Work Text:
|| M ||
Marcy loved working.
She knew not many felt the same, stuck with jobs for the sake of convenience rather than any pleasure. However, she’d been lucky.
Her main source of income came from freelancing – something she started doing before she’d even graduated – finding coding jobs and projects that needed someone with a degree in Computer Science. And she enjoyed what she did every time, although some clients were a bit aggravating, to say the least.
But where her heart truly soared, the work that actually made her feel alive and content and happy, was the work she did in the small, local flower shop that had – through some miracle – fallen into her hands.
She had never planned it to be this way, never even imagined it could happen. Flowerday's was a staple of her childhood, of herself. Growing up, she’d often seek comfort there, in the company of the many different flowers and Olivia Flowerday herself, florist and shop owner. So many afternoons had been spent with Marcy leaning over the counter, watching Olivia put together bouquets and clip stems and sort seeds. Eventually, Olivia had taken Marcy under her wing as an apprentice of sorts, letting the young girl help around and handing her books that spoke of the secret language of flowers.
Needless to say, Marcy grew to love the place, finding a second home that felt more home than the first. She brought back parts of the shop and started her own garden in the small backyard of their house, much to her mother’s dismay. Even as the years passed and she grew busier with studies and scholarships, she always made time to pass by Flowerday's at least once every few weeks.
Nothing good ever lasts, though, and by the time Marcy was halfway through with college, Olivia had given her some of the worst news of her life.
“You’re leaving? But – why?”
Olivia had sighed, wiping non-existent dust off the counter. “I need to go back home to my family, Marcy. I didn’t think it would happen so soon, but what can you do. Duty calls.”
And Marcy had looked at Olivia's attempt at a smile and known that losing this safe space would be untethering. Bad enough that Olivia was leaving, bad enough that Marcy didn’t have any other friends, not really – but losing Flowerday's in its entirety was unfathomable, terrifying.
“What...what am I – what can I do?” she’d asked, almost begged, trying her best to keep the tears at bay. “Olivia, there must be something, you can’t just – the shop, you can’t just leave it.”
For a moment, it had seemed completely and utterly hopeless. Then Olivia smiled, tentatively hopeful, and said, “Unfortunately, I do have to leave it. But you don’t. Not if you don’t want to.”
It was an offer Marcy couldn’t refuse. Olivia had been taken off guard by how quickly and enthusiastically Marcy had accepted the responsibility of running the store herself – she’d been convinced the stress of college was more than enough of an excuse for Marcy to say no. But Marcy, already planning and scheduling, wouldn’t even consider that, the chance to keep something she loved too good to pass.
Now, years later, Marcy ran Flowerday's like it was a lifeline. She made more money from the odd coding jobs than she did here, that was true, and sometimes no one would come in for days, that was also true, but the familiarity and sense of safety made up for all of it.
This Saturday was a slow one – only one customer, early in the morning, an old lady planning to start a herb garden. Marcy had spent the rest of the day doing her usual round of chores, and was standing by the counter, expecting to close up without anyone else coming in, when she heard the bell ring as the door opened.
She looked up from her notebook, the usual How can I help you? already on her tongue, but quickly dissolving.
Because Marcy had lived in this neighbourhood her whole life, knew every single face in it, never saw anyone new – but the unexpected customer was new, a complete stranger.
She looked around Marcy’s age, with blonde hair cut short and dark eyes. She was pretty, intimidatingly so, and when she turned her face, Marcy felt her breath catch as she noticed a stark, unmistakable scar on her cheek.
“I need flowers.”
Marcy blinked. “What?”
The stranger gestured at herself. “I’m here. For flowers.”
Well, you wouldn’t be here for much else, Marcy thought, amused. Out loud, she said, “Well, we are in a flower shop. Feel free to look around.”
With a “Right, thanks,” and a quick nod, Marcy watched as her mystery customer walked to the side and inspected a bundle of roses. Marcy watched as she brought a hand to her hair and brushed it back. A nervous habit, perhaps?
Marcy watched as a rose was picked up, looked at, and then returned.
Only then did she remember that she worked here, and could probably help. Was probably expected to.
She slipped away from the counter, feeling recognizable anxiety beginning to gather in her chest. With a deep breath, she pushed it back and made her way to the customer.
|| S ||
Sasha had been closely inspecting the orange roses, wondering if they really were naturally this bright of a colour, when she heard the voice at her elbow.
“Need a hand?”
Sasha jumped, startled at the shopkeeper’s sudden closeness. “Oh! I – uh – sure. Roses don’t work for this anyways. I was just – looking.”
The florist smiled, reaching out a hand and brushing it against the soft petals. Something about the movement tugged at Sasha’s heart. “They are pretty. But not what you’re looking for?”
“No.”
“Anything in mind?”
Sasha rubbed the back of her neck. A nervous habit. “Not really, no. Just not roses.”
“Alright. What are you trying to say, then?”
A confused look. “Say?”
A blush, as if she was regretting her choice of words. “With – um – with the flowers. What are they for? What’s the occasion?”
“Oh. Sort of...’get well soon’, I guess?”
“Easy enough! Anything more specific?”
Sasha snorted. “Nope. Not unless you can get me something that says 'Sorry about kicking the ball into your face, hope your nose heals soon, XOXO.'"
She hadn’t meant it to be funny, but Sasha watched as the florist’s face quickly morphed from shock, into laughter. She watched her bring a hand to her face, like she was trying to cover her smile. Which had been...cute.
Fuck. Her smile had been really cute.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. That’s terrible, I shouldn’t be laughing.”
Sasha shook her head, smiling. “It’s fine. Honestly, it was really funny. In hindsight, I mean. When it happened, there was, like, a lot of blood. Didn’t even know so much blood could come out of a nose.”
The florist’s eyes lit up. “On the contrary! The nose is full of blood vessels and – !” She suddenly cut herself off, the light in her eyes dying. “What I mean is – it makes sense. Anyways, I hope they’re alright?”
It took Sasha a moment to realize what she meant. “Oh, yeah! Sprig’s fine. He’s saying he hopes it scars, the dumbass.”
Something in the mood shifts, and Sasha catches the florist’s gaze going – only for a moment – to the scar on her face.
Great going, Waybright. If there’s no elephant in the room, you bring one.
