what should have been one of the happiest days of my life ranks way up there. The absolute top spot in shitty breakup stakes.
I made the Bridal List . . .
. . . and I lost my chance for love.
Ironic, huh? Alanis would think so, which is why I’ve been blasting her nonstop. Alanis, and Lizzo, and Pink, and my girl, Kelly Clarkson—queen of the “screw you, too” independence song. They’re supposed to make me feel better about facing the world without Seth’s sizzling kisses, but all they do is leave me feeling empty inside.
I don’t want to move on and wave him goodbye in fabulous fashion.
I just want him back.
“Easy on the carnations, boss,” Remy speaks up. “In fact, ix-nay on them altogether. I thought that was supposed to be a luxurious bridal bouquet, not a seventh-grade prom boutonniere.”
I look down, and sure enough, he’s right. Yellow carnations, of all things. Yikes. This is how I know I’m in trouble. “I’m sorry,” I sigh. “I can’t focus.”
“No kidding. But you have to get your shit together, the big Bridal List party is tonight!”
I wince. It should be an awesome event: the official celebration for this year’s issue, with all the lucky vendors gathered for a swanky party. But instead of being excited, I want to dive face first into my couch cushions.
And not come out until, ooh, the next season of The Crown drops on Netflix.
I trade the carnations for some roses and try to focus on the bouquet. After all, I don’t have time to hang around. Orders have been through the roof ever since the list dropped, and I barely have a moment to myself. I should be glad: way more money coming in, and way less time to wallow over my broken heart. But clearly, my melancholy is seeping into everything, and soon, the bouquet looks more like a funeral arrangement.
Remy clears his throat. “Why don’t you go up front and serve the customers? I can whip this one into shape. But, smile!”
I leave him to fix my work and head up front. I busy myself with dusting vases and glass shelves. Not that there’s much dust—we’ve been busy enough that stock isn’t sticking around very long. But the mindless task allows me to zone out and replay the whole breakup in my head.
What can I say? I’m a glutton for punishment.
But it still doesn’t make any sense. The things he said, the things he did, just don’t line up with the things he said to me. He had feelings, I’m sure of it. All those nights we spent wrapped up in each other . . . all those mornings snuggling, trading in-jokes and kisses . . . It had to mean something. I know it did.
It’s not real, April. You just got caught up in the props and staging.
Seth’s words haunt me, twisting the knife. Is he right? He always said love was about setting the scene, and I guess we had a good one. A great story, brought together against the odds.
Did I fall for him, or for the way I felt?
Is there even a difference in the end?
I sigh, dusting aggressively enough to make the vases rattle. Does it even matter what happened? He’s clearly done with me. That brutal dumping made it clear enough. Whatever his reasons for walking away, he hasn’t looked back, and meanwhile, I’ve been thinking of him constantly. It’s taken everything in me not to text, call, send smoke signals. Something to tell him how much I miss him.
I mean, why not throw my dignity on the trash-fire of our relationship, too?
Only my friends have kept me from making that particular humiliating mistake. Katie practically keeps my phone on lockdown from the moment I step through the door.
“You’ll just hate yourself even more! The key to a healthy breakup is going total cold turkey. No calls, no emails, no showing up at his apartment weeping after five shots of tequila.”
I’m not about to argue with the breakup artist herself. She would know. But if only it was that easy to forget him.
The door jingles and my heart lurches as I turn, hopeful it’s Seth coming to tell me he’s changed his mind—it was all just a mistake, cold feet, and he’s back to be mine forever.
No such luck. Instead, it’s a preppy young couple with goopy, lovesick smiles on their faces.
“Hi!” the woman beams. “We just got engaged, and we saw your shop on the Bridal List! Our date is next June, but OMG, there’s like, so much to plan, we thought we’d better get in here fast and talk to you. Didn’t I say she’d be swamped?” she nudges the guy.
“You did say that, snookums,” he says to her devotedly. “She said that,” he adds to me.
“Great, well, now that we’ve established who said what and when . . .” I sigh, trying to muster the appropriate enthusiasm, despite the massive ache in my chest.
