Chapter 6

On the fourth day, Ethan decided to switch things up.

He didn't sit in his car, watching from a distance anymore. At four in the morning, he got up and threw on a black hoodie, the least CEO-like thing he owned.

He checked himself in the mirror, but still didn't look the part. Pulling the hood up to cover half his face, he headed out.

The flower market was on the south side of town, and five a.m. was when it was at its peak.

The giant tent blazed with lights, packed with people, vendors hollering, carts piled high with flowers weaving in and out, the ground slick with petals and muddy water.

Ethan stood at the entrance, taking it all in, like a hawk that had wandered into a noisy bazaar by mistake.

Ethan had never set foot in a flower market in his entire life. To him, flowers were pointless. They couldn't be eaten, couldn't be drunk, and definitely couldn't make him any money.

Charlotte loved flowers, but he'd always brushed it off like it was nothing. On their wedding anniversary, she gave him a little succulent. He tossed it on his office windowsill and didn't realize when it shriveled up and died.

Now, standing among all these flowers, breathing in the mix of soil and pollen, Ethan suddenly remembered that little succulent.

Charlotte had taken her time picking it out, used a small trowel to pat the soil down, watered it, and set it in the right corner of his desk.

She'd said, "You don't need to water it much. Once a month is okay. It's super easy to keep alive."

He gave a nod and went back to his reports.

Later, when the succulent died, she cleaned up the dead leaves and swapped it for a new one. The second one died, too, then the third. But after that, she didn't replace it anymore.

Back then, he hadn't thought much of it. But now, standing in the flower market, breathing in the damp, sweet scent of flowers, it suddenly hit him that those four succulents were her way of giving him four chances.

She never said it out loud, but she was waiting for him in her own quiet way. Waiting for him to notice, to say thank you, to remember that she loved flowers.

But after four chances, she stopped waiting.

"Move aside." A cart piled high with flower boxes whizzed by him, splattering mud onto his pant legs. He quickly stepped aside, scanning the crowd for her.

And then he saw her.

Charlotte was pushing an old bike, picking out flowers at a stall. She had on a dark blue apron and a faded army-green cotton jacket, not new; the collar was a little worn, but it was spotless.

She bent down, gently pinched the stem of a rose, took a sniff, and then flashed a smile at the flower lady. "I'll take this box."

The flower lady helped her lift the box. Charlotte reached out to grab it. Her arms shook under the weight, but she managed to steady herself.

Ethan stood about 30 feet away, watching her arms tremble, seeing the red marks the box left on her fingers, and watching her quietly haul the box onto the back of her bike, tying it down with a rope all by herself.

He walked over. "I got it."

Charlotte looked up and saw his face, half-hidden by the hood of his sweatshirt. She paused for a moment, then recognized him.

"Why are you here?" she asked.

"I'm passing by," he replied.

"Passing by? At a flower market at five in the morning?" Charlotte shot back.

Ethan didn't answer. He bent down, hefted the flower box, and secured it to her bike with the rope, making sure it was tight. Rose thorns dug into the back of his hand, but he didn't pull away. He winced slightly.

Charlotte watched his hand. His knuckles were smudged with dirt, and there were several red marks on the back of his hand, one of them oozing a tiny bead of blood.

She opened her mouth, wanting to say "you don't have to," but what came out was, "Your hand..."

"It's fine," Ethan cut her off. "Anything else?"

"What?"

"Any other boxes you need me to move?"

"Yeah, there are two more over there."

Ethan turned and walked over to the stall, carrying the two boxes over. He stacked them up, pulled the rope tight, and tied a solid knot. The flower lady watched, letting out a low whistle. "Wow, your boyfriend's really strong."

Before Charlotte could explain, Ethan had already turned and walked away.

He'd only taken a few steps when he heard her call out from behind, "Wait."

He stopped.

"Your hand is bleeding," Charlotte said.

Ethan glanced down at the bead of blood on the back of his hand and wiped it away with his other hand. "It's fine," he said, and kept walking.

The flower lady called out from behind, "Hey, you still got thorns stuck in your hand."

He didn't look back.

Charlotte stood there, watching his figure fade into the crowd. He was wearing a black hoodie, the hood pulled down low, walking with his usual straight-backed, long-strided urgency, like he was always racing against the clock.

But what was he rushing for? Work didn't start until nine, and the flower market wouldn't close until six. He'd woken up at four a.m., driven halfway across the city, to help her haul boxes of flowers.

Charlotte lowered her head, gazing at the neatly stacked boxes. There were a few spots of blood on them, left by the rose thorns. She picked out the roses stained with his blood and set them aside, separate from the rest.

The flower lady leaned in with a big grin. "Hey, girl, who was that guy? He treats you really well."

Charlotte paused. "Someone I used to know."

"Used to know? Doesn't seem like it. The way he looked at you, he was practically glued to you," the flower lady teased.

Charlotte didn't respond. She loaded the flower boxes onto her bike and took off.

The wind slipped into her collar, making her hunch her shoulders against the cold. She glanced in the rearview mirror at the entrance to the flower market. That guy in the black hoodie was still standing there, unmoving.

She looked away and hit the gas, speeding off.