The awkwardness lasts for a beat, and then the florist smiles and walks off, asking Sasha to follow her.
Sasha, still mentally kicking herself, follows.
They come to a stop under a shelf filled with flowers of all kinds. Sasha can’t name a single one, but the florist begins to grab what she wants almost without looking. Sasha’s distracted by the sudden show of grace, enough to almost miss the question directed at her.
“Is he your boyfriend?”
Wrinkling her nose in disgust, Sasha answers, “Sprig? Ew, no. No. He’s my – uh – best friend’s...well, they’re not blood related, but they kinda grew up together and consider each other family, so he’s, like, her...not-adopted brother? Godsibling?”
“Found family?” the florist suggests, looking back at her.
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s it.”
She gets a nod, then another question. “Do you know his favourite colour?”
“Purple.”
“Purple. I can work with purple.”
Sasha steps back and watches as flowers are picked, stems are cut, and ribbons are tied. It shouldn’t be as mesmerizing as it is, and yet she can’t look away.
The end result is a beautifully simple bouquet of purple flowers, with a splash of white. It’s wrapped with a blue ribbon and craft paper, all of it done with so much care.
Once she’s done, the florist gives Sasha the bouquet. Their fingers brush. It’s small enough that Sasha’s able hold it with one hand.
“Well?” the florist asks, shy and undemanding. “What do you think? Does it work?”
Sasha can’t help smiling – not one of her aggressive, challenging smiles, but something soft and helpless. “It more than works. Thank you – um – ”
“Marcy. You can call me Marcy.”
Marcy. It’s lovely. Marcy is lovely.
Damn it, Waybright.
“Thank you, Marcy.”
Marcy meets her smile with one of her own. “Think nothing of it. Really, I love what I do.”
Sasha knew she was supposed to pay and leave, but she couldn’t bring herself to do so just yet. So instead she prompts, “Any particular reason you chose this bunch?”
Marcy’s eyes light up again – the way they had when she’d laughed, the way they had when she’d started to explain something. “Yes, actually! Do you...do you wanna know, or...?”
And Sasha nods, yes, because suddenly she doesn’t want to see that spark die out, not again, because Marcy looks so proud and Sasha wants to know.
Marcy’s smile grows, and she starts pointing at each flower as she talks. “Okay, so, here we’ve got hyacinths, and since they’re purple, they represent asking for forgiveness. And heathers mean good luck and protection, and bellflowers mean unwavering love. And the white ones are baby’s breath, which you usually find in bouquets, but what they stand for is innocence and purity of the heart. And the purple tulips of course,” here Marcy’s pride shows a little more. “They’ve got a few things, but they’re basically spring’s flower. And I thought Spring, Sprig – it fits.”
Sasha laughs, delighted. “Oh, he’s gonna love that. This is so...”
“Nerdy?” Marcy quips.
“Well, yeah. But it’s clever,” Sasha says. “It’s charming.”
Marcy – to Sasha’s surprise – blushes, ducking her head down. “Well, I’m glad you think so. Would you like to pay now?”
“Right. Sure.”
Marcy steps over to the counter, whirring the cash register to life and taking Sasha’s card. This time, their fingers don’t brush.
Sasha’s starting to wonder if she did something wrong, when Marcy looks up at her. The blush is gone, but the smile is still there.
“I’m glad you stopped by Flowerday's,” she says.
Sasha doesn’t want the words to have any effect on her. They’re probably something Marcy said to every customer, to keep them coming back. But she still feels their warmth settling into her chest, staining her thoughts.
“I’m glad, too.”
|| M ||
All in all, Marcy never expects to see Sasha again.
But she hadn’t been expecting to see her the first time either, so really, what did Marcy know?
Well, for one, she knew that Sasha turned out to not just be pretty, but also funny and curious and dismantling. She knew that Sasha thought her flower language was charming. She knew that Sasha had accidently broken someone’s nose and wasn’t acting all that sorry about it, but she was buying a bouquet and speaking about him with a wistful smile on her face, despite the insults. She knew that she’d wanted to tell Sasha that the flowers were on the house, free of charge, but they’d only just met and Marcy didn’t want her to think she was flirting and she had college debts to pay, anyways.
Marcy knew other things, too. Like the fact that Sasha came back only a couple of days later with two coffee cups in hand, intending to thank Marcy because ‘he was so happy about the spring flower thing, you’d think I told him he won the lottery, ridiculous’. Or that Sasha took her coffee with an insane amount of sugar, but she’d ordered Marcy’s black, and even though Marcy didn’t even like coffee she still drank it because it was the sweetest thing anyone had done for her in a long time. She knew that when they finished their coffees, Sasha didn’t leave, leaning over the counter instead and asking Marcy ‘what the hell are you doing in a flower shop, anyways’, and she’d listened to Marcy’s answer, but when the eye contact started making Marcy anxious, Marcy had looked at a fixed spot on the floor and continued talking – and Sasha didn’t say anything about it.
Marcy got to know that Sasha found Flowerday's because she’d decided to go on a walk, but not where the walk would go. She got to know that Sasha brushed her hair back a lot, and that the scar on her face was a painful pink under the store’s lights. She got to know that Sasha went to college abroad because she’d ‘needed space’, and that she had studied business. She got to know that Sasha had a motorcycle she rode everywhere, except on the days of aimless walks.
All this was learned in the span of one evening that Marcy was wishing wouldn’t end, until Sasha’s phone had rang and she looked at the caller ID with a frown on her face, muting it and turning back to Marcy.
“I should go,” she said, pocketing her phone. “I didn’t realize how much time had passed.”
You should stay, Marcy thought, immediately banishing it afterwards. “Alright. Thanks for the coffee.”
“Don’t mention it. Actually,” Sasha turned and grabbed a handful of magnolia flowers. “I’m buying these.”
“Oh! Any...reason?”
“Because they were the closest thing.”
Marcy laughed. “You don’t have to buy anything.” A terrible, terrible marketing ploy.
But Sasha was adamant, placing them on the counter. “I am in a flower shop, right?”
“Right.”
“Right. I am buying these flowers.”
So Marcy had wrapped them up and taken Sasha’s card for the second time that week, but she lowered the already-low price.
Before Sasha left, she’d stood, flowers in hand, and asked, “Do these mean anything?”
