Love, Milo

‘Dad, it’s been three hours since the shop opened,’ I say, attempting not to cry. ‘Just give it time.’

‘And what if it doesn’t work out? Then you’ve spent so much money on this flower shop that doesn’t give any profit. I’m just saying, maybe you should reconsider working—’

I cut him off, ‘No, I’m not working at the repair shop.’

His obsession with cars has been nonstop; working at his car repair shop several miles away is a generational thing. His father worked in the repair shop, and his father’s father did, too, and so on. My dad’s been trying to get me to work with him on cars for as long as I can remember. I’m probably more educated on the matter than a fucking mechanic, but it’s never been something I wanted to do. Sometimes, I wonder if he wished he had a son instead of two daughters.

‘It was just a suggestion,’ he sighs, and I hear metal rattling in the back.

A ringing cuts the silence as I water one of the flowerpots on my desk. I look at the landline sitting at the front desk, which brings in orders. I bounce in excitement.

‘Gotta go, Dad, someone’s calling,’ before he can say anything, I hang up and immediately pick up the shop phone.

‘Rae’s Flowers, Raelynn speaking. How can I help you?’ My words are a little too high-pitched.

‘I can practically see the grin on your face, love.’

I immediately recognize the British male voice, and my smile drops to a scowl. I sit down in my desk chair and contemplate hanging up the phone. ‘What do you want? And if you’re thinking about buying flowers, don’t bother.’

‘Who said anything about buying flowers? I was checking how the shop’s been doing so far.’ Milo says.

‘Didn’t you say you’d be here to see for yourself?’

He hesitates on his next words, ‘Do you miss me already?’ His voice lowers to a low and rough tone, seductive even. A shiver trickles down my spine, and I swallow, shifting my executive chair from side to side.

‘No, I’m glad you’re not here, actually,’ I say spitefully. Whether that’s true or false, I’m choosing to leave unanswered.Belongs to (N)ôvel/Drama.Org.

‘Who said I wasn’t there?’ A soft laugh floats through the phone.

My eyes widen as I shoot my head up at the front door. It’s shut now; people walk past the glass, but there is no sign of Milo anywhere.

‘Don’t look too excited to see me. You might break your neck.’ He jokes, somehow seeing my reaction from somewhere outside.

I stand up, embarrassed. He knows how terrible the shop has been doing if he’s here. Not that I should care what he thinks, but I do.

‘Please leave, Milo,’ I say, disappointed in myself.

‘What’s the matter?’ He must’ve heard the tone of my voice drop, the assertion and confidence stripped like a bare bone. My throat tightens, tears threatening to break through.

I shake my head, whispering, ‘It’s not going well.’ Sniffling, I walk towards one of my roses and fix how it sits in its boutique despite not needing fixing. ‘The shop, I mean.’

He’s briefly silent, and I look through the glass door, wondering where he is. Across the street? In a car? Possibly.

‘How about you step outside,’ he says eventually.

‘Unless you have pickles or something to give me, you won’t be blessed with my presence.’

‘You like pickles?’

‘Yes, but Kosher pickles are the only acceptable ones. And they have to be cut into, like, thin long slices, or else I’ll struggle to eat it, and it gets messy quickly. Also, the blue top ones, Vlas—’ Wait, why am I ranting to him about pickles?

‘Go on,’ he says when he hears me cut myself off.

I shake my head, wiping away the trail of an earlier tear I’d let run down my cheek. ‘Never mind, it’s not important.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says…’

I hear him hum as if saying I thought so.

‘Rae,’ he says. ‘I’d love to push you to continue this pickle conversation, but I think you’ll feel better if you just step outside. You know how short New Yorkers’ patience can be.’

In the middle of pulling down my skirt that’s ridden up from sitting, I freeze at his words. My heart begins to race.

‘Milo…’ I say for no reason as I practically run to the door and open it.

Stepping out, I stare at the line of people against my shop, taking up half the sidewalk. They talk amongst themselves, some laughing, others looking at the flowers out front. But all of them are waiting to be let in.

‘That skirt is… a favorite of mine. The shirt, too.’ I nearly forgot he was on the phone.

I ignore him, looking at the woman first in line. She’s fair-skinned, around my age, maybe younger, with long brunette hair. She wears a wide grin, and I notice the wedding or engagement ring on her hand.

‘Hi, how long have you all been out here?’ I ask her.

‘Not long, really. Twenty or thirty minutes? We all assumed you were opening late since the sign on the door said closed. I’m back from college for spring break and decided to surprise my fiancé with some flowers!’

I gasp as I turn to look at the closed sign on the door. Then back at the woman. ‘I’m so sorry, we’re open. I’m just stupid,’ I laugh and switch the sign, opening the door. Then I shout down the line of people, telling everyone that the shop is open. They all cheer softly.  I beam at each of them as they file in, and then I stare at the nearby street, remembering Milo is still on the phone.