Why couldn’t there be a rush on funerals this week, instead?
I shake my head, trying to get back in the blissful couple game. “Do you know what your colors are?” I ask, pulling out some of my wedding binders, complete with fabric swatches, samples, and photos of other events I’ve done.
“Oh look, we match!” the woman trills, producing her own overstuffed binder. “Twinsies!”
I try to smile. It comes out a grimace.
“So . . . My colors are blush pink, with dove gray and pearl white,” she chatters, pulling up a stool. “Pearl. Not cream or paper white or snowflake. It’s very important we use the right shade of white. The invitations already got screwed up because they used a winter white instead of a soft, summer tone. Can you imagine?”
“The horror,” I agree dryly. “Do you have a venue in mind?”
“Yes! We love the whole Southern Antebellum look, it’s sooo romantic, so we’re getting married on this gorgeous old plantation in South Carolina.”
I stare at them. “You’re getting married on the site of a slave labor camp?”
Her smile fades. “What?”
Remy comes rushing out from the back. “I’m sorry!” he cries. “April here is practicing for her one-woman play. It opens off-off Broadway. Maybe you’ve heard of it? It’s called “Scorned Woman Throws Her Business Down the Toilet”?
The woman and man exchange glances, seriously confused. But they must be hammered on love hormones, because the woman just beams. “No, we haven’t heard of that one. What theater is it playing at?”
Remy practically shoves me aside. “April has to run to another job right now. She’s so in demand! But I can take all your info and go through the preliminary design plans.”
“Which maybe should include a different venue,” I can’t help adding. “Just saying.”
“April.” Remy scowls as the door jangles again. “Ah, here’s your next appointment now.” He looks relieved, and I turn to find Poppy and Natalie breezing in.
“What are you guys doing here?” I ask them, confused.
“Consider it an intervention,” Poppy says.
“Remy called,” Natalie adds. “Said you were, umm, having problems getting into the right spirit here at work.”
“I’m fine,” I sigh, turning back to my clients—who are making out right there in the middle of the shop. “Excuse me?” I clap my hands loudly. “Hey! Quit it! Not everyone wants to see you two slobbering all over each other! Some of us find it kind of offensive, to be honest—”
“April. Out!”
Poppy and Natalie practically frogmarch me out of the store and to the gourmet donut shop down the street. If this is their tactic to make me sit through this supposed intervention, then OK, they win.
I reach for a lemony lavender one. “I love you,” I coo at the pastry, making Natalie snort.
“Don’t laugh!” I blurt through a giant bite. “This is the best thing going on in my life right now.”
“Besides us?”
I shrug.
“And getting on the list? Your bustling business? Success beyond your wildest dreams?”
I take another bite, demolishing the donut in one. I reach for another.
“The business that you’re going to run into the ground if you don’t get your head out of your ass?” Natalie says.
“Hey!”
“Tough love,” Poppy says, and then she levels Nat a glare. “But maybe a bit harsh.”
Natalie huffs.
“Why don’t you tell us what’s going on?” Poppy asks, more gently.
“No thanks,” I say, shoving more fried dough at my face. “I mean, it just doesn’t make any sense. I can’t figure out what happened. Why did he dump me?”
“Well,” Natalie pauses, taking a bite of her maple bacon cruller. “You did have your doubts about him at the beginning. You said he wasn’t exactly the monogamous type.”
“And that he didn’t believe in love or soulmates, and he made a living manipulating people into thinking they’d fallen for each other,” Poppy added, making a face. “It doesn’t exactly add up to best boyfriend material.”
“I know,” I sigh, defeated. “I just . . . I miss him.”
“Hey,” Poppy says, giving me a sympathetic hug. “If he doesn’t see how awesome you are, screw him. You’ll find someone way better, someone who deserves to have you fall madly in love with them.”
Easy for her to say, she’s already found her someone.
“Yes,” Natalie agrees. “Seriously, April, there are too many fish in the sea to try to worry about someone who’s not that into you.”