And Marcy had been absurdly happy about the fact that Sasha cared enough to want to know, and it had been so hard to bite back a grin as she said, “Nobility and perseverance. Love of nature.”
“Tough flowers.”
“Yes. Tough flowers.”
Only then did Sasha leave. Only then did Marcy realize her heart was fluttering, but not in its usual terribly anxious way. No, it was something completely different.
I’m so unused to friendly interactions, I’m about to die from it, Marcy mused.
And the caffeine, too.
|| S ||
Sasha didn’t mean to go back.
Well, the first time, she did. She hadn’t been lying about Sprig’s joy, and although no one was holding it over her head, buying him flowers placated her guilt.
Because her days of hurting others were over. At least, she hoped they were.
So she wanted to thank Marcy. Buy her a coffee. Maybe make her laugh. Simple enough.
Except that Sasha once again couldn’t bring herself to leave, and she wanted to know what kind of young adult spent all their day in a shop for flowers, and Marcy had been wearing overalls that made her look unfairly pretty, with a dozen little pins on it, and one of them was a lesbian flag pride pin that Sasha noticed immediately but refrained from commenting on – but of course it was a lesbian who worked in the flower shop.
She hung out for a bit. An hour. Maybe a little more. Then Anne called and Sasha remembered that the Boonchuys had invited her for dinner, and she should probably leave. But leaving empty handed felt wrong, for some reason, so she bought some flowers. She ended up giving them to the Boonchuys, not missing Anne’s bemused look.
Then she went home. And she would’ve forgotten about Marcy entirely. Except.
Marcy’s laugh. And the shine in her eyes. And the way she loved those flowers so much. And all the things she knew. All the things she wanted to know.
And the fucking pride pin.
Sasha didn’t mean to go back.
But she did, starting with only once in a while, and then escalating until it somehow became part of her routine, until she knew the store’s opening hours (from Tuesday till Saturday, 9 AM till 7 PM) and Marcy’s coffee order (which turned out to not be coffee at all).
And every time, every time Sasha would go, she’d buy a flower. Because she was taking up enough of Marcy’s time, she might as well. Slowly, though, it became just because Sasha liked hearing Marcy tell her what each flower meant. And because taking those flowers to her apartment was like carrying a piece of Marcy back home. And because...
Because Sasha was maybe, possibly, kind of starting to like Marcy. Like, like like her. And it was terrible, and awful, and Sasha wasn't trying to impress her or make her like her back, but if that happened it wouldn’t be terrible, or awful, and yeah – Sasha was fucked.
|| A ||
“Sasha.”
“Hm?”
“Sasha, why are there so many dead flowers?”
Anne, who’d just walked through the door, watched as her childhood friend looked up from the couch, where she’d been painting her nails, indignant. “They are not dead.”
Silently, Anne pointed at the vase of wilting flowers by her side.
“Okay, so the lilies are having a tough time. But the roses are meant to be dead. I’m drying them.”
“And I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why there’s a plant graveyard in your apartment.”
“Oh, yeah. New hobby.”
Sasha’s gaze never faltered, but then again, she’d always been a great liar.
“Sasha? Do you remember Domino Mini?”
“Dom – the fish?”
“Yes, the fish – my fish. Remember what happened when you kept him for a week?”
“I thought we worked past that – ”
“He didn’t just die, he changed colour. A goldfish. He turned green .”
“Maybe he was part chameleon.”
“All I’m saying is,” Anne said, finally walking further into the apartment. “That I find it really strange you chose a hobby where you have to keep things alive.”
“Practice makes perfect; I’ll figure it out. Besides, at least this time the colour change is natural.”
Anne couldn’t argue with that. And although she wasn’t entirely convinced this really was just a new hobby, she let the topic drop.
The two of them proceeded to catch up; they’ve both been swamped by work these last few weeks, hence why Anne had only just found out about The Great Flower Massacre. They ate lunch together – the takeout Anne brought over from Thai Go – and talked about everything and nothing in particular. It was easy, familiar. Especially now, years after their friendship had been tested and strained and shattered – and then, with time and trust, fixed and rebuilt.
Eventually, there was a lull in the conversation, both of them focusing on scraping the bottom of their containers. In the silence, the ping of Sasha’s phone was easily heard. Usually, Sasha would ignore texts while she ate. But, this time, she glanced at the screen and – to Anne’s complete disbelief – grinned.
Not a devious, plotting grin. Not an annoyed grin. No, it was the grin of someone who was over the moon about the text they’d gotten.
“Someone’s got you happy,” Anne commented, trying and failing to keep the teasing out of her voice.
Instantly, the grin melted away, and Anne got a eye roll. “It’s nothing,” Sasha said, despite the fact that she was unlocking her phone and replying. “Just a friend.”
“Sasha Waybright has a friend? Who she texts back immediately? I don’t believe it.”
“Oh, ha, you’re hilarious.” The sarcasm was heavy in Sasha’s response, but she wasn’t even looking at Anne – who’s curiosity was rising by the second.
Knowing that getting an honest answer from Sasha would take ages and a dozen eye-rolls, Anne leaned forward, slowly, subtly.
And then snatched the phone from Sasha’s hand.
“Wh – Boonchuy!”
But Anne was already skipping away, looking at the screen. She saw that someone had sent Sasha a picture of a ladybug, with the caption 'Look at this cool bug I found!' Sasha’s reply was a simple, affectionate 'nerd'.
What caught Anne’s eye, though, was the contact’s name:
Marcy 🌼
“Who the fu – ough!”
The rest of Anne’s question was lost as Sasha tackled her from behind. They both fell forward, Anne holding the phone up so that it wouldn’t hit the floor. Without wasting a second, Sasha plucked it from her hands.
“You – are so – paying for that,” Sasha gasped, pushing herself up.
Anne turned, lying on her back but not getting up. “Me? I’m not the one acting like texting some bug scientist is a huge secret!”
“She’s – she’s not a bug scientist. And I told you, she’s a friend.”
“A friend you just forgot to mention?”
Sasha looked ready to retaliate, but then deflated. Instead, she offered Anne a hand.
Anne took it.
When she was standing on her legs again, Sasha sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Look, she really is a friend. I met her some time ago, and I didn’t even mean to, like – even become friends. But she’s...nice. And new, and she isn’t someone who’s known me for years but it feels – it feels easy. Around her. Like she has known me that long.”
