Page 18 of Picking Daisies on Sundays

“Wear that top, it makes your boobs look better,” Gabe recommended, lounging on my bed.

I didn’t exactly ask for his and Jia’s help on what to wear. They somehow ended up here an hour ago after a group call went from “Can you hang out?” to “What do you mean you’re going to Levi’s tonight and don’t know what you’re wearing yet?” Ten minutes later and they were at my door with bags of Trader Joe’s chips and Pinterest boards.

35 minutes left to figure out what to wear and put in my purse before I needed to head to Daisy’s for a shift, so time was dwindling here. I made a face at Gabe’s suggestion; bringing attention to my boobs was the last thing I needed at a family dinner.

“Stop objectifying her.” Jia threw one of my embroidered pillows straight at Gabe’s head.

Gabe argued, “I’m not objectifying her. If anything, this is an FU to the world because she has such nice boobs!”

“What do you know about boobs?” she asked with skepticism.

“Don’t act like we didn’t watchBurlesquetogether,” Gabesilenced her with narrowed eyes.

Despite my stress, I laughed, failing to stay on track. Jia got up and shoved her arms into my closet as if she was parting the sea. “Let the professional do her job. And while I do that, you’re going to pack your purse and put on the best tasting lipstick you’ve got.”

I thought I was going to vomit with anxiety after Jia built up the idea of Levi and I kissing tonight. It was the last thing I had considered. But once she said it, it made sense. Couples did that, obviously.

But not in front of the families, right?

Ringing out the last customer at Daisy’s before switching the sign toClosed, I finished wrapping a bouquet of white roses in brown paper as I spotted Levi walk in.

Three times. That was how many times I’ve seen him this week. The only three times in the past four years, yet I still couldn’t keep my nerves together when he entered the room. He wore a white button down with short sleeves, a few buttons left open at the top, with navy blue trousers. His usual watch gripped his wrist, which led your eyes to the muscles in his forearm and bicep. If I didn’t have 20/20 vision, I would think it was in slow motion, the way his bicep flexed as he opened the door, and ran a hand through his thick, short, Hugh Grant-like brunette waves.

I pressed my damp palms against my pale blue midi skirt, decorated in small peonies, paired with a white tank that covered the tips of my shoulders and edges of my collarbones.

“Hey,” he said in a soft voice.

“Hey, thanks for picking me up,” I smiled, turning around

while folding excess brown paper.

“Of course,” he said, putting his hands in his trouser pockets as he gazed around the small store.

“Your mom likes hydrangeas, right?”

“How do you possibly remember that?” he asked with surprise.

“Knowing everyone’s favorite flower is my party trick,” I shrugged my shoulders with a smile like it was as cool as being able to open a beer bottle with your teeth.

“Can you do mine?”

I looked up for a quick moment. “You’re the exception.”

“Am I?”

When wasn’t he the exception?

After a moment of silence, he spoke up. “Can I help with anything?”

As I finished tying twine around another group of flowers, I asked, “Would you mind grabbing my bag?”

“Of course.” He lifted my crochet strawberry bag—a purse I made during my crocheting phase in high school—and eyed it. For a moment, I questioned if he recognized it, but no. “What’s in this bag?” You would think he askedare there bricks in here?

The way the purse slumped under his hand, the yarn carrying the weight of its contents, did make it look fairly heavy. “Umm, just my Kindle, an apple, a few scrunchies, my water, a sandwich, a sewing kit—”

“A sewing kit?”

“—and a second pair of earrings in case I lose mine.”