I’m already breathing fast and setting aside the dress on my bed…when my apartment buzzer goes off. “Huh?”

When I walk out of my bedroom, my roommate, Shayna, is standing in flannel pants and a Tinkerbell T-shirt, eyeballing the speaker warily. We haven’t spent a lot of time together, at least not in a social sense, but she once left her laptop open to her dating profile and I couldn’t help but take a small peek. Activism and Disney is her subheading. Many times I’ve wanted to ask about her job as a non-profit spokesperson. Reminders of the past always hold me back. “Did you order food?” she asks now, pointing a single finger at the door.

“No,” I say. “Should we ignore it?”

It buzzes again.

We trade a shrug.

I approach the box on the wall and press the speaker button. “Yes?”

“Flowers.”

It’s possible I heard that wrong. This speaker was installed during Prohibition. Approximately. “Um…what?”

“Flower delivery.”

Okay. Heard him right. But unless my parents are sending me flowers, no one has this address. “You have the wrong apartment.”

“How do you know they’re not for me?” Shayna wants to know.

Wincing inwardly, I tap the speaker again. “Who are they for?”

A long-suffering groan fills the apartment. “Elise Brandeis.”

“Oh.” I rear back slightly, baffled. Then I shake myself and hold down the button to allow the delivery person into the building. Keeping the chain lock engaged, I pull open the apartment door slightly and watch the man approach with…not one, but two bouquets. My jacket is hanging on the peg beside the door, so I root around in my pocket for the change I received this morning for my bagel—it’s a few singles—and when he sets down the flowers in their vases on the hallway floor, I hand him the dollar bills through the slit in the door. “Thanks.”

“Yup,” he sighs, already heading back in the opposite direction.

Shayna laid down safety rules when I rented the room and they include never opening the door for strangers, and never buzzing anyone into the building without knowing who it is. When I order takeout, I give her a heads-up that someone will be coming to the door and she returns the favor. Apart from the odd, casual conversation, that’s really the extent of our relationship.

When I moved in last year, she asked me a few times if I wanted to join her and some colleagues on a night out, but I declined. I’m not great at maintaining friendships, even if she seems like someone I would have liked a lot in a past life.

I wait until the deliveryman is out of view before sliding open the chain lock and bringing the bouquets into the apartment one by one. I set them down on the small coffee table in our common area and consider the cards peeking out among the blooms.

One is roses. Red. All cut the exact same length.

One is a mixture of sunflowers and daisies and big, orange lilies.