Anne’s face softened. “Aw, Sash. I’m so happy for you. Honestly.”
Sasha rolled her eyes, but smiling. “I know you are.”
Something clicked in Anne’s head – two somethings. The first she realized because of the surrounding plants, the bouquet for Sprig, and the flowers during dinner.
“Is she a florist?” she asked.
Sasha looked surprised for a moment, but then seemed to remember the abundance of flowers. “Yeah.”
The second thing...it would be a risk, asking. But Anne knew. Because Sasha was acting like this didn’t matter, like she hadn’t smiled like that.
“Do you like her?”
This time, there was no surprise. Only defeat. “Yeah.”
Anne grinned. “Aw, Sash!”
“Stop, god, please – ”
“And you’ve been buying all these flowers!”
“This is exactly why I didn’t tell you.”
“Sasha, this is so cute, you have to – ”
“No! Nope! Anne, we are not doing anything.”
“Come on, you’re half in love already.”
“Do not ever say that again.”
Anne bit her lip, trying not to laugh. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop. But...”
“No.”
“I have to meet her.”
“Double no.”
They held each other’s stares, neither willing to back down. Anne recalled a time where Sasha’s glare alone would’ve gotten her to change her mind.
Not anymore.
|| M ||
Somehow, Sasha’s presence became something usual in Marcy’s life.
Marcy was fond of routines. Of things staying the same. It was why she never moved away from this neighbourhood, even after moving out. It was why she opened Flowerday's every scheduled day, even with no customers.
She loved learning new things, loved discovering parts of the city she hadn’t seen before, but at the end of the day all she wanted to return to was something stable and comforting. Something she knew.
Therefore, it was surprising when, at the start, Sasha’s constant visits didn’t bother her too much. They were sporadic and random, unscheduled, but Marcy found herself looking forward to them.
Over time, they became more orderly – once a week, then twice, then a handful of times. Sometimes during the day, more often during the evening, after work. Always ending with a flower bought, the meaning asked.
If Sasha walked in and found Marcy busy with a customer, she would wave and then stand off to the side, rifling through a gardening catalogue. Marcy would try her best to stay focused on the task at hand, but was constantly aware of Sasha, standing with her legs crossed and hair fashionably tousled, oblivious to the fact that she was the reason behind Marcy’s distraction.
Sasha never demanded anything other than Marcy’s company. She never asked her to leave the store, or pressed her for answers. She’d made a joke about having to take Marcy for a spin on her motorcycle, once, and Marcy laughed, nervous and excited and confused – and hopeful.
So, during the late evening of a Friday, when Marcy heard the tell-tale rev of said motorcycle, she wasn’t surprised at all to find herself leaning on the counter, expectant, eager.
And it was Sasha who walked in. But she wasn’t alone.
Marcy felt her heartrate increase, thoughts scattering. The routine had shifted again, a new anomaly arriving.
Calm down, Marcy willed herself. Nothing I haven’t done before.
As it was, the new person was all smiles and friendly looks. She was a few centimetres shorter than Sasha (though still taller than Marcy) and just as pretty – although if Sasha was the moon, she was the sun. She also seemed immune to the threatening look Sasha was aiming her way.
“Hey, you must be Marcy!”
Marcy – caught off guard by the fact that no introduction was needed – smiled and nodded. “I must be.”
“I’m Anne,” the stranger – Anne – informed her, offering a handshake. “Sasha’s told me so much about you.”
“H – has she?” Marcy asked, faltering.
Sasha rolled her eyes. “She just wanted to know where all the flowers were coming from.”
“And I have to say,” Anne said, leaning closer, conspiring. “You do a much better job at taking care of them than she does.”
Marcy grinned, endeared, as Sasha blushed. “I’m sure she tries her best. I have been doing this for years.”
Sasha gave her a grateful smile. Marcy’s heart – which was starting to calm down – began to race again.
Anne laughed. “You wouldn’t be saying that if you knew about the tale of Domi – ”
Anne was interrupted by Sasha’s elbow digging into her ribs. Marcy looked at them, bantering and comfortable, and knew they must have known each other for a very long time. Friends with the kind of friendship Marcy never had.
“Anyways,” Sasha cut in. “We aren’t here to just waste your time, Marmar.”
“You never do,” Marcy said, before she could think.
Oh. Shit.
Marcy looked down quickly, preferring to be swallowed up by the earth than see the expression on Sasha’s face.
A throat was cleared. Sasha. “Right – uh. Thanks, Marcy, that’s – you’re – sweet of you to – ”
Anne jumped in. “Speaking of not wasting time, what Sasha meant to say is that I actually do want to buy some flowers. My grandma’s visiting from Bangkok soon, and I thought I’d get her some.”
The prospect of doing business – something that wouldn't completely embarrass her – made Marcy look up, but only at Anne. “Of course! I’ve got just what you need.”
She slipped away, turning her back on them. Grabbing jasmines and pink carnations and purple irises, the familiar work a relief. At some point, she heard a snicker, and then an oof, like Anne had gotten elbowed again.
Once she was done, she returned to the counter, the bouquet wrapped and ready. Anne beamed, telling her it was beautiful, and no wonder Sprig liked his so much. Unlike Sasha, she paid with cash.
When Marcy handed her the receipt and flowers, Anne said, “Well, I better head home and put these babies in a vase. It was so wonderful meeting you, Marcy. We should hang out sometime!”
The idea didn’t daunt Marcy, thankfully. “I’d love to.”
“Okay then, I’ll get your number from Sash later! Bye for now, I’ll leave you both to it!”
Leave...us?
Anne waved goodbye, ducking away through the door. Marcy glanced at Sasha – who’d been uncharacteristically silent, and who was still here.
“You aren’t...leaving?”
Sasha shook her head. “No, no I wasn’t planning to. Unless – you want me to?”
“No! No, I mean...it’s fine, I just assumed.”
They stared at each other for a few seconds – and then began giggling at the ridiculousness of the situation. The nerves and tension drained away.
“So, what did you plan, exactly?” Marcy inquired once the giggling subsided.
The question seemed to catch Sasha by surprise. She scuffed her boots against the floor, hands in pocket. Then she asked, “Do you think you can close shop early tonight?”
Marcy, as a matter of fact, could.