“We’ll find you someone,” Poppy says. “I can see if Dylan knows anyone—”
“—And Justin, too,” Natalie agrees. “And we’ll screen them all first for playboy assholes. And guys who steal your fries.”
“No,” I interrupt. “No setups. Please. I’m . . .” I sigh. “I’m fine, you two. I mean, I appreciate you being all concerned. And honestly this donut is doing wonders for my mood.” I give them each a smile, hoping it’s convincing. “But my business is crazy right now. Just let me focus on that. I’m too busy for dating anyway.”
And by busy, what I really mean is heartbroken. But I put on my best face for my friends.
After the donut (which ended up being donuts—plural—because: getting dumped), I leave my friends and take advantage of the clear weather to walk along the High Line back to my shop. It’s like picking at a scab, because of course it makes me think more of Seth. And hot dogs. And Seth with hot dogs.
My heart aches. It felt so real. He cared, I could tell. Guys who just want to get laid don’t spend all day planning the perfect botanical field trip or remember your waffle order every time. They don’t want to touch you constantly in public. They don’t take you home to meet their family.
I reach the hot dog vendor and nearly burst into tears.
It can’t be over. But it is. And I still don’t understand why.
I always thought that when I met the right guy, everything would just fall into place. Simple. Easy. My romantic tribulations over the years had been because the guys were all wrong for me, but as soon as Mr. Right rolled around, it would be smooth sailing.
At least, that was the theory.
So, does the fact Seth left me in the dust mean that he was all wrong, too? Or that I should be fighting for us, doing my best to figure out why he bolted—and finding a way to change his mind?
When do you know when to quit—or keep on trying?
I’m still mulling the impossible question when my phone buzzes. Seth? I hope as I pull it out.
No. It’s Remy: Time to get ready for the Brides event!
Oh yeah. That.
A few hours later, after letting Katie shove me into a cute dress and boots, I arrive at the Bridal List cocktail party. I wish I were more in the mood for a celebration, but I’m determined not to let my heartache wreck any more of this big deal. Plus, I’ve already had an epic pep talk from my cousin.
“This is your night! You’ve earned it! Don’t let some stupid guy wreck your victory lap!”
I’m not exactly at a hundred percent, but hey, I washed my hair and I’m wearing mascara, ready to schmooze with the best of them. I’m greeted at the door by one of the magazine’s editors, congratulating me as she hands me a name tag, swag bag, and glass of champagne. “Enjoy yourself, and congratulations again!” she says, her smile wide.
“Thanks.” I step into the event space at the magazine HQ. It’s been decorated especially for the party, with a DJ, massive displays, and a delicious-looking buffet I make a note to attack later.
But first, networking!
Referrals are everything in the wedding industry. Every top wedding planner and stylist has their go-to list of vendors, so I drift over to a friendly-looking trio of middle-aged women.
They look over at me approaching. It’s too late to bolt. “Hi,” I say, pasting on a bright smile. “I’m April, owner of Bloom Florals.”
“Lovely to meet you,” the one closest to me says, sticking out her hand. “I’m Sandy, president of Empire Ice—we do ice sculptures and specialized punch bowls.”
“Oh, that’s amazing,” I say. “The ice bowls with the flowers embedded in them? Stunning.” She preens at my praise.
The other women, Maureen, a bridal consultant, and Kathy, a caterer, introduce themselves, too.
“Have you already seen an increase in your businesses?” I ask. “This is my first time, but already it’s been amazing.”
The women all nod but it’s Maureen who speaks. “This is my second year on the list, so I knew what to expect, but these two are first-timers like you.”
Sandy takes a sip of her champagne. “And it only took me six years to get noticed.”
Six years?
Kathy laughs. “Only six? Hold my beer,” she says, miming passing her drink to Sandy. “It was ten for me.”
Oh my God, seriously? Six years for an ice sculpture person to get on the list? How many ice sculpture companies could there even be? I’m one of what, a million florists in Manhattan alone?
I suddenly get a very bad feeling. Do I even deserve to be on this list, or did I cheat my way onto it? Seth made it seem so simple, but can manipulating people into thinking something ever be right?