I bring the phone back to my ear. ‘Can you believe this?’ I laugh into the phone.

A lady compliments my clothes, and I thank her.

Then I spot him. ‘Looks like you got some work to get to.’

He’s leaning against a car across the street, that black Tesla. He wears a black suit, one hand in his pants pocket with his feet crossed, staring right at me. He combs his hair back with his fingers, the warm wind causing a few strands to fall over his forehead, then lowers his head, looking at me through his deep-set eyes.

‘I don’t understand where they all came from,’ I say, looking into my store at the dozen people inside it, then at Milo. ‘You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?’

He shakes his head. ‘It was all you, love. I’m just here for moral support. Wipe your face. I can see your tears from here.’

I breathe a laugh out. ‘Oh, shut up.’ But I wipe the tear lines off my face, then hang up the phone and give him one last look before he turns and opens his car door, getting in. A sense of sadness flashes over me as I watch him drive off. For a moment, a small part of me wanted him to stay and watch me work. I’m sure he’s busy with his own life. The moment is gone as quickly as it came, and my smile grows. Turning around, I keep the shop door open and make my way to my customers.

‘Hey!’ The woman from the line says, stopping me with sunflowers in her hand. ‘These scream sunshine, right? Because my fiancé is a sunshine kind of guy,’ she says.

I nod with a smile. ‘Yeah, of course! I’ll check them out for you over here.’

I walk over to the cash register and spend the rest of the day keeping the shop clean and checking out boutiques of flowers while also answering questions and getting to know my hopefully casual customers. A restock is nearly needed, but by the end of the day, I’m fucking exhausted. I’ve been speaking about flowers for around eight hours with a grin on my face the entire time.

When I get to my building, the sun is beginning to set, casting an orange and yellow hue over downtown Manhattan, and the moon is almost up. My feet hurt. I don’t think I sat down at all today; these stilettos might not have been the greatest idea. Despite it all, I’m still giddy with how great everything went. I have to make a mental note to call my dad and tell him I’m not a complete letdown like he might think I am. And to call Mom, even though she hasn’t bothered checking in to hear about it at all.

Walking into the building, I look at Edna and wave. ‘Good evening, Edna!’

‘Same to you. You’re in a good mood, Ms. Garcia,’ she says, looking up from her crossword puzzle.

‘It’s a great day, is all.’

I debated using the elevator or taking the stairs, remembering when I got stuck with Milo. It’s a shame I live on the twenty-third floor. I walk towards the stairs despite the pain in the ball of my heels.

‘Did you hear? They finally fixed the elevators. Mr. Evans brought in repairmen a few days ago.’

I stop in my tracks and turn to Edna. ‘Mr. Evans… Milo, you mean?’

‘Yes, the owner of this building, you were speaking with each other the other day. The elevator would break several times a week until he decided enough was enough a few days ago. Never seen him so eager to get something fixed so fast.’ The woman hums and resumes, looking back down at her crossword puzzle.

Mr. Evans? As in the man who teaches first graders and climbs up my fire escape, the Evans who’s pretending to be my boyfriend, who got stuck in the elevator with me. The same Evans that I had kissed in my garden. Does he own this fucking building?

‘Huh,’ I hum. ‘Is he home?’ Edna keeps track of all the people in and out of this building. Especially people that don’t live here. It’s her job to know who’s coming in and out and ensure no shady business is happening. It’s one of the reasons I liked this building; the security is top-notch.

She shakes his head, laughing. ‘He came in an hour ago, then left. Not sure where to.’

‘What’s funny?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ she brushes me off with her hand.

The elevator in front of me opens, and a woman exits it with a kid of hers; I step in, saying my thanks and goodbye to Edna.

The elevator’s empty, thankfully. My mind is racing still after all I’ve had to do today with the shop. I still have deliveries to pack and orders to process. I never thought things would go so well. My hand rubs over my now dirty skirt that’s scrunched up too high on my thighs, and I pull it down. Milo had said he liked this outfit. I look down at my tight-cropped shirt, no bra on. I have a feeling on why he likes it, but instead of feeling gross to the bone after compliments, I smile as I replay his words in my head. I don’t feel like crawling my body into a ball; I feel like flaunting myself. I shake my head and step out of the elevator, walking towards my door, where I see a small jar sitting on my welcome doormat.

My head tilts as I step towards it, and the steady-paced clicks of my heels echo through the hallway.  I bend to pick it up and turn it around. A jar of pickles. Kosher Vlasic pickles, with a red ribbon bow and a small square post-it note tied to it—my bottom lip curls between my teeth.

I flip over the note and read the nice handwriting on the other side:

Everything you say  
will hold importance to me.

-Love, Milo.