Before long, the two of them were standing outside, Sasha waiting for Marcy to finish locking up. Marcy twisted the keys, then gave the door a yank, double checking.
“Alright,” she said. “We’re all set.”
Sasha smiled at her, warm. “Come here, let me introduce you to my favourite thing in the world.”
They walked towards a nearby lamppost; next to it stood a sleek, powerful-looking motorcycle.
“Sasha!” Marcy exclaimed, the mechanics enthusiast in her leaping. “She’s beautiful.”
Sasha looked proud. “I’m glad you think so. Anne hates it, calls it a ‘death trap’.”
Marcy ran a hand over the motorcycle’s seat. “Well, she isn’t wrong, but – oh!” Something caught her eye – a flower growing in a crack on the sidewalk. Leaning down, Marcy plucked it.
“Look at this,” she said, turning to Sasha. “The dandelions are in bloom.” Then, gathering her courage, she gave it to her. “You should make a wish.”
Sasha looked at her with an unreadable expression. Marcy – for once – didn’t look away.
She watched Sasha slowly smile, bringing the flower closer to her lips, then pause, a moment’s consideration.
“Make one with me?” Sasha offered.
Marcy’s stomach flipped, but she only nodded.
Sasha stepped closer to her, until they stood side by side, their arms pressed together, the flower held between them.
“You should hold it, too. For the wish.” Sasha said, and – was it Marcy’s imagination, or was her voice shakier than usual?
Swallowing down her own shakiness, Marcy agreed. “For the wish.”
She raised her hand and wrapped it around Sasha’s. It was soft, cold. Bigger than her own.
“On three?” Marcy whispered.
“On three.” Sasha nodded.
“One...”
“Two...”
Marcy closed her eyes. “Three."
|| S ||
There was nothing suspicious about Sasha’s recent, constant good mood.
“You’re smiling,” Sprig noted. “Anne, why is she smiling? Is she planning to kill me? Was breaking my nose not enough?”
“Oh, shut up, Squeaky Toy,” Sasha muttered from her spot on Anne’s bedroom floor, phone in hand.
“Wow. First, you break my nose. Now, you tell me to shut up. I expect an apology bouquet, stat.”
Sasha was about to tell him exactly what kind of bouquet he should expect instead, but before she could, Anne swivelled in her chair, facing them.
“Both of you, be quite. Sprig, Sasha isn’t gonna murder you. She’s happy about her new girlfriend.”
Sasha yelled “She is not my girlfriend!” at the same time that Sprig exclaimed “Someone likes Sasha?”
Anne ignored Sprig, asking Sasha instead, “Haven’t you, like, gone on a bunch of dates? How is she still not your girlfriend?”
“Because,” Sasha replied, trying not to blush. “We’re just – hanging out. As friends.”
“Uh huh.”
“Honestly. It’s just like in the shop, except – you know – outside.”
Anne gave her a very unimpressed look. She turned to Sprig. “Can you believe that at first this genius didn’t even think about asking the very pretty florist to go out anywhere that wasn't the store she worked in? I had to drag her there to do it.”
Sprig cackled.
“Remind me why I bother hanging out with either of you.” Sasha asked of no one in particular.
Sprig poked her sides. “Because you don’t have any friends?”
She smacked his hand away, standing up. “I have plenty of friends. In fact, I’m going to see a friend right now.”
“You’re going to see Marcy, aren’t you?” Anne deadpanned.
Sasha scoffed. “Bold of you to assume I am that predictable.”
“Tell her I say hi. Also, take my bike instead of your death machine, please?”
“No thanks, I’ll take my chances.”
“I bet it’s just because you wanna see your girlfriend as soon as possible.” Sprig smirked, causing Sasha to throw a pillow at him.
She left the room with the echoes of Anne and Sprig’s ‘be careful!’ and ‘good luck on your date!’ following her.
Dumbasses. She loved them.
Her motorcycle was waiting by the door of Anne’s garage. Smiling, she got on.
It was true that she’d reach Marcy faster with it, but there was another reason behind her refusal to take Anne’s bike: in the last two weeks, she’d found out that Marcy really liked her motorcycle.
The first time they’d used it to drive around – the same night of dandelions and wishes and standing too close – Marcy had whooped in delight as Sasha sped on highways and through cars. She was even more reckless than Sasha, throwing both her hands in the air at some point and leaning back. This had terrified Sasha enough that she’d made a small detour, finding the nearest Walmart and buying Marcy a helmet.
“This is so stupid,” Marcy giggled, holding the unicorn-themed helmet. “You didn’t have to buy me one.”
“Well, it was the only one that fit your head, and if you insist on not holding on, then yes, yes I did have to buy you one.”
Marcy’s eyes were twinkling. “I’ll hold on.”
And she did, arms wrapped around Sasha’s waist. For a while, they drove aimlessly, then Sasha, through the noise, yelled back at Marcy, “HAVE YOU HAD DINNER YET?” and Marcy shook her head no, so Sasha asked, “DO YOU LIKE THAI?”
Marcy nodded, making their helmets clunk together, which for some reason had been extremely funny at the time, and they’d both burst into laughter, Sasha struggling to stay focused on the road.
She laughed a lot, when she was with Marcy.
However, she wasn’t expecting to be able to take her anywhere today. Sasha had texted her earlier, letting her know she’d drop by, and Marcy replied saying that Sasha was welcome to, but that she herself would probably too busy to be good company, because ‘it’s Valentine’s and people are going to be fighting for those flowers’.
And as Sasha pulled up towards the store, her usual parking spot taken by a car, she realized that Marcy had been right.
It wasn’t like the inside of the store was chaotic by any means, but it was definitely more full than usual. There was an actual line of customers, some standing off to the side, admiring the displayed bouquets. Sasha felt a flare of pride; she’d seen Marcy make those.
Marcy was busy, Sasha could tell. She went from customer to customer, hearing each one describe the person they loved, taking the time to make personalized bouquets. Not wanting to bother her, Sasha stayed back.
Normally, she’d look through some of the many catalogues and magazines that were on a stand near the door. But that was mostly because she didn’t want things to feel awkward when the shop was almost entirely vacant.
Now, though, she used the chance to watch Marcy work. Just like always, it was done with an other-worldly grace. It was strange; the rest of the time, Marcy was hesitant, considering every option before acting. Here, in her element and with flowers in her hand, there was none of that.
