Last year, I wrote this short story for a creative writing assignment, but ending up editing it for my final project. Enjoy the final version!
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The bell above the front door chimed, echoing through the small garden shop as the first customer of the day strolled in. "Mr. Shapiro," I said, smiling at the elderly man who came in like clockwork, every morning, to buy a small bouquet of roses for his wife. "What colour are you thinking today?"
"Red, my dear," he said, moving towards the counter as I scooted out from behind it.
"Coming right up."
Plucking six red roses from their vase, I carefully wrapped the stems in tissue paper, tying a strand of ribbon around the middle. "Here you go." Handing the bouquet over to him, I noted the money he'd left out for me. "I'm sure your wife will love them."
His moustache twitched, lips curving underneath. "She always does."
"Well, tell her I said hello, and that she's welcome to drop in any time. I'd love to know how her garden's coming along."
Nodding, he bid me goodbye, wishing me well as I signed off on the first sale of the morning. Smudges of dirt littered the page, not unlike the rest of my files, as I'd never quite mastered the art of cleaning up as I went. There was soil everywhere, it seemed, and there had been ever since I'd taken over this shop from my mother years ago. It was quaint, but a local staple in our busy San Francisco neighbourhood, with business continuing to bloom every season.
Tucking the receipt away, I quickly went through the day's orders, using the typical morning lull to check and double-check everything was in line for when deliveries went out. It didn't take long, and once everything was accounted for, I turned the sign on the front door, notifying any new patrons that I'd be around back, tending to the plants.
Stepping outside, I felt the warm autumn breeze tickle my skin, causing a few trees around the property to sway in tune as the sun stood alone in the sky, not a cloud to be seen. Within moments, the greenhouse came into view, and while this type of weather made for a stuffy environment inside the glass-made room, I'd grown used to it. Had learned to enjoy it. Leaving the door ajar, I took in the earthy smell that never failed to put a smile on my face, basking in it for just a second before I got to work.
Soil needed tending, plants needed water, and the displays needed fixing. It was just another ordinary day—same in, same out.
Gloves on, I knelt in the dirt, moisture dampening my overalls as I tended to a small patch of fully-bloomed hyacinths—their tightly packed, pink flowers floating atop large green leaves—when a pair of women stepped into the greenhouse. While they looked to be around my age, smiling in acknowledgement, I didn't recognize them as regulars. Nevertheless, I welcomed them, letting them know I'd be happy to help with whatever they needed before circling my gaze back to the flowers in front of me.
"Did you hear about the Kerringtons?" one of them whispered, a false-sense of sympathy coating her words.
For one nerve-wracking moment, I thought she was talking to me, and my breath caught. My fingers tightened, accidentally catching one of the flowers and pulling it free of the soil, roots in tow. However, when I lost my balance, falling backwards, it was clear she hadn't been. The commotion caused both of their gazes to swivel towards me, a haze of amusement hidden behind confusion, though I barely noticed. My mind was whirling.
It had been months—years—since I'd last heard that name. Since I'd last thought about who that name belonged to.
Not since I was small and a new family moved in a few houses down. Even as a child I couldn't help but watch the cute, neighbourhood boy riding his bike down the street as I helped my mother in the garden.
Not since the two of us finally met, officially, at the neighbourhood barbecue my parents had thrown for me after my high school graduation. Where I took a chance, pushing my introverted tendencies aside as we hit it off, and despite the three-year age difference, quickly became inseparable.
Not since the five and a half years we spent together. Years full of ups and downs as we began to build our lives together. Where small squabbles, countless inside jokes, creative dates, and deep conversations defined our relationship as we well in love.
Not since my mother fell ill, unexpectedly, and left her precious garden shop in my hands. Not since he received a job offer in New York that he couldn't turn down. Not since I chose not to go with him.
Not since it all fell apart.
Not until now.
The last I'd heard, he'd married a woman he'd met in the city, had moved back to the California coast, and had welcomed a beautiful baby girl. He'd gotten all that he'd ever wanted while not having to sacrifice any of it, and I had hoped he was happy, but given the way the women were gossiping, I couldn't ignore the uneasy feeling in my gut telling me that something wasn't right.
Dusting myself off, I stood, trying to compose myself and listen in.
"It's horrible, isn't it?" the other woman replied, her fingers skimming the large leaves of the plant next to her. "Both of them, gone in an instant."
I inhaled sharply.
"And to be left alone, can you imagine what he's going through?"
"It's tragic. Especially knowing that she probably never got the chance to tell him that she was planning on leaving."
Both women shook their heads, as if to portray sadness, though they seemed more interested in the scandal surrounding the situation than the actual event—whatever that may be. Needing to know, I hurried out of the greenhouse without a second thought, trailing a path of dirt behind me. My mind was working faster than my body, conjuring up the worst-case scenarios, and when I finally reached my desk, my hands were shaking, making it ten times harder to type. When my search finally went through, I found the answers, and it was so much worse than I'd imagined.
