Can't Let Go (21 page)

The smell of beautiful abounds from every angle when we step into the florist. Every flower imaginable sits in vases of water from tabletops to behind the glass. Balloons float in the air, anchored to teddy bears and baskets. I would love to work here, smiling is contagious from the moment you enter the room.

A lovely middle-aged woman greets us. “Ryland. How are you?” She puts her hand out, and he shakes it.

“It’s nice to see you, Lily.” He peers around the room, observing the array of floral and celebration items. “This is my temporary assistant, Christine Dawson.” He introduces me, and she bears a friendly smile, turning her attention to me.

“Hi! I’m Lily. So, am I to assume Jessa’s off on leave?” she excitedly questions, and I nod my head with just as much enthusiasm.

“She just had her baby today,” I inform Lily, and her face lights up like a Christmas tree.

“Oh, good for her and Grant. I couldn’t be happier for them. Is it a boy or a girl?” she asks, biting her lip.

“A girl. Adelaide Rose.”

“What a beautiful name.” She places her hand over her heart.

“Lily,” Ryland interrupts, and she shifts her concentration back to him. “We’d like to pick out a bouquet to send over to the hospital.

“Sure. Right.” She composes herself and glances around the shop. “Let’s start over here.” She motions for us to follow.

Ryland ushers me forward.

“Jessa doesn’t scream super girly, so maybe we mix it up and do pink, white, and purple?”

“Sure,” Ryland responds clearly disinterested. “Chrissy will take the lead on this.” He nods toward me.

Lily smiles, and then we discuss the difference of flowers. Since I’ve never received even a single rose let alone a bouquet, I have no idea how to mix them together. She grabs a vase, and before I figure out what we should do, there are magenta roses, white lilies, and small purple and white daisies pouring out of it. Reaching over, she grabs a ribbon and twists it into a bow to position right in the middle.

“Do you want a balloon?” she asks, and I glance over my shoulder to Ryland who just nods.

“Yes, please,” I say. Lily reaches below a shelf and moves over to the helium tank.

A huge Mylar balloon with ‘IT’S A GIRL’ outlined swells, and I can’t keep the smile off my face. “What an amazing job. You make people happy just by showing up at their door,” I remark, and Lily nods.

“It’s pretty great, but flowers aren’t always used for happy times. She points to the small cards stacked in the plastic holders by the counter. Get Well and Our Sympathy triggering her meaning immediately.

“Oh. That must be hard.” I empathize, and she nods in agreement.

“I remember my florist opened right after Grant’s mother, Mindy, passed. He and his dad came in here to pick out the flowers for his mother’s casket. Although I didn’t know Mindy, my heart broke for the little, blond-haired boy that didn’t speak when his dad asked him to pick out some flowers for his mommy.” She glances over to the back of the store and then back to me. “Now I get to send them to him and his wife in congratulations on their baby. I was there for him in one of his darkest moments and now I’m able to be there for one of his happiest. It’s nice.”

I wipe the few tears and stare in admiration at this woman. “That’s truly wonderful.” I’m otherwise speechless.

She reaches over and pats my hand in a mom mannerism. “Oh, sweetie, you make me feel like a miracle worker or something.” She giggles, bringing Ryland’s attention back to us.

“What did I miss?” he asks, putting his phone back in his pocket.

“Nothing.” I quickly disregard our moment as Lily rings up the order.

Ryland pulls his credit card out and slides it across the counter. “I’ll get it there this afternoon. Did you want to sign a card?” She points to a display I just observed a few moments ago. Ryland picks out a congratulations card and begins writing an inscription.

I peek over his shoulder after he’s finished and notice my name on the card. “Why did you put my name on there?”

“You’re part of Ryland Davis Gallery now,” he replies, and I guess he’s kind of right.

Lily says her goodbye, and I push back my urge to hug her, but instead follow Ryland’s weaving path through the overfilled display tables with different bouquets. After we hit the sidewalk, he turns to me. “Lunch?”

“That’s okay—” I politely decline.

“I wasn’t asking if you wanted to go. I was asking
where
you wanted to go,” he clarifies, and I bite my lip. Swimming in my own thoughts of whether this is crossing a business to personal line, I remain quiet. An impatient Ryland breaks the silence. “Okay, I’ll decide. Let’s go.” He nods for me to start walking. Always the gentleman.

WE END UP at a nice restaurant called Filgree’s about five minutes later. The minute we step through the doors, I straighten my blouse down and smooth out my black slacks, as though my hands could iron out the wrinkles. This is by far the fanciest restaurant I’ve ever eaten at. White linen tablecloths with silverware stuffed in linen napkins dress the tables and small plates to the left, two forks, a knife, and a spoon. I silently pray I can get through this meal without embarrassing myself.

The hostess leads us to a table overlooking the small river that runs through Western. Ryland pulls my chair out, and I take a deep inhale of nervous breath when he steps around to his seat across from me. Staring out at the water slowly rippling down the stream, I watch a few geese fly down to rest on the water and float along the low currents.