Still, Flowerday's was emptied out faster than Sasha expected, and she was soon noticed by Marcy, who gave her a quick smile before being swept away by yet another customer. Since she’d gotten spotted, Sasha resigned herself to a copy of Florists' Review.
When only one person was left – a teenage girl nervously wondering what flowers she should buy her partner on their first Valentine – Sasha put the magazine aside. Ten minutes later, the girl walked out with a bouquet (Sasha actually recognized some of the flowers), looking a lot less nervous.
Sasha’s gaze turned to where Marcy had last been standing, but instead of a friendly smile, she was greeted by the sight of Marcy going through the door behind the counter that Sasha knew led into a storage room.
Unsettled by this turn of events, Sasha stood, frozen in spot. What was happening? Should she...leave?
In her head, she heard Anne’s voice. Don’t run away. Go to her.
Sasha wiped her hands on her jeans. Pushing down every instinct to run, she made her way towards the closed door.
She knocked, twice. “Hey, Marmar? Can I come in?”
A muffled nod. That was all Sasha needed.
She opened the door. She hadn’t been in here before, but it was as lovely as the rest of the shop, lit up by the sunlight streaming in from a giant window. It wasn’t too cluttered, either, everything in its own space.
Marcy was leaning against the wall, hands pressed to her face. For a few moments, she didn’t react after Sasha walked in. Then she pushed her hands into her hair and offered Sasha a weak smile.
“Hey, sorry about that,” Marcy said. “Sometimes it just...sometimes it’s a little overwhelming and...”
She laughed, but it was clearly strained. “I just needed to calm down. I didn’t want you to – I thought it would be better – ”
“Hey,” Sasha interrupted softly, stepping close to Marcy. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I get it.”
But Marcy shook her head. She rubbed her face again. Sasha noticed that her hands were shaking and –
“Marcy, you’re bleeding.”
“What? Oh.” Marcy looked at her scratched palms and wrists. “Yeah. Roses are popular today, thorns and all.”
Sasha, concerned, asked “Do you have any Band-Aids?”
Marcy nodded. “Somewhere here. By the books.”
“I’ll get them.”
Sasha found them – and a few alcohol wipes – easily enough. They were dinosaur-themed. She couldn’t help smiling at that.
She returned to Marcy, but instead of giving her the stuff, Sasha sat on the floor, pulling Marcy down next to her.
“Give me your hands,” she demanded.
Wordlessly, Marcy put her hands out. Sasha held them steady with one of hers - after tearing open one of the wipes.
“This is gonna sting,” she warned.
“Can’t get any worse.”
“You have a point,” Sasha conceded. She pressed the wet swab onto Marcy’s skin, wiping the blood away. When that was done, she opened the package of Band-Aids, applying them on the worst cuts.
Finished, Sasha put aside the scraps of paper and used wipes. Then, propelled by recklessness, by a sudden courage, by something that could very nearly be called love, Sasha held Marcy’s hands, bringing them up to her lips and kissing one of the many Band-Aids.
“There,” she murmured. “They should get all better now.”
It was stupid. It was dumb. God, what was she doing – ?
Sasha looked at Marcy. Who hadn’t pulled away. Who wasn't pulling away, their hands still intertwined. Who was looking at her, with so much care. So...openly.
It would be so easy. To just lean forward. To stop beating around the bush. To finally kiss her and think Damn the consequences, damn them. So, painfully easy.
You don't deserve easy, an old, old voice whispered in her head. You don’t deserve her.
The thoughts broke the spell; Sasha pulled her hands out of Marcy’s – almost snatched them away – and stood up, nearly stumbling. Marcy, clearly startled by her sudden movements, stood up too.
“Sash? Is everything...alright?”
“Yeah,” Sasha faked the most genuine smile she could. “Yeah, just – my leg got numb. Come on, let’s get out of here. Let’s get lunch.”
For a heartbeat, it looks like Marcy wants to protest. But then she smiles back – nervous, small, but honest. “Alright, that sounds good.”
Sasha nods. Inside, her lungs are burning, burning.
|| M ||
When Marcy was eight years old, she lost her favourite stuffed toy, an alligator she called Joe. Her mother had turned the house inside out looking for it, and Marcy had looked outside of the house for hours, sometimes even calling for him – but he never showed up again. Just like that. There for eight years of her life, and then gone forever.
The feeling of loss had been awful enough to stick with Marcy all the way into adulthood. Sometimes she’d feel it again, looking at rejected scholarships or faded friendships that weren’t meant to last anyways.
At first, she doesn’t question it. Well, she does, a lot, her mind whirring, but she tries to rationalize, to be logical. It was fine if Sasha didn’t visit for a day. Fine if all Marcy’s texts and calls went unanswered. Fine.
By the third day, though, the cloud of worry turns into a storm. Marcy’s thoughts roar from Is she okay? to What did I do? to Gone, gone forever.
At Flowerday's, she calls Anne – who by now she’s seen often enough to be comfortable with. She calls, heart in her throat, dreading the worst.
“Hey, Marbles,” Anne answers. There’s a sadness in her voice; she knows what this call is about.
“Where is she?” Marcy asks, thinking Dead?gone?left?dead?hurt?hatesme?
There’s a sigh on the other line. Then, “Can you come over? There’s something you should probably know.”
It wasn’t anything Marcy had expected to hear, but it brought her no comfort either. Still, she says, “Yes, yes I can.”
Anne sends her location, and Marcy orders an Uber there. No motorcycle today.
Anne’s house is just as Marcy had expected it to be, big and cosy and everything a home should be. When Marcy knocks on the door, Anne opens, and welcomes her with a hug. Marcy freezes for a moment, then returns it.
Anne steps back. “Hey. It’s good to see you. Come in.”
Marcy does so, following Anne. It’s clear that other people live here, and Marcy can hear voices coming from the kitchen, but Anne leads her past it, going into the backyard. Marcy momentarily distracts herself by scanning the flowers around them. There’s a batch of impatiens and daffodils, and a large orange tree.
They sit at the small picnic table. A pitcher of lemonade and two glasses are set out in front of them, and Anne pours lemonade for each of them.
“So,” Anne breaks the silence. “I know you’re probably really worried.”
