Chapter 6

Three days after Daniel left, Helen called to say she had some old clients to refer to me. I was crouched in the back of the shop pruning a fresh shipment of roses.

Spring comes early in the South. By late March, it was already hot and muggy. The refrigerator hummed steadily, and sweat trickled down my neck.

"Sophie, there's a regular who wants a weekly order. You jot down the address," Helen said.

I grabbed a pen and scribbled it on the back of my hand: [188 Copper Street. One bouquet of white roses every week.]

"Just drop the flowers off at the front desk when you deliver them. No need to contact the client directly," Helen said, pausing for a beat. "The guy's got a bit of a short fuse, so don't poke around too much."

*****

On Thursday afternoon, I put together the first bouquet of white roses.

188 Copper Street was a twenty-three-story office building, its glass facade reflecting the bright sky. The girl at the front desk took the flowers and stamped the delivery slip.

I was just turning to leave when the elevator doors slid open. A group of people stepped out.

Leading the group was a man in a dark gray shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His left wrist was wrapped in a bandage, with a faint trace of blood seeping through.

Alex. He had wasted away. His cheekbones were hollow, his eyes sunken, and a dark shadow of stubble covered his jaw.

When he walked, his left leg had a slight limp, and his steps sounded uneven on the marble floor.

I stood by the counter, still clutching the delivery slip.

He walked right past me. Three steps, two steps, one step... He didn't glance my way.

He headed straight for the main entrance, two assistants trailing behind him. As the glass doors swung open, a wave of heat rushed in.

He stood at the entrance and lit a cigarette. It took three flicks of the lighter before it finally caught.

"Mr. Sterling's been super cranky lately," the receptionist whispered. "Last week, he tore up a whole department's proposal right in the middle of a meeting."

I folded the slip and tucked it into my bag. "What happened to his wrist?"

"No idea. It's been like that for a while. Word is he did it to himself. Who knows how many stitches he got, but the wound keeps reopening. It just won't heal," she said.

I looked toward the door. Alex was leaning against his car, smoking as the wind scattered the grey clouds.

The way he smoked had changed. He used to take his time, scrolling through his phone.

Now, he took long, heavy drags, letting the smoke sit in his lungs for an eternity before letting it out. He only stubbed it out when it was down to the filter.

Then, he pulled open the door and got into the car. He drove away.

I stood there, realizing my hands were shaking.

It wasn't out of fear. It was because I didn't know if the wound under that bandage was from a blade or a piece of glass. But I remembered what Daniel had said.

"He was clutching those things you'd burned. His hands were covered in blisters."

*****

Back at the flower shop, I finished pruning the rest of the roses. The shears kept snapping away, leaving a carpet of stems and leaves on the floor.

I'd picked up a couple of new nicks on my fingers; the blood and sap turned into a tacky, sticky mess.

When I washed my hands, I caught my reflection in the mirror.

My hair was short, and my face was bare with dark circles under my eyes. I was a far cry from the Sophie of a year ago.

Back then, I did my makeup every day and wore his favorite colors. I even permed my hair into the curls he'd complimented once.

Actually, Emily was the one who said curly hair was nice, and he'd just offhandedly remarked, "Yeah, not bad."

Then, I went and got it done the very next day. It cost me 400 dollars and left my scalp swollen from an allergic reaction for a week.

Thinking back, that "not bad" probably wasn't even meant for me.

My phone buzzed. A new message from an unknown number: [Flowers received.]

I didn't reply.

Five minutes later, another text came in: [White roses were my mother's favorite. I've ordered them every week since she passed.]

I stared at the screen. Melissa was gone?

My thumbs hovered over the screen, typing and deleting words in a loop. Another message popped up: [Last winter. Three months after you 'died.' Heart attack.]

I gripped my phone tight.

Melissa, the woman who'd watched me grow up, who'd covered my mother's medical bills, and who'd handed me the contract and said, "One point six million dollars. Think it over." She was gone, too.

I typed: [Sorry for your loss.] I hit send. Then I powered off the phone.