Forget Me Not

by Julie Soto

She drops a pink box between us. I glare at it. “Donuts! From J Street Donuts.” “Very inventive name.” Her eyes twinkle. “Well, Elliot Bloom of Blooming, we can’t all be as blessed.”

“Maybe someone could talk me into a flower.” Her voice is low. Vowels round and slow. “You already are a flower.” I regret it the second it’s out of my mouth. It’s not smooth. It’s not sexy. But her mouth lifts, expression blossoming. “I am a flower,” she agrees, teeth gleaming at me.

“Oh, wow! Is Ama short for Amaryllis?” Jackie asks. I smile and nod, like a disembodied head. “That’s so unusual. I love it. Did your parents love the flower?” “Um, my mom. And other connotations,” I mumble, pushing my hair over my ear. “In mythology, Amaryllis fell in love with a—with a man who loved flowers…” I think this is where I’ll die.

“What you do isn’t that special. I can get wedding arches and chandeliers made in San Francisco with much less fuss.” “Fuss? I’m the fuss? You’re the fuss.” “I don’t fuss!” “You’re fussing right now!”

“Did you…You had a donut?” I laugh, sliding my hands down her stomach to hold her waist. “Caught me. It was disgusting. I hate them.” She’s breathing hard, and there’s something behind her smile. “Okay, okay.” She looks down at the ground. “Okay, so—” There’s a rattle in her throat. “Everything’s good. But you need to call 9-1-1 and grab the EpiPen in my purse.”

“She didn’t eat any peanuts! I was kissing her—” I jerk my gaze to the front counter, where a purely innocent pink box sits. “Did I just kill her with a peanut butter donut?” “Sir, I’m sure she’s not dead, but she needs your help. Can you follow instructions?” I’m thinking of Mrs. Tarico in third grade, who told me I have a terrible time following instructions. “No. Probably not.”

“So, you’re the florist that did my wedding in April!” “Yes, uh-huh, yes, I am.” Good. That’s safe. “And you’re also…dating my daughter?” Not safe. “Um, no. Not as far as I know.” “But you were kissing her…” Cynthia rolls her hand in the air as if casting a spell to make it so. “Yeah. Yes. That’s…a medical fact.” “On her chart, actually!” She laughs. “Wonderful.”

I still should be calling. I still should be taking her on a real date (preferably someplace they haven’t even heard the word peanut). I still should be trying to tell her that playing grab-ass in my back room is nice and all, but I’d like to escalate this. Because I do. Want to.

“What the fuck is on your lips?” She blinks quickly, and then reaches up as if I’ve told her she has a mustache. “No, I mean…” I sigh. “Is that some designer shit? Is that why it doesn’t get messed up when I’m kissing you?” “It’s Hazel Renee,” she says simply. As if that answers it. “I don’t give a fuck who it is. I want you to look debauched when I’m debauching you.”

“So, what does that mean?” I ask him. “Are you saying it’ll cost more money?” He pauses again before replying sharply, “How much money do you think you have in the budget to undo a hurricane, Ama?”

“I know it’s weird that I’m a wedding planner who doesn’t believe marriage works, but that’s exactly it. Weddings are just a party to me. Marriages are things that end. And I don’t think love should lead to a commitment when the emotion is so fluid and fickle for everybody.” “Not for everybody,” I whisper.

She may not need to define long-term, but to me, forever sounds nice. If she doesn’t want to adjust her rules, I’ll be fine with it, I guess. But I need her to know I already think of us as long-term. I already see the business signs and the trips out of town and the slow dances in white dresses—even if she doesn’t want to name it.

I almost say it. I almost say I love you. But I don’t know that she wants me to. I think we could be together for forty years with twenty kids, and she still wouldn’t want to hear it. So I hold her until her breathing evens out, and whisper it soundlessly, like a prayer.

“I love you,” I tell her. “I’ve loved you. I can’t imagine losing this, but I only wanted more—for a second. That’s all it was,” I say, as if I hadn’t been wanting more for six months. Longer. I squeeze her waist. “I jumped the gun. I never thought I’d hear you say ‘I love you,’ and then you did. It made me think I could have everything, but I moved too fast, okay? Let’s forget this.” “You can’t unsay it,” she whispers.

I coach Elliot to tell her “You’re getting married today.” He repeats after me. “That’s what’s going on. And smile at her.” “That’s what’s going on,” he repeats. “And smil—” “Not her! You smile!” “And smiling…will be had by all,” he finishes lamely. I hear Hazel say, “O-kay.”

“Sometimes you just count down the days, the hours, until you can be useful again,” he says. “And if it ever ends, Jackie?” He lowers his voice. “You’re still counting away. The months since. The exact days since. Like a tally of moments you’ve spent not being important to them. But don’t ever think you’ll wake up and not be in love with her.”

“It’s…I just wanted you to know that you won’t fall out of love,” he says. “It’s been years, and I can still tell you the number of days since she last needed me. Since I last held her through the night.”

“You’re a sap, Elliot Bloom,” I whisper into his skin. A laugh bubbles from his chest. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.” He pushes my hair out of my eyes. “I’m not going to marry you.” I blink at him and swallow. “Okay.” “I’m gonna date the shit outta you, though.”