Page 4 of A Pack for the Wedding
A little less than two years ago, I thought my life was finally starting. Grant, the move, the flower shop. Everything felt inevitable, like I was finally getting the story I'd been waiting for after years of false starts and almost-but-not-quites.
And I do love being a florist. I really do. The early mornings at the flower market. The way a good arrangement can turn someone's whole day around... But I just don't know if this is the right place to do it anymore.
But since he left, most conversations seem to come with a side of pity, and without his salary propping up the apartment, I eventually had to move out. I've been looking for a new placeever since, but somehow every listing in this town is wildly out of budget. Hence the couch-surfing and the guest room rotation.
Yup, my "perfect life" didn't exactly stick the landing.
A heavy sigh from behind me breaks the silence. I spin around.
"Sorry, it's a bit dark, I didn't realize this spot was taken."
Arthur. The black-haired bartender from pack Leroy. In the moonlight, his face has that unfairly photogenic quality some people are blessed with: warm green eyes, roman features, the kind of handsomeness and charm that definitely gets him good tips at the bar. I mean, I totally tipped him extra one time.
He's holding two glasses of whiskey and looking like he wasn't expecting to bump into anyone.
"Arthur, right?" I say. We've technically crossed paths a few times, but we've never had an actual conversation.
"That's me." He lifts a glass in a half-salute. "And you're... the flower girl. Beth."
"Florist," I correct automatically. "And yeah."
He considers me for a moment, then holds out one of the glasses. "Want one? I grabbed two because I didn't want to have to go back in too fast, but you look like you could use one."
"Is there's a cloud of doom visibly hovering over my head." I take the glass anyway, catching a trace of a vague, yet pleasant alpha scent drifting off. The first sip burns on the way down. "Seriously, is there?"
"Nah." He moves to the railing a few feet away, looking out at the lake. "And regardless, I've been told I look like I've seen better days myself, so we're in good company."
I glance at him skeptically. "You? Someone actually said that to you?"
"Mrs. Patterson. About an hour ago." He takes a sip. "Her exact words were—" he puts on a passable impression of an older woman's voice— "'Such a shame about your situation, dear. Everyone thought your pack was doingsowell.'"
"Yeah, I heard about your breakup. I'm sorry."
"Yeah." He shrugs, but there's something tight in his jaw. "Guess you can relate."
I instinctively flinch.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"It's okay." I exhale slowly, steadying myself. "It's not like I don't know everyone knows. You can't exactly hide in a town this size."
"Tell me about it," he takes another sip.
We drink in silence for a moment. The lake laps at the dock. The party noise swells faintly all the way from here.
"You know what the irony of it is?" I say after a while.
He tilts his head toward me. "What?"
"My nine-to-five."
He furrows his brow. "You mean arranging flowers?"
"Arrangingloveflowers." I take a sip. "Wedding bouquets. Anniversary centerpieces. 'Will you marry me?' arrangements with the ring hidden in the roses. Meanwhile I'm mentally calculating the pawn value of my own engagement ring."
He stares at me for a beat. "That," he says, "sounds like a very specific kind of hell."
"It's like selling tickets to a destination I've been permanently banned from." I take another sip.
