Birmingham Brothers

Janiya It had been a slow morning at the shop. The kind of quiet that made time stretch and thoughts wander. I was halfway through reorganizing the daisies by color when the front door opened and the bell gave its usual cheerful ding. I turned to greet whoever had come in, brushing a stray petal from my apron and smoothing my hair in a practiced gesture. That’s when I saw him. Young. Tall. Skin kissed by the sun, and standing just a little too awkwardly near the entrance. His shoulders were stiff, like he didn’t quite know where to stand or how to breathe in a space filled with color and scent and soft petals. He looked out of place, but not in a bad way. More like a thundercloud wandering into a field of wildflowers. My curiosity piqued instantly as I internally licked my lips. I couldn't help but notice how his T-shirt hugged his muscles just right, and the belt on his faded jeans drew attention to his trim waist – no beer belly in sight. And before I could help myself, my mouth was already off to the races, leading with charm and sass like always. "Hello, Mr. Handsome! What can I get for you?" I greeted him with my usual flair and a mischievous smile tugging at my lips. I’d never seen him before. I liked the look of him. Something about the way he carried himself: polite, unsure, made him… intriguing. And an easy prey for my eyes and the kind of dirty fantasies I’d replay later that night. There was just something about watching a handsome man and soaking in the beauty of God’s creation. Especially when it cost nothing to look – and slipping beautiful people into your bedtime daydreams was free, too. Like I always say: the best things in life really are free. "I would like white flowers," he said, snapping me out of my daydreams. "Any specific type of flowers?" I asked, slipping back into my helpful flower-girl persona. "Not really, just white." "A bouquet or just flowers with some greeneries?" I kept on inquiring, determined to give him the best service. "Just flowers." That answer caught me off guard. Most people want them dressed up, pretty, camera-ready. He didn’t. Simple. Bare. "Okay, help me here, young man. Who are the flowers for?" I asked, eager to get it just right, hoping a touch of lightness in my voice would ease him up so I could give my new customer something truly worth his money. "For… for my mom." There was a pause, just long enough for me to fill it with something stupid. "Ouh, you are such a good momma’s boy, ain’t you?" I teased, my lips tightening to hold back a laugh. Then the room shifted. "Not really. I just wanted to put them on her grave in the cemetery." Silence. Cold and sharp, like a bucket of ice water had just been dumped over my head. My smile faltered, and the warmth drained from my chest in an instant. "Ouh, my… I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude or insensitive." My voice had changed – softer, lower, filled with remorse. God, my mouth. Always running ahead of my brain, always making jokes before it even knows what it's stepping into. I hated moments like this – when my good intentions turned into bruises on someone else’s grief. He just nodded gently, no blame in his eyes, which somehow made it worse. The rest of our little encounter unfolded in a quiet kind of understanding. No more teasing words, no awkward laughter – just a gentle silence as I moved to fulfill his request. I reached for a dozen white chrysanthemums, a classic choice for graves – timeless, respectful, and full of unspoken sentiment. As I arranged them, I tucked sprigs of baby’s breath between the blooms, their delicate presence a kind of quiet apology for my earlier, thoughtless words. Maybe he didn’t take it personally, but I did. I had to do something small, something kind. This was my way of making amends. I tied the bouquet together with a simple black ribbon – elegant and subtle. Wrapping them in paper felt wrong. Paper gets soggy when it rains, and nothing’s worse than a grave bouquet looking like a wet, crumpled mess. This way, the flowers would stay neat and proud for longer. Like they should. He stood quietly, watching me work with a focus that made the air feel a little heavier. Not uncomfortable, just... more real. When I was done, I gently slid the bouquet across the counter toward him. He didn’t speak, not at first. Just stepped forward and handed me a few bills – cash, not left on the counter but passed directly to my hand. Our fingers brushed for a second, warm skin against mine, and I met his eyes with a small, apologetic smile. As I counted out his change, I mustered the courage to say something – not witty or flirtatious, but sincere. "Don’t mind the mouth on me," I said softly. "I’m really sorry about your mom. I’m sure she’d be proud of the man you’ve grown into – handsome and, I bet, successful too." Was he successful? I had no idea. But something about the way he carried himself – the calm, the quiet strength – told me he was. Or at least, he would be. He gave me a small, reassuring smile and a shake of his head. "It’s okay. No offense taken." Then he picked up the flowers and turned toward the door. I watched him go, praying he wasn’t the kind of customer who’d file a complaint. Lord knows I needed this job, and in a town this small, news spread faster than pollen in spring. But just as he was reaching the door, he stopped. Turned around slowly, walking backward with a playful look on his face. "So... you think I’m handsome?" he asked with a teasing grin. I raised a brow, half in amusement, half in disbelief. Had he not heard my greeting when he first walked in? Was he that lost in his thoughts? Maybe still grieving. Maybe remembering. I leaned on the counter, my lips twitching into a smirk. "Do you know what a mirror is?" He chuckled, lowering his gaze to the floor for a second before looking back at me. "Yeah. I do." "Then you’ve seen yourself fresh out of the shower, right?" Now it was my turn to get lost in a visual. I could already picture him – wet skin, water dripping down sculpted abs, muscles flexing as he reached for a towel. Lord, have mercy. "Yeah!" he laughed, catching the look on my face. "Well, there’s your answer, Mr. Sexy Muscles," I said, adding a wink for good measure. He chuckled deeper this time and turned toward the door again. I couldn't help but call out one last line. "You’re pretty fly for a white guy!" His hand paused on the doorknob, and he glanced back at me with a grin and a laugh. "Cool. See you around." And just like that, he was gone. The bell above the door gave a soft ding as it closed behind him, and the quiet of the shop settled around me again like a familiar old blanket. But something had shifted. Just a little. As I kept staring at the door, I wondered if he was even old enough to recognize the song I’d just quoted. I stood there for a beat longer, the scent of chrysanthemums clinging to my fingers, and let out a slow breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. My gaze drifted to the counter where his hand had touched mine. That simple, warm gesture. Not flirtatious, not calculated – just human. Gentle. Real. What was it about him? Maybe it was the eyes, or the way he held himself like someone who’s been through something and made it out the other side. Or maybe I just liked a good eye candy. I chuckled softly at myself. Lord knows I talk a lot of nonsense. I shook my head. It’s my thing. But today, standing there with my mouth running and my heart tripping over itself, I felt something I didn’t want to admit to myself, but I was hoping he’d come back. Not only because he was easy on the eyes and a fine piece of daydream material. No, it was something gentler than that. Something that made me want to learn his name, hear his laugh again, maybe even sit across from him with a cup of coffee and hear what kind of man brings white flowers to his mama’s grave on an ordinary Tuesday. I shook the thought away, brushing my hands on my apron like I was wiping off whatever was trying to settle in my chest. “Get it together, Janiya,” I muttered to myself with a chuckle. Still, I couldn’t stop the small smile that played on my lips as I turned back to rearrange a vase on the front window display. Outside, the sun was bright and biting for May, the light glinting off the glass like a quiet little promise. Maybe, just maybe, I’d see him again.