Chapter 5

After the wedding, Ethan changed. He was like a whole new person.

Clark was the first to notice. Monday morning, he dropped off the day's schedule at Ethan's office like always, but Ethan wasn't there. He called with no answer. He sent a message, left on read.

At ten, Ethan finally texted back. [Not coming in today.]

Clark stared at his phone for ten seconds. Ethan had been showing up at the office at seven every morning, rain or shine, for ten years straight. And now he was saying he wasn't coming in.

Clark asked carefully, "Are you okay, Mr. Carter?"

It was left on read.

What Clark didn't know was that Ethan was sitting in a black sedan, parked at the mouth of a narrow alley on the north side of town.

The window was rolled halfway down, letting in a chill wind that made the hair at his temples flutter.

His eyes followed the alley to a small flower shop sign, Charlotte's Flower Shop.

The sign was made of wood, its edges peeling from years of sun and rain, but the handwriting was beautiful, painted in a pale green that looked like the first blades of spring grass.

Outside the shop, buckets of fresh flowers were lined up, with red roses, white lilies, and yellow daisies.

A woman crouched at the entrance, trimming flower branches. She wore a deep blue apron, her hair loosely gathered at the back of her head.

Whenever she bent forward, a strand would slip down, and she'd tuck it behind her ear with fingers still wet from the water.

It was Charlotte.

Ethan watched her, unmoving.

She'd lost some weight, but she looked healthier than she had before the divorce. Back then, her face was always pale, like a flower kept in a dark room, with no sunlight, no breeze, slowly wilting away.

Now, her cheeks had a rosy glow, her fingers stained with soil and flower petals, and she kept a pair of scissors and a pen tucked in her apron pocket. She'd always had beautiful handwriting.

Back in college, her notes were so neat, they looked like they'd been printed.

Ethan watched as she wrapped up a bouquet, handed it to a customer, and said something with a smile.

After the customer left, she lowered her head and carefully wrote a message on a card, blew softly on the ink to help it dry, then tucked the card into the bouquet.

Ethan suddenly remembered their first year together, when Charlotte kept a pothos plant at home. She'd water it every day, wipe its leaves, and talk to it like it was a friend.

Once, he caught her at it and scoffed, "Why bother with a plant?"

She smiled, saying nothing. When the pothos finally wilted and died, she took it downstairs, buried it in the flower bed, and lingered there for ages, crouched in silence.

He'd watched her from the balcony that day, but never went down to her.

Now, sitting in his car, Ethan watched her wrap bouquet after bouquet, handing them to strangers one after another.

She smiled at every single person, not the polite, social smile of Mrs. Carter, but a real smile, warm as sunshine, straight from her heart.

He sat there, watching her for four hours straight.

The coffee in his cup was stone cold, a layer of bitter sludge forming on top. His phone kept buzzing, Clark's texts stacking up one after another. [Mr. Carter, what time is the afternoon meeting?]

[Mr. Carter, the partner, wants to know when you'll arrive.]

[Mr. Carter, are you alright?]

He didn't respond.

*****

At two in the afternoon, Charlotte stood up, stretched, and rubbed her lower back. Her back had always been sensitive, and sitting for too long made it ache.

She turned and went inside, came out with a glass of water, and stood at the door, sipping it. Sunlight fell on her shoulders, and she squinted, looking like a cat soaking up the sun.

Ethan's fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

He wanted to get out of the car, walk over, and stand in front of her, to say "I'm sorry." But he knew those words were way too light.

Like a feather, they'd fall on all the pain she'd carried for three years and wouldn't leave a mark.

Ethan sat there in his car, unmoving, until Charlotte locked up the shop, slipped into the side alley, and vanished from his view.

Then he fired up the engine, drove out of the alley, and melted into the flow of traffic.

The next day, Ethan showed up again.

And on the third day, he was there once more.

Clark finally couldn't take it anymore and called Ethan directly. "Mr. Carter, are you over on the north side?"

"How did you know?" Ethan asked.

"Your car's got GPS," Clark replied.

Ethan paused for a moment. "Turn it off."

"Got it," Clark said.

Clark hung up and sighed, staring at his phone screen. He'd been by Ethan's side for eight years, back when they were hustling out of a tiny rented apartment, all the way to now, with Ethan as the CEO of a listed company.

He'd seen Ethan hold his ground at the negotiating table, slam his fist and curse in board meetings, and stay cool as ice when rivals tried to steal his people.

But he'd never seen Ethan sitting in his car, lost in thought, gazing at a small flower shop.

He looked like a stray dog abandoned by its owner, waiting outside a door that was never going to open again.