13 Regrettably, for both of us, he’d eaten stromboli. The kiss was memorable, and not in a good way.

14 I was definitely flipping out.

15 My mom hated this coach. “I’m sorry,” she said, “am I the only one who remembers this is MIDDLE SCHOOL TENNIS?”

The Story of Ros, Part III

“Colleagues.”

When I say the word to Jess, she looks almost amused.

“Colleagues?” she repeats.

“Colleagues,” I confirm, as in, I think we should be just.

The word sounded more convincing coming from Celia’s mouth. Jess catches the dissonance, too, and grins a cocky smile from ear to ear. It’s a smile that feels like a secret, or a plan—like the wolf pretending to be friends with Little Red Riding Hood. It sends my heart through my stomach. If anyone recognizes a smile like that, it’s me.

“Colleagues,” Jess repeats for the fourth time, and this time it’s almost taunting, like she knows it’s not what I want. “Okay. Let’s be colleagues.”

So we’re colleagues for a few days. We might as well wear power suits, ties with Windsor knots, make small talk by the water cooler. I say things like, Boy, it’s hot today and Wow, that’s a big bouquet order. I keep a list of things that colleagues wouldn’t notice: how Jess’s arm muscles flex when she moves a heavy bird-of-paradise that isn’t getting enough sunlight. The length of her legs when she reaches on tiptoe to pull down a bag of soil for a customer. That smile she occasionally flashes in my direction when she catches me staring. This whole time: colleagues, colleagues, colleagues.

And even though Celia’s right—at least I think she’s right—I start to feel a little resentful of her. Why am I listening to her? Why am I letting her make my decisions for me? Why is she telling me not to follow my heart? It’s true, I can be reckless, I can rush, I can get hurt—but why am I ignoring this feeling in my body, this feeling like a curled new leaf, ready to spring open? Why would she tell me to do so?

And then, in the middle of the week, the day before Into the Woods starts, a million bouquets to build, a customer approaches the checkout holding the terrarium that Celia loves.

“This is beautiful,” I say, as if I’m seeing it for the first time. I lay my hand on the glass roof and can practically feel Celia’s love for it, as though it’s a drink she spilled all over the roof.

“It’s for my daughter,” the man says.