I felt as though a shard of glass was prodding its way through my chest as several articles appeared, all dated a few days prior, with different headlines for the same story.
FAMILY HIT BY DRUNK DRIVER. 2 FATALITIES. 1 INJURED.
Every wisp of air was knocked from my lungs, rendering me speechless, because I knew, from what the women outside had been saying, it'd been him who survived the crash. He'd been the lucky one, yet at the same time, he'd lost everything. The articles went into detail about the information the authorities had gathered, but the pictures alone were enough to get the message across. Shots of flashing lights and police tape. A recent photo of the family of three—smiling and happy—slotted next to an image of a mangled car. A mug-shot of the man arrested for a DUI and two accounts of vehicular manslaughter. Heartbreaking. Horrifying. Wrong.
Looking away, I prayed that what I was seeing wasn't real. That I had typed in the wrong name or that another Kerrington family lived within the vicinity, but nothing seemed to blink away the tragedy on the screen.
I took a small, wobbly step back, and then another, and another, and didn't stop until my back hit the wall. My hands covered my mouth as gravity pushed me down. Tears welled in my eyes, coating my cheeks, and silent sobs strangled my voice as I cried for the man I used to love.
And that was how the women found me, minutes later, when they walked in and stopped short, watching with furrowed brows as I fell apart in my own shop.
"Are you...okay?" one of them asked, not understanding that their conversation had succeeded in shifting my world on its axis.
My sobs had already begun to trail off, but as I pushed myself up from the ground, hastily wiping at my remaining tears, I was forced to plaster a fake smile on my lips. "I'm fine," I choked out, slamming the screen of my laptop down before waving them over.
Hesitantly, they placed the small haul of succulents they'd collected on the counter, watching as though they expected me to break down again as I checked them out. When they turned to leave, plants in tow, I wished them well, only to hear them muttering underneath their breaths as they walked out the front door. Little did they know that their visit—no matter how short—left my mind reeling and my heart overturned. Feelings that I'd long forgotten about bubbled to the surface, taking root before slowly beginning to sprout.
Day by day, a small part of me—though not as small as I cared to admit—began to imagine what it would've been like to see him again if the accident hadn't occurred. I wondered if things would've been the same as they'd been all those years ago, or if they'd be different. Awkward. Strained. It was selfish, I knew, now that his wife and daughter were gone, to let my mind wander, but I couldn't help it. I was conflicted.
I thought about going to the funeral, solely to sit in the back and pay my respects, but chickened out. I drove through our old neighbourhood on numerous occasions, knowing that his parents still lived there, and was tempted to stop and see if there was anything I could do, but I always kept driving. But in a moment of weakness, possibly after one too many glasses of wine, I wrote him a letter. It was an apology and a message of condolence wrapped into one, letting him know that, though I knew what it felt like to lose somebody, I also couldn't dare to imagine how he was feeling. What he was going through. Yet, because he'd been a shoulder for me when my mom had passed, I couldn't help but extend the sentiment that, if he needed me, I would be there for him.
Then I sent it.
Unsurprisingly, nothing came of it as the months passed. Autumn turned to winter and winter shifted into spring; the flowers in the greenhouse changing as old petals wilted and new buds flourished. However, the thoughts of the accident—of him, of the letter—never seemed to fully fade.
At the end of yet another busy day—one in which all my regular customers seemed to have the same idea, dropping in with hopes of getting advice on their freshly turned gardens—I gathered up the paperwork and turned to the filing cabinet behind my desk. With my back towards the store front, I began to sort through it all when I heard the door open. The bell chimed and two heavy footfalls echoed against the tiled floor, but the clock on the wall had already ticked passed five.
"Sorry," I said, not bothering to glance over my shoulder, "I'm actually just closing up for the day—"
"Lila."
The silence was deafening as my name hung in air between us and I tensed, thrown off by the long-lost familiarity of his voice. Deep and mellow, soft and smooth. With a gulp, I abandoned my paperwork and slowly turned to see the person who had been the center of so many of my thoughts. Wondering if he'd gotten my letter, wondering if he'd ever respond, wondering if I'd ever work up the courage to visit him. Though it seemed like he'd beaten me to it.
He'd grown out his beard and the lines around his features highlighted the stress he'd dealt with over the past few months. His hazel eyes shone with uncertainty, wonder, and a haze of sorrow, shadows staining the hollows beneath, but underneath the small changes—the small imperfections—he was still the same. The same man that I'd once loved.
The same man who I may have never gotten over.
"Graham," I said, stunned breathless. "Hi."