TULIPS
1204 Words
Elvis POV
“You’re destined for great things, Elvis… ”
My Mom’s voice echoed in my ears before the naked brunette nudged me awake.
It was hard to tell how late it was. The thick curtains let only pinpricks of light bleed into my room. I fumbled for my phone on the counter. The glare seared into my eyes as I squinted through a dozen missed calls I wasn’t ready to answer.
I pressed my back against the warm headboard, my elbow brushing against hers as she let out a soft groan. Watching her curl herself into the marrow of the pillow made me wonder why she was still here–and why I was, too.
Finding out was the last thing on my mind so I sprang off the bed, scrambling numbers into my phone before her raspy voice stopped me in my tracks.
“Hi,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “What time is it?”
“Don’t tell me that’s the reason you’re still here.”
“Always grumpy in the morning, huh?” She asked, flopping her head back onto the pillow.
“Listen, I don't have time for this. Get your stuff and leave!”
She propped her head up on one elbow, her eyes dragging down my boxers. “Oh, really? Last time I checked, it was my idea to leave. I literally begged you to let me go. Anyway, some guy from the Jardines del Humaya wouldn’t stop calling. Something about an appointment. Did someone die?”
I clenched my teeth and emptied my lungs. “Time to leave.”
Reaching for the bathroom door, I winced as something lanced into my heel. I lifted my foot to see a black bra sprawled up, hooks poking out. One look over my shoulder and I couldn't tell what irritated me more–the sting in my foot or the b***h in my bed.
She sat up. “s**t. Are you okay?”
I shut the door and hopped to the sink, twisting my sole toward the light. The throb lasted for a second, then dulled into an annoying ache. One I thumbed just to be sure. No blood.
Years ago, I’d grind the heel of my hands into my eyes and stare at myself in the mirror. Chin up, like a king. Now all I saw was a mess-and a desperate urge to just not give a f**k.
I brought my right hand up, using my fingers to trace the scars that ran across the left side of my shoulder to my bicep. Scars that constantly reminded me that the car accident I had after a stupid night at the club was real.
Ironically, waking from a coma to a bankrupt company was just the start. My father never trusted me with a damn thing– not even the Swedish steel plants I already ran. He spent half his life trying to strip me of my birthright, stopped only by my mother’s refusal to sign the papers. Being unable to prove him wrong broke me. But even that wasn’t my biggest regret.
Before I regained consciousness, my Mom had flown nine thousand miles from Mexico to see me. A day later, I found out that her plane never made it safely to Sweden. The first time they wheeled me into her hospital room, the sight of her right leg— missing from her knee up—blurred my vision.
I reached for her bruised cheek, but my father’s stare stopped me cold. It didn't need words to say: I wish you were on that plane instead.
When she squeezed my hands for the last time, my father's words hit me like a bullet to the brain.
“You did this.”
And as much as it hurt, he wasn’t wrong. He probably didn’t know, but I died that day, too.
And if the brunette didn't quit knocking on this bathroom door, I might be guilty of another one.
“Hey…you’re alright?” she asked as I yanked the door open.
I shouldered past her, hauled the curtains wide, and walked to the door, holding it open.
“This should be easy.”
She stood there, brows unevenly arched as if my words tasted wrong in her ears. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I could always call security. They’d be more than happy to see you off.”
Her knuckles whitened around the fabric clutched to her collarbone.
“And because I'm a nice guy, I'll give you two minutes to fix yourself up. Don’t be here when I get back.”
I tossed my towel over my shoulder and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
***
“Pull over.” I ordered.
My driver pulled up to my Dad’s favorite florist. I adjusted my jacket, my eyes catching the two heart-shaped O’s nestled between the B-L and the M. The neon BLOOM glowing in dark was a ghost of the man he used to be–back when his bouquets were so huge Mom had to fake-scold him for the price. A cheap performance, even then.
Even at that, she never got tired of them. And I was here for that same reason.
When I swung the door open, a deep exhale escaped me as I took in the walls: splashes of blue and red, and a full-sized tree rising through the center of the shop like it was holding up the ceiling, filling the room with a rainforest scent.
That's new.
Ironic how the flowers lit up the room more than the fancy bulbs hanging from their stylish chains. My entrance turned a few heads, but most people stayed buried in the flowers, sampling them with the same hunger I’d had as a kid.
“Elvis,” the grey-haired lady behind the register raised a brow, amusement crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Will it be the store or some flowers?”
I smiled walking to the register, wondering why my name sounded so familiar in her lips. “Wanna sell?”
“Whoa, easy tiger,” she said, adjusting her glasses. “Jokes aren’t meant to be taken seriously.”
I chuckled. “Okay ma’am. You seem to have been running here for a while.”
“Flowers never seem to age, you know. You’re reminded of how much pain and beauty life can offer you for so long.”
“Hmm… long time. Don’t you get tired?” I asked.
With a warm grin, she messed with some daisies in a vase beside the cash register. “Well, twenty-five years and they still haven't given me a reason to. You wouldn't be here if it wasn’t for one of them. So my dear, what will it be?”
“That one,” I pointed to the bouquet of red tulips behind her. “All of em.”
“Oh, last tulip order of the day.” She pulled a golden-crested card from the bunch and pushed up her spectacles. “Must be a very special someone. But I'm afraid it's been booked.”
Booked?
“By whom?” I asked.
“Okay, let me see. Celine….. Al…va..rez.”
- Writer
