Love, or Let Me Go

Freesia and lavender perfume wafted through the air, smooth and calming, reminiscent of a worn secret Amara Blake didn't yet need to release.

Sunlight streamed through Bloom & Ever's front windows, her corner shop on Ashcroft Street. The doorbell had rung ten times already this morning, each time greeting a regular or a passerby attracted by the season's display. Today, the front table was arranged with white hydrangeas, pale pink roses, and trailing ivy - an arrangement of love Amara had been creating with love.

She placed a finger to her lips, judging the arrangement as a painter would before a half-finished work of art.

"It needs more blush," she told herself, picking up a light ranunculus. It was tall pink, almost modest, and it reminded her of the anniversary dress she'd worn for Julian.

Julian.

The name bloomed and withered in her brain at the same time. Love persisted in her bosom, buried very far down beneath perplexity and weariness. They were four years married, and it had been like living in a ghost house ever since. Julian remained there - physically - but not in spirit. His laughter belonged to another man. His caresses were perfunctory. His eyes, which had once danced with spark, hardly reached her anymore.

And still, she made plans for their anniversary. Still.

Amara was always a proponent of struggling for love - of nurturing it like a wilting flower. But even she couldn't ignore that something was festering underneath.

She completed the design and wrapped it in tissue paper, tucking the stems of the flowers in with a satin ribbon. The bride was marking a thirty-year wedding anniversary. They'd included a note with the order that said, To my first and last love. Thirty more, I hope. Amara smiled gently, and then put the bouquet in the delivery basket to be picked up in the afternoon round.

Her phone sat ringing on the counter. She turned and dried off on her apron before she answered it.

Julian:

Can't for tonight. Celeste had some board thing go long. Can reschedule?

No "sorry." No kiss emoji. No "I love you." Just the usual cold message that was now default.

She stared at the screen for a long while, her fingers poised inches from the keys. A tiny voice at the back of her mind muttered, You knew this was coming.

Celeste. Always Celeste. His best friend since childhood. His business partner. His friend in everything. His... everything but what Amara was meant to be.

Amara typed a reply.

Okay.

That was all. She was too exhausted to continue typing. Not now.

She set the phone on the counter and slid back against it, one hand against her chest. She did not cry. She had not cried in months. Instead, her hurt solidified like ice on flower petals - thin, motionless, and slowly murdering the blossom inside.

"Still here?"

Amara looked over to see Miri, her assistant, in the doorway, coffee cradled in one hand and a half-finished croissant in the other.

"Hmm?" Amara blinked out of her trance.

"You were staring off into space again," Miri said softly. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," Amara replied hastily. Too hastily. "Just tired."

Miri let it drop. She never did. But the look of concern in her eyes was unmistakable, and it left Amara feeling more exposed.

"I'm just going to run inventory in back," Miri suggested. "Let me get you anything."

Stepping out of the storage room behind her closing door, Amara let out a sigh and reached to touch her dark curls. She stood in profile before the mirrored wall, sun-tipped blossoms bathing her - but even the gleaming petals couldn't cover up the wear under her eyes.

She picked up her planner, turning to the page she'd lain awake over for weeks: Anniversary - June 8.

The page was covered with schematics of plans - Marcello's dinner, a floral design class for couples, gallery tickets Julian had thrown down one day.

All for naught.

She was not blind to the irony. She made beauty a living. Her hands could breathe life into dying stems, make sense out of chaos into something lovely. Yet she could not repair the wreckage in her marriage.

She moved over to the corner of the room where she stored her special flowers - those that she did not sell, but retained. There was a vase of camellias in the center, deep red and beautifully shaped. These were Julian's favorites. Or, at least, once were.

She remembered the way he smiled the first time he walked into her shop, three years ago when she'd just opened. He'd brought Celeste with him, back then just a face in the background.

"You turned this place into a dream," he had said, spinning slowly in the center of the store. "You're magic."

Now, he hardly even noticed when she altered the arrangement or introduced new setups. He returned late. He reeked of whiskey and wood tone - the smell of the exclusive clubs he went to with Celeste and their business group. He didn't even ask about her. Didn't recall their itinerary. Didn't recall her.

And she still loved him.

Was that stupidity? Or devotion? She no longer knew.

The bell rang again, and a little girl ran in, giggling, followed by her mother. Amara straightened, pulling on her professional smile.

"Hi there," she greeted.

"We're here for the peonies," the mother said. "For Grandma's birthday."

Amara led them to the back and watched as the girl chose a bunch of coral pink blooms. Her fingers were sticky with candy. Her eyes sparkled.

Amara knotted the arrangement and delivered it. The mother smiled.

"Your shop always smells like a hug," she said fondly. "You've got such a gift."

Amara's throat constricted. "Thanks."

As they parted, Amara muttered to herself, "If only I could give that to myself."

The shop grew quieter as the afternoon progressed. Outside, sunlight poured down on the street. Amara sat at the counter and opened her journal - the one she never shared with Julian. She uncapped a fountain pen and began to write.

June 8.

Our fourth anniversary. I prepared, as I always do. Though he did not ask. Though he forgot once more. I still lit a candle this morning. I still used the cologne he prefers. I still hoped.

But he did not show.

He chose her.

I do not know how many times I can forgive what he will not acknowledge.

She closed the journal.

Behind her, the camellias remained unflinching in their vase. Silent. Red. Floated in an atmosphere of love that had nowhere else to belong.

And a seed of willpower was developing deep within her.