“It’s a trend. Kind of a subgenre of fiction, but it’s catching on in other areas. Art. Music.” I turn around and smile, holding up the bouquet. “And now . . . flowers.”
Allysa takes the flowers from me and holds them up in front of her. “They’re so . . . weird. I love them so much.” She hugs them. “Can I have them?”
I pull them away from her. “No, they’re our grand opening display. Not for sale.” I take the flowers from her and grab the vase I made yesterday. I found a pair of old button-up women’s boots at a flea market last week. They reminded me of the steampunk style, and the boots are actually where I got the idea for the flowers. I washed the boots last week, dried them, and then super-glued pieces of metal to them. Once I brushed them with Mod Podge, I was able to line the inside with a vase to hold water for the flowers.
“Allysa?” I place the flowers on the center display table. “I’m pretty sure this is exactly what I was supposed to do with my life.”
“Steampunk?” she asks.
I laugh and spin around. “Create!” I say. And then I flip the sign to open, fifteen minutes early.
We both spend the day busier than we thought we’d be. Between phone orders, Internet orders, and walk-ins, neither of us even has time to take a lunch break.
“You need more employees,” Allysa says as she passes me, holding two bouquets of flowers. That is at one o’clock.
“You need more employees,” she says to me at two o’clock, holding the phone to her ear and writing down an order while ringing someone up at the register.
Marshall stops by after three o’clock and asks how it’s going. Allysa says, “She needs more employees.”
I help a woman take a bouquet to her car at four o’clock, and as I’m walking back inside, Allysa is walking out, holding another bouquet. “You need more employees,” she says, exasperated.
At six o’clock, she locks the door and flips the sign. She falls against the door and slides to the floor, looking up at me.
“I know,” I tell her. “I need more employees.”
She just nods.
And then we laugh. I walk over to where she’s seated and I sit next to her. We lean our heads together and look at the store. The steampunk flowers are front and center, and although I refused to sell this particular bouquet, we had eight preorders for more of them.
“I’m proud of you, Lily,” she says.
I smile. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Issa.”
We sit there for several minutes, enjoying the rest we’re finally giving our feet. This was honestly one of the best days I’ve ever had, but I can’t help but feel a nagging sadness that Ryle never stopped by. He also never texted.
“Have you heard from your brother today?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No, but I’m sure he’s just busy.”
I nod. I know he’s busy.
We both look up when someone knocks on the door. I smile when I see him cupping his hands around his eyes with his face pressed to the window. He finally looks down and sees us sitting on the floor.
“Speak of the devil,” Allysa says.
I jump up and unlock the door to let him in. As soon as I open it, he’s pushing his way inside. “I missed it? I did. I missed it.” He hugs me. “I’m sorry, I tried to get here as soon as I could.”
I hug him back and say, “It’s fine. You’re here. It was perfect.” I’m giddy with excitement that he made it at all.
“You’re perfect,” he says, kissing me.
Allysa brushes past us. “You’re perfect,” she mimics. “Hey Ryle, guess what?”
Ryle releases me. “What?”
Allysa grabs the trash can and drops it on the counter. “Lily needs to hire more employees.”
I laugh at her constant repetition. Ryle squeezes my hand and says, “Sounds like business was good.”
I shrug. “I can’t complain. I mean . . . I’m no brain surgeon, but I’m pretty good at what I do.”
Ryle laughs. “You guys need any help cleaning up?”
Allysa and I put him to work, helping us clean up after the big day. We get everything finished and prepped for tomorrow, and then Marshall arrives just as we’re finishing up. He’s carrying a bag when he walks inside and drops it on the counter. He begins to pull out huge lumps of some kind of material and tosses them at each of us. I catch mine and unfold it.
It’s a onesie.
With kittens all over it.
“Bruins game. Free beer. Suit up, team!”
Allysa groans and says, “Marshall, you made six million dollars this year. Do we really need free beer?”
He shoves a finger against her lips, pushing them in opposite directions. “Shh! Don’t speak like a rich girl, Issa. Blasphemy.”
She laughs and Marshall grabs the onesie out of her hand. He unzips it and helps her into it. Once we’re all suited up, we lock the door and head to the bar.
I’ve never in my life seen so many men in onesies. Allysa and I are the only women wearing them, but I kind of like that. It’s loud. So loud, and each time the Bruins make a good play, Allysa and I have to cover our ears from the screams. After about half an hour, a booth on the top floor opens up and we all run upstairs to claim it.
“Much better,” Allysa says as we slide in. It’s much quieter up here, although still loud compared to normal standards.
A waitress comes over to take our drink order. I order red wine, and as soon as I do, Marshall practically jumps out of his seat. “Wine?” he yells. “You’re in a onesie! You don’t get free wine with a onesie!”
He tells the waitress to bring me a beer, instead. Ryle tells her to bring me wine. Allysa wants water, and this upsets Marshall even more. He tells the waitress to bring four bottles of beer and then Ryle says, “Two beers, red wine, and a water.” The waitress is very confused by the time she leaves our table.
Marshall throws his arm around Allysa and kisses her. “How am I supposed to try and knock you up tonight if you aren’t a little wasted?”
The look on Allysa’s face changes, and I feel instantly bad for her. I know Marshall only said that in fun, but it has to bother her. She was just telling me a few days ago how depressed she is that she can’t get pregnant.
“I can’t have beer, Marshall.”
“Then drink wine, at least. You like me more when you’re tipsy.” He laughs at himself, but Allysa doesn’t.
“I can’t have wine, either. I can’t have any alcohol, actually.”
Marshall stops laughing.
My heart does a flip-flop.
Marshall turns in the booth and grabs her shoulders, making her face him straight-on. “Allysa?”
She just starts nodding and I don’t know who starts crying first. Me or Marshall or Allysa. “I’m gonna be a dad?” he yells.
She’s still nodding, and I’m just bawling like an idiot. Marshall jumps up in the booth and yells, “I’m gonna be a dad!”
I can’t even explain what this moment is like. A grown man in a onesie, standing up in a booth at a bar, yelling to whoever will listen that he’s gonna be a dad. He pulls her up and they’re both standing in the booth now. He kisses her and it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.
Until I look at Ryle and catch him chewing on his bottom lip like he’s trying to blink back a potential tear. He glances at me and sees me staring, so he looks away. “Shut up,” he says. “She’s my sister.”
I smile and lean over and kiss him on the cheek. “Congratulations, Uncle Ryle.”
Once the parents-to-be stop making out in the booth, Ryle and I both stand up and congratulate them. Allysa said she’s been feeling sick for a while, but just took a test this morning before our grand opening. She was going to wait and tell Marshall tonight when they got home, but she couldn’t hold it in for another second.
Our drinks come and we order food. Once the waitress walks away, I look at Marshall. “How did you two meet?”
He says, “Allysa tells the story better than I do.”
Allysa perks up and leans forward. “I hated him,” she says. “He was Ryle’s best friend and he was always at the house. I thought he was so annoying. He had just moved to Ohio from Boston and he had that Boston accent. He thought it made him so cool but I just wanted to slap him every time he spoke.”
“She’s so sweet,” Marshall says, sarcastically.