I’m somewhat disappointed when only one of my inquiries turns into an actual order. I remind myself I’ve only been in business six weeks and I can’t expect to be a mogul overnight, but not going to lie, a small part of me expected things to take off instantly. I know that was a naïve assumption, but it still stings a little.

At least I get to spend Sunday morning the best way I know how: drinking coffee and strolling through the farmers’ market. I stock up on more flowers than I need for my one order and make plans for a couple of extra arrangements for Instagram purposes, hoping to garner some more interest from my steadily growing online presence.

Once I get home, I prepare the flowers, leaving them in a giant bucket of water in the main-floor bathroom. It’s small and has an air-conditioning vent, so it’s the coolest place in the house aside from the fridge. Based on the florals I selected, I pick out two different vases, a vintage tiki mug I found at a sidewalk sale and another former alcohol bottle. I’ve been sneaking old bottles from the recycling bin at work and coming up with some pretty cool colors and shapes. And I haven’t burned down the house yet with my amateur glass cutting, so bonus.

I slip into the zone of arranging, happy to lose myself while I wait for Jack to come home.

And while I lie to myself, repeating over and over how much I’m so not waiting for Jack to come home.

I stage both arrangements on the mantel, highlighting the exposed brick in the background. It’s still early afternoon, so the lighting is perfect. I won’t post the ordered bouquet until the flowers have been delivered to their rightful owner—I don’t want to ruin the surprise—but I pop onto Insta and immediately post the other photo, spending an additional half hour engaging on the app to hopefully boost my visibility.

The front door opens just as I’m placing the extra arrangement at the center of the dining room table, the one for the order already safely stored in the fridge.

Jack tosses his keys in the bowl on the entry table and doesn’t even mention my shoes, which are still right in the middle of the walkway. “Honey, I’m home.”

I greet him with a grin. “How was your trip, dear?”

He throws his bag on the stairs, and I know he’ll take it with him when he goes to his room, like a real grown-up. “It was fine.”

“And you went where again?”

He smirks and crosses to the fridge, pulling out a beer. “Nice try.”

“Sorry about the flowers in the fridge. They’ll be gone tomorrow.”

He hands me a beer bottle before grabbing another one for himself. “Not a problem. They look great.”

“Thanks!”