Love, or Let Me Go

The aroma of freesia and lavender hung in the air, a soothing and pleasant odor, like a gentle memory Amara Blake did not wish to release. Sunlight filtered through the front windows of Bloom & Ever, her corner shop on Ashcroft Street. The doorbell had chimed a dozen times today so far, each summoning a repeat customer or strolling baby charmed by the current display. Today's front table featured a bed of white hydrangeas, pale rose-pink roses, and ivy trailing — a wedding bouquet Amara was crafting carefully. She ran a finger over her lips, pondering the positioning as an artist would before a half-finished canvas. "It requires more blush," she whispered to herself, taking up a pale ranunculus. Pale pink, almost demure, it reminded her of the dress she'd worn on her first anniversary with Julian. Julian. The flowered name withered and died in her head at the same moment. Love stayed in her heart, concealed beneath clouds of bewilderment and weariness. They were together for four years now, and it had been akin to living in a haunted mansion. Julian stayed there — in body — but not in thought. His laugh was strange. His kisses were automatic. His eyes, once blazing with flames, barely met hers anymore. And yet, she made preparations for their anniversary. Still. Amara was always the type who was a believer in waging war over love — in tending to it like a garden. But even she couldn't help but see that something was rotting underneath. She finished the arrangement and hid it in tissue paper, fastening it with a satin ribbon around the stems. The bride was having a thirty-year wedding anniversary. They'd sent a note with the order that said, To my first and last love. Thirty more, I hope. Amara beamed, then settled the bouquet in the pickup basket for afternoon pick-up. Her phone was sitting on the counter. She used her apron to dry her hands and picked it up. Julian??? Can't make dinner tonight. Celeste had a board thing roll over. Reschedule? No "sorry." No kiss emoji. No "I love you." Just the same cold message that had become the norm. She stared at the screen for a long while, her fingers resting lightly on the keys. A small voice in her mind whispered, You knew this was going to happen. Celeste. Always Celeste. His childhood friend. His business partner. His confidante. His everything but what Amara was supposed to be. Amara typed out a reply. Okay. Just that. She couldn't say anything more. Not anymore. She put down the phone and rocked back against the counter, a hand against her chest. She didn't weep. She hadn't wept in months. Instead, her sorrow adhered like ice to flower petals — thin, unobtrusive, and strangling the flower in it. "Still here?" Amara moved to glance at Miri, her assistant, in the doorway, with one hand supporting a coffee and the other a half-eaten croissant. "Hmm?" Amara broke out of her reverie. "You were spacing out again," Miri said, a light touch on her shoulder. "Okay?" "Yeah," Amara said too quickly. Too quickly. "Exhausted." Miri didn't press her. She never did. But the sympathy she offered was palpable, and it made Amara feel that much more vulnerable. "I'll restock in the back," Miri offered. "Call if you need something." As the stockroom door creaked to shut behind her, Amara moved back and smoothed over dark curls. Her golden, restrained image in the glass was framed by sun-kissed flowers — but even the flowers' radiance couldn't hide the creases of fatigue etched around her eyes. She had turned to her calendar, to the page she had spent such agonizing time decorating weeks ago: Anniversary — June 8. The page was cluttered with crossed-out plans — dinner at Marcellos, a two-student flower arrangement course, tickets to the gallery Julian had mentioned in passing. All for nothing. She wasn't deceived by the irony of the situation. She created beauty for a living. Her fingers could bring life to dead stalks, shape randomness into order. But she couldn't fix the mess in her marriage. She crossed over to where she kept her valuable flowers — the ones she didn't sell, but rather tended to. In the center of the center was a container full of camellias, dark red and beautifully formed. Julian's favorite. Or, at least, had been. She remembered the way he smiled the first time he walked into her shop, three years ago when she’d just opened. He’d brought Celeste with him, back then just a face in the background. "You turned this place into a dream," he had said, spinning slowly in the center of the store. "You’re magic." Now, he barely even noticed when she moved the setting or introduced new designs. He came home late. He was dripping with the smell of whiskey and wood stain — the smell of the fashionable clubs where he mingled with Celeste and their corporate executives. He did not inquire after her. Did not remember their plans. Did not remember her. And still, she loved him anyway. Was it folly? Or fidelity? She could no longer say. The bell rang again, and a little girl ran in, giggling, followed by her mother. Amara straightened, pulling on her professional smile. "Hi there," she greeted. "We’re here for the peonies," the mother said. "For Grandma’s birthday." Amara took them to the back and stood by as the girl selected a bunch of coral pink flowers. Her fingers were sticky with candy. Her eyes twinkled. Amara tied the bouquet together and handed it over. The mother smiled. "Your shop always smells like a hug," she said softly. "You've got such a gift." Amara's throat tightened. "Thank you." As they left, Amara whispered to herself, "If only I could give that to myself." The store was quiet as the afternoon wore on. Out on the street, there was pouring golden light. Amara was on the counter, pulling out her journal — the one Julian was never permitted to see. She topped a fountain pen and began writing. June 8. Our fourth anniversary. I prepared as I always do. Even if he did not ask. Even if he forgot again. I still lit a candle today. I still sprayed the perfume he likes. I still dreamed. But he did not show up. He chose her. I don't know how many times I can forgive something that he won't even know. She closed the journal. Behind her, the camellias were still in their pot. Quiet. Red. Blooming in a house of love with nowhere to be sent. And deep inside her, a seed of determination was beginning to take root. To be continued...