“We could have gone to a sandwich place.” I follow his example in unwrapping the silverware and then placing the napkin in my lap. Then a guy comes around with a pitcher of water, filling up the glasses next to our plates. I quietly tell him thank you and his lips turn slightly.

“It’s Saturday. I don’t have a showing tonight. It’s a leisurely day. Try the Chicken Fajita salad; it’s Jessa’s favorite.” The thought that he brings Jessa here, too, puts me to ease that he’s not thinking a fancy lunch means I’ll fancy him later. Not that he seems to flash that type of guy, but where I come from, not a lot of guys do nice things for girls without an expectation of more. Dex may be the only one I know.

A waiter greets us and spouts off the specials with ingredients I’ve never heard of and positive I can’t pronounce. I order the Fajita salad with the house dressing, and Ryland orders a buffalo chicken sandwich with sweet potato fries.

“Are you a student?” he tries to lure me into conversation while we wait for our food.

“No. I had been taking a few classes at a community college, but I recently moved here.” I want to smack myself on the forehead for divulging unnecessary information. Sometimes being an open book isn’t the best.

His head slowly moves up and down, I assume absorbing the fact that he hired a trashy girl with no education. “I dropped out. Went for a few years, got into an argument with my parents over my love for art,” he reveals, as though he’s letting me know he doesn’t care if I’m on my way to a degree or not.

“What did they want you to do?”

He stares up at the ceiling, “Lawyer, doctor, psychologist. Any job that gave you those extra letters after the name.” He makes eye contact with me.

“Were your parents those? I mean, is that why they wanted you to become one?”

He chuckles. “No. My dad works in a factory and my mom’s a cashier at a grocery store. It’s the classic case of wanting more for your children. They worked their asses off to send me, their only child, to college, and I failed them when I wanted to pursue art instead of something more ‘collegiate’.” He raises his fingers up in air quotes.

“I can understand that. I want my kids to be so much more than me,” I blurt out, wishing I could take that back. I’m devaluing myself in front of my boss.

“I’m lucky. When I dropped out to not ‘waste my parents money’, an art teacher I had, started teaching me after hours. She saw some sort of potential in me and wanted to be my mentor. I opened my gallery four years ago,” he admits.

“How old are you?” I inch forward, showing an eagerness for the answer.

He chuckles. “I’ll spare you the guessing game. I’m thirty-two.”

“Oh,” I say, and he cocks his head to the side.

“Younger or older? Do I dare ask?”

“Younger,” I answer, and he laughs.

“Good. Like you’d say older. I have to keep reminding myself you’re my employee.” He shakes his head with his smile getting wider.

“No … really, I would have thought younger,” I plea to convince him, but he waves his hand.

“I’d ask you how old you are, but my mom told me never to ask a woman her age.” He raises both eyebrows, as though he won’t ask but he’s curious.

“Twenty-two,” I answer honestly because he’ll know as soon as I finish filling out the paperwork he gave me for employment.

His head moves up and down slowly, and, as the lull happens in our conversation, our meals arrive. We both eat, minimally talking here or there, mostly about the food’s preparation and tastiness.

Wiping my mouth, I place the napkin on the table when I finish, and he does the same. Raising his hand slightly so that the waiter comes over, and he hands him his credit card without ever looking at the bill.

“Let me.” I reach down to retrieve my purse.

“You’re my employee. I pay for lunches when we go out,” he says, and I happily accept because if memory serves, the salad was fifteen dollars alone.

“Thank you,” I graciously accept.

“You’re very nice company, Chrissy.” He positions his elbows on either end of the chair, linking his fingers together while he studies the river out the window. “Did you want to go to the hospital now?” He twists his head my way again.

“Okay,” I answer.

We stand up, and he places his hand on the small of my back to nudge me forward to the door. Walking the couple blocks to his car, I’m surprised to find it’s an SUV that beeps open when he clicks his remote. Opening the door for me, I climb in. I quickly snoop around before he joins me, finding his golf shoes behind the driver’s seat with a pair of socks shoved inside. He walks behind the SUV to the driver’s side, and as he turns the key in the ignition, his head shifts my way. “By the way, you’re off the clock now.”

“Oh … okay,” I stutter, wondering if he’s just making it clear that I’m not being paid from this point forward, or that I don’t have to go back to the gallery after. I don’t ask any questions, and he doesn’t divulge any more information.

*dpgroup.org*

Sam: Coming in at twelve fifteen. Pick us up?

FUCK, THE LAST thing I want is to see Sam right now. But how on earth do I leave her and her parents at the airport? Damn Jessa for having this baby early. Grant was supposed to pick them up today, so they’d all be here this week when she had the baby. That’s another thing, how did I let it slip my mind that Sam was coming to town today? Chrissy, that’s how, I think to myself.

My truck pulls up by arrivals, and the Hamiltons are waiting at the curb with their luggage. I open my tailgate and Mr. Hamilton is the first to greet me.

“Thank you for picking us up, Dex,” Mr. Hamilton says, and I grab his bag from his hands, lifting it into the truck bed. Spotting my sweatshirt, a vision of Chrissy and I triggers to life.