Marcy tries to laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
“I think anyone would be,” Anne says. “But, look – you don’t need to worry.”
“I...don’t?”
Anne makes a frustrated sound. “Sorry, I don’t – I’m not really sure how to explain this.” A sigh. “Sasha...does this sometimes. Just – vanishes into thin air. Even when we were kids, she’d talk about running away all the time. And she actually ended up doing it, eventually and – .” Anne cuts herself off. “And it sucked. I didn’t know what was happening, neither did her parents and...I get it, you know? When it happens and you’re left without any answers.”
Marcy nods, shakily. Anne takes a sip of lemonade before continuing.
“But she came back. She always does. And it got better, over time. After she left for college, it happened less often. Still, every now and then...”
The rest of the sentence trails off. Marcy taps a finger against her glass, then says, “Don’t you worry that maybe she won't come back, one day?”
“Of course I do,” Anne replies. “Of course I do. But I have to trust that she will. That...this is something she just – needs to do, I guess.”
Silence settles over them again. Anne sighs. “Listen, can you do me a favour?”
Marcy blinks. “Of – of course.”
“When she comes back, don’t...don’t hate her. Give her a chance. Talk. You can do whatever you want afterwards but...”
“Did you...hate her?”
Anne laughs, shaking her head. “No. No, I don’t think I ever really did. I was so mad, that I thought I did hate her, and for a long time we didn’t even talk. And we needed that. But I think what you guys need is...to talk.”
Marcy takes a deep breath, then smiles. “You’re probably right.” Her smile drops, and she twists her hands together. “I’m...I’m worried that I might’ve done something to scare her off.”
“What on earth would you have done? Marcy, she thinks you’re, like, the most wonderful person. Even if she doesn’t say it, I know. Trust me.”
“Last week...” Marcy begins. “I – I got a little overwhelmed and – I tried to keep it together but I –”
“Hey,” Anne reaches out a hand and puts it on Marcy’s arm. “You did nothing wrong. I promise.”
But I did. I let her see what she means to me.
“Alright,” Marcy says. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Good! Now, I know these are your working hours, but stay for lunch? The family really wants to meet you. Especially Sprig.”
Marcy thinks back to the last lunch she had with Sasha, and it almost makes her want to cry. If she had known it would be the last time...
But it won’t be. It won’t.
The idea of having lunch with a bunch of strangers was intimidating. But Sasha had talked about Anne’s families so much, Marcy felt like she almost knew them. She figured there would be no harm in meeting the people that were a part of Sasha’s life.
So she nods. “I’d love to.”
|| M ||
Over the next few days, the Boonchuy household becomes a sort of safe haven for Marcy.
Anne’s parents – On & Aran – are just as warm and welcoming as their daughter. And Anne’s found family – the Plantars – are all a breath of fresh air. Marcy gets to know them. She gets told the story of how the Plantars came into Anne’s life when a six-year-old Sprig found a nine-year-old Anne lost in the woods near their farm. How they’d become inseparable (‘Spranne against the world!’ they yelled, before fist bumping). Hop Pop finds her knowledge of plants refreshing (he was a successful farmer, which Marcy thinks is so cool), and Mr. Boonchuy asks her if she has any gardening tips, and by the end of her first lunch with the Boonchuy-Plantars, Marcy feels like she’s known them her whole life.
She opens Flowerday's every day. She waits for the flash of blonde hair and a sharp smile. She gets an influx of new customers, and knows that Mrs. Boonchuy kept her promise of spreading the word about the shop in the local Thai community.
Anne doesn’t visit as often as Sasha did, but she does pass by, usually with takeout from Thai Go. Sometimes Sprig comes with her, when he isn’t busy working in the Plantars’ market. Sometimes it’s Polly, picked up from school, asking Marcy what flowers were the most poisonous.
They all make the waiting easier than it would’ve been otherwise. They make it easier, but Marcy still wishes it would end.
|| S ||
Sometimes, it’s too much. Sometimes, it’s not enough at all.
Sasha had learned that life was not something that she always needed to leash and lead and fight. She learned to raise her hands up instead of burying them in every conflict, in every biting jaw.
But unlearning lifelong habits was easier said than done, and sometimes things were so much and not enough and she wanted to dive in head first and take control, no matter what.
Sometimes, she looks at the mirror and can only see that fucking scar, burning, burning, and she remembers arguing with Anne and then the muggers stepping in front of them and light jumping off a knife and pushing Anne out of the way and Anne’s terrified yell as Sasha fought with closed fists even though she didn’t have to fight, could’ve given them the money they asked for and walked away unharmed, unmarked.
But that would’ve felt too much like giving up and she’d been burning with rage and anger because she knew this argument with Anne was the worst one yet and these fuckers thought she would’ve been an easy target – a seventeen year old girl with known rich parents – but she wasn’t, she never would be.
Later, her uncle, Grime, would sit with her and hand her a few painkillers and ask her how many stitches it took to close her wound. And she’d look at his scarred face and not answer, and using her old childhood nickname, he’d say, You’re a loose canon, Lieutenant.
That was the first time she disappeared.
Sometimes, she looks in the mirror and thinks that all there is to her is hurt or be hurt, run or run through. But Marcy had looked at her like maybe that wasn’t true.
So Sasha does what she does best and she takes back control by simply fucking vanishing, because things had become too much and not enough.
This time, though, it feels like there’s fishhooks in her ribcage, and she doesn’t look at them, doesn’t think about them – but she knows, she knows exactly who they’re dragging her back to, and she can hear her voice, saying what Sasha longs to hear, what she thinks she never deserves to hear, three simple words that have haunted her her whole life.
Come back home.
|| M ||
Early Saturday morning, she’s there like she never left.
Marcy had had a shitty night, insomnia holding her in a tight grip. She’d finished two projects and then stayed up until five AM, on her Switch, seeking comfort in the worlds she used to dream of running to.
She woke up with a headache and the familiar taste of worry at the back of her throat. She skipped breakfast and answered emails, then she was on her way to Flowerday’s, the sun too bright in her eyes.
It was a close walk, not more than ten minutes. By the time she reached, Marcy was thinking at a hundred miles per hour, about the requests her client had given her and the flower delivery today and, like always, of –
Sasha was sitting on the sidewalk.
