Relief flooded Truman. Not only had he not scared Ash away, but here was a problem he could actually solve!

“Okay, I know I’m just jumping right back in, but I have lots of ideas of how you can make these changes without doing much more work.”

Ash’s eyes lit up for a moment. “Yeah?”

“Well, can I be totally honest?”

Ash nodded.

“Okay, you don’t really have many customers. So during work hours, it would be a better use of your time to implement these new projects rather than stocking the store with stuff no one buys. And you could save some money by not buying as many flowers for a little while, since people aren’t coming in, and put that money toward these new projects.”

Ash looked around at the empty shop. “Yeah, it’s pretty grim, huh? I swear half the people who come in do it out of pity.”

Truman held his tongue.

Ash nodded slowly—a working-through-things kind of nod. Finally, he said, “Okay. Let’s do it.”

“Yeah? Great! Oh hell, I don’t have your notebook. I can go home and get it, though!”

“We can just use regular paper,” Ash said and pointed to a pile of scrap paper.

It made Truman’s brain itch, but this wasn’t about him making things pretty, it was about Ash. Besides, he could always copy it all into Ash’s bullet journal later.

Satisfied with the promise of future notebookification, Truman assented.

He cursed himself for not having his usual Pigma Micron in his pocket. One more strike against running. But he grabbed a stack of scrap paper and got ready to make an action plan.

***

Three hours later, sprawled on the shop floor, Bruce lolling happily between them, they had a plan. It was a good plan, Truman knew. But he also knew that even the most perfect plan wasn’t worth anything if it failed to be executed. And Ash was struggling. Even when he could see the appeal of things, he didn’t trust that people would buy them. Even when he recognized their utility, he doubted his ability to carry them out.

But Truman knew Ash could do it, and he was here to help. The fact filled him with a deep and thrilling sense of satisfaction. He was excited to start. And beneath his anxieties, Ash seemed excited too. His eyes were lit with purpose, and he’d seemed to genuinely enjoy teasing Truman about his handwriting. (He’d called it a font.)

“I’ve gotta start cleaning up,” Ash said. “I need to stop at the store for some groceries before I go to my mom’s.”

“Do you cook for her every night?”

“Most nights. Well, lots of times she cooks, but I go over there and I bring the groceries.”

And just like that, the life drained out of Ash’s eyes, excitement and teasing replaced with his habitual weariness.