I keep circulating, trying to ignore that whisper of guilt, but now, I feel really, really out of place. Everyone here is a major name in the wedding industry, and my imposter’s syndrome only grows when I hear people gossiping about the other florists on the list.
“She did Jennifer’s wedding, of course. Gorgeous displays. They were all over People magazine”
“And I heard Toni got flown to Europe for a very royal occasion . . .”
“Well, of course. But I don’t understand why Lottie didn’t make it on this year. You’d think designing the flowers for the biggest Hollywood wedding of the year would count for something. They held four ceremonies in three countries, and she pulled them all off impeccably!”
I stand there out of sight around the chocolate fountain, feeling two inches tall. I don’t deserve to be on the list or here, celebrating.
I didn’t earn it. Seth manipulated my way in. I always thought his meet-cutes were shady enough, but then I turned around and I basically did the same thing: trapping the Brides staff with my flower arrangements, whether they wanted them or not!
I look around, and I’m about to bolt when I see the executive editor—Elaine Meyers. She’s talking to someone in the corner, but then they move off, leaving her alone.
I feel a lurch. Oh God. I can’t believe I’m about to do this, but I know I have to.
I make my way over. “Umm, Ms. Meyers?”
She smiles. “Hello . . . April,” she says, reading my nametag. “Oh yes, Bloom Florals. A first-timer. Congratulations!”
I gulp.
“I’m really, really sorry, but I don’t belong here,” I blurt. “I can’t accept my place on the list. I don’t know if you can print a retraction, or if it’s too late, but, there are so many other fantastic florists who actually deserve it. I should never have gone along with the plan, but I wanted it so badly, and it seemed to make sense at the time. I mean, yes, it was slightly stalkery, tracking your manicures and coffee routines, but he said it was just like Facebook, and—”
“Whoa,” Elaine finally interrupts me, looking taken aback. “My manicures? What’s all this about?”
I suck in a much-needed breath. “I cheated my way onto the list,” I say miserably. “I don’t deserve it. You need to remove my listing.”
“Cheated?” She frowns. “That’s not possible, I selected you myself.”
“But only because we gave out fake prizes and tracked your routine and got your favorite coffee shop to stock them. You think you picked me out of nowhere, but we staged the whole thing.”
Elaine shook her head, bemused. “I noticed you because of those gorgeous displays you did for my sister’s party.”
“Your . . . what?” I stare at her in surprise.
“Lindsay Kirshbaum,” Elaine explains. “You did her gender reveal party. I was just stunned at the gorgeous displays.”
“Oh my God,” I manage. “So . . . you really did mean to pick me?”
“I really did.” Elaine smiles. “Actually, she said you must be a saint. She told me she ordered two thousand pink roses and then realized at the last minute that her pregnancy brain made her mess up and that she needed blue ones. She was so embarrassed! She said you were such a pro that you didn’t even flinch or mention it at all, and just brought the blue ones. Very professional. That’s what we’re looking for on our list.”
“Oh,” I say again. I can’t believe it. First, that it wasn’t our screwup, after all. And second, that I really do belong on the list.
“Anyway,” Elaine continues, “I’m sorry my sister put you through that. But I didn’t just go on one customer,” she adds. “I’ve been hearing your name for a while now. I’m always looking for fresh talent to spotlight, and this year seemed like the perfect time for you.”
Whoa.
“Thank you,” I breathe, amazed.
“I can see you’re not convinced.” She gives me a smile. “But April, get over your imposter syndrome. You deserve this. Go.” She shoos me toward the party. “Enjoy your evening. Enjoy the boon to your business. You earned it.”
I shake her hand and thank her about a million more times before I rejoin the party. But even if I do deserve to be on the list, I can’t help but feel the win is hollow. It’s missing something.
As I sip my champagne and look around the room, I know that something is really someone. Seth. The guy who built me my own floral murder board, who wanted me to get on the list almost as much as I did. He helped make it happen, even if it was only really by helping me spray those two thousand roses. But he was there for me, helping when needed and cheering from the sidelines.
But where is he tonight?
Not here celebrating with me.
And that hurts more than anything.