I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment. I wonder if Hannah’s wishing she hadn’t talked me up so much. But she’s still smiling at me, so I try again. Think. Flowers that convey what Richard wants . . . what was it? He wants to like his date and he wants her to like him. So. “Asters for reciprocity? Or purple pansies and white violets? Think of me; take a chance on love?”

“Bingo!” Hannah claps her hands once, and I practically melt with relief. “I love it! Unique, unassuming, but still makes a statement. Pansies and violets are tricky to use in boutonnieres, but I think I can manage to make them last a couple of hours for you. CJ, get the materials ready. I’ll get the flowers. What do you think, Richard?”

“Sounds great,” says Richard. But I mean really, what’s he going to say? When the Hannah train is rolling, you either jump on or jump out of the way.

Hannah goes upstairs, where she grows some of the unusual flowers and potted varieties that she likes to use but are harder to get from wholesalers. I prep the materials as ordered—sponge, wire, tape, ribbon, pin—and lay them neatly on the countertop for Hannah before heading back into the workroom.

“So do you think that guy’s gonna have a good first date?” I ask when Richard has gone and Hannah returns to the back.

“I have no idea. But with those flowers, something good has to happen. He looked really hopeful, and that’s half the battle. Perfect choice, CJ.”

It’s just one tiny thing I’ve done well. Against the boundless field of bad decisions and disappointing performances that have been my life, it hardly even counts. But something unfurls inside me, fragile and tender as a new green leaf, and I can’t help smiling as I place a bunch of freshly declawed roses in a bucket of water.

“You have all the tools, and tons of talent. You have a natural feel for structure and color. I think you could be great,” says Hannah.

That should make me feel even better, but instead, my wobbly new confidence buckles under the weight of her praise and the looming expectation of greatness. I sweep a pile of leaves into a wastebin and say, “I don’t know. My arrangements kind of suck.” It’s true. Everything I do is like the zitty, sloppy, thirteen-year-old boy cousin of Hannah’s creations.

Hannah stops her own work and regards me for a moment. Her eyes are full of affection and her voice is serious when she says, “It’s not expert work yet, but Katsuyamas never quit. I know you’ll get there, sweet pea. The only thing that concerns me is your reluctance to open yourself to the magic of romance.”