Her hair is covering her face, and she’s hunched over like she’s exhausted, but there’s no mistaking her. Sasha.
Marcy lets out a strangled gasp and Sasha turns to her, and her eyes are a little sunken with new shadows under them but she is still as beautiful as she ever was.
Sasha stands up in one fluid motion, but she seems – smaller, somehow. And Marcy knows she should say something, she’d dreamt of this moment so many times over the last few days, but now that Sasha was here, she says nothing. Because what if she does, and Sasha disappears again?
She doesn’t need to, anyways, because Sasha starts.
“Sometimes...” she says. “I get scared.”
Marcy inhales nervously. Her turn. “Of what?”
“I don’t know.” A shrug. “Getting bad again. Doing...something dumb.”
Marcy nods, lost for words.
“You don’t...have to forgive me. But I needed – I wanted to see you. To tell you I – I’m sorry.”
This pushes Marcy to walk closer. She looks at Sasha for a moment, before tentatively, slowly taking one of her hands, and holding it. It’s a loose hold, one that tells Sasha You can pull away.
Sasha doesn’t. So Marcy says. “I don’t have to forgive you, because I’m not mad at you. But...”
There’s a small shine of hope in Sasha’s eyes. “Yeah?”
“We’ll need to talk. About this, I mean. About...the – the things that scare us. I think...I think we should do that.”
Marcy worries that if she looks at Sasha, she’ll see her disappear before her very eyes. So she concentrates on a crack in the sidewalk.
Sasha brushes her thumb over Marcy’s knuckles. “Alright.”
Marcy turns her gaze back to her. The hope is still there. Slowly, Sasha smiles.
Marcy smiles back. “Alright.”
|| S ||
They talk. And talk. And talk.
It’s as fun as pulling out teeth. The aftermath of running always is.
Still, things slip back into place; Marcy behind the counter, Sasha leaning over it. They don’t say too much just then, but there’s a promise of more later, and Sasha helps around when Marcy gets a delivery, and it isn’t as awful as she expected.
She’d expected reprimands. To be told to leave and never come back. To be called selfish, horrible, a bad friend.
There’s none of that.
When she visits Anne, she does get hit on the head with a rolled up menu, but then Anne immediately pulls her in for a hug, then pushes her away and says, “You need to talk to Marcy,” and then hugs her again.
The weeks pass in a blur of work and catching up and talks. She goes out with Anne, with Marcy, with Anne and Marcy. She brings Marcy over to her apartment, and Marcy helps her sort out the flowers, and they talk.
Sasha tells her about the scar and her parents and how she’d always wanted to run away, and Marcy tells her about years of loneliness and overworking and how she, too, had always wanted to run away.
Sasha traces a vein on Marcy’s arm and whispers, “If we met sooner, we could’ve run away together.”
Marcy smiles. “We could’ve. We still could.”
In a burst of courage, Sasha asks, “Marcy Wu, would you run away with me?”
And Marcy reaches out and tucks Sasha’s hair behind her ear and answers, “Maybe one day,” – and it’s enough for Sasha.
They don’t go further than that in terms of conversation; they’ve both hit their limit. So Sasha orders Thai Go (‘You could sponsor them,’ Marcy teases) and Marcy finds a Studio Ghibli movie for them to watch, and they fall asleep halfway through. Sasha wakes up the next day with her neck aching, but Marcy is curled up next to her and her arm is around Sasha’s waist and all Sasha can think is: I’m home.
|| M ||
Marcy loved working.
She knew not many felt the same. But she’d gotten lucky.
Her phone trills; she looks at it and finds a text from Sasha.
On my way.
It makes her smile. Being anywhere with Sasha was wonderful – a local restaurant, in the park, by a pond, in Thai Go, in either of their apartments. But where she loved her most of all was here, where it all started.
Loved. A big word. A scary one. But there was no more denying it.
It’s not long before the sleepy quite of the neighbourhood is broken by the sound of a motorcycle’s engine. Marcy finds herself grinning before Sasha even comes in, and thinks, Jeez, I’ve got it bad.
The door opens. The bell rings.
An expected customer walks in. She’s older than Marcy by a year, with blonde hair that was growing out and dark eyes that never changed colour in the sun. She was pretty, lovingly so, and when she turned her face, Marcy felt her breath catch as she smiled at her.
“I need flowers.”
Marcy raises an eyebrow. “What?”
Sasha points at herself. “I’m here. For flowers.”
Well, you usually aren’t here for that, Marcy thinks, amused. Out loud, she says, “Good thing we’re in a flower shop.”
Sasha nods. “Good thing. Think you can help me find what I need, or are you gonna let me look around?”
Marcy laughs, and slips away from the counter. “I think I can help.”
“Okay then,” Sasha runs a hand through her hair. “Here’s what I want: red carnations.”
Carnations (red): deep, romantic love, affection.
“Gardenia.”
Gardenia: secret love, sweet love, joy, good luck.
“Lavenders.”
Lavender: happiness, peace, love, devotion.
“And purple violets.”
Violet (purple): daydreaming, love between two women.
Marcy wraps them up together. Her heart is racing, racing – but her hands are steady. “Quite an unconventional bouquet,” is her only comment.
Sasha smirks. “I like unconventional.”
Smiling, Marcy hands her the bouquet. “Anything else?”
“No, not really. Oh, right!” Sasha pretends to slap her forehead. “I nearly forgot.”
Out of the pocket of her jacket, she slips out a single dandelion, and carefully places it in the middle of the bouquet.
“There, perfect.” Sasha looks proud. Then, she says, “Also, these are for you.”
She holds out the bouquet, and Marcy takes it back, laughing and elated and god, her face hurts from all the smiling and blushing and –
Giddy and lightheaded, she flings herself across the counter. It’s a bad idea; she very nearly falls on her face. But Sasha’s strong arms hold her up and drag her the rest of the way through, and Sasha’s laughing, they both are, and Sasha twirls her around, once, before setting her down.
And Marcy thinks maybe she should say something, confirm or reaffirm, anything. Then she looks into Sasha’s eyes and realizes that all that needed to be said has been said – in the flowers she holds.
So instead she does something else. She tilts her head up and closes her eyes – and wishes.
And then Sasha kisses her – and it’s soft and warm and a promise and everything, and Marcy thinks, It’s exactly like coming home.