My mother never spoke of love in the way you see in the movies. She never waxed poetic on finding a Prince Charming or never settling for someone you didn't love passionately. She didn't speak of love at all. She lived it.
My father was a working-class man from a lumber yard, my mother a debutante from the capital. They met as teenagers, fell madly in love over a summer, and spent every day together until he passed away. He died a few days shy of my twenty-first birthday, two semesters before I finished college, when he was fifty. A heart attack caused by an enlarged heart and clogged arteries. My mother said it was because his heart was too full of love. I'd venture to say it was too full of fried chicken and cigarettes, but that thought is what has gotten her through the last three years. Far be it for me to disrupt her dreams.
My own view on love has been shaded by my chosen occupation as a florist. An occupation I chose after getting my business degree and realizing I'd rather get nicks from thorns than papercuts. As my mother would say, "I can't stay clean for five minutes." I like dirt. I like making things grow. I'm a chump for beautiful things.
I've seen all kinds of love come in my corner store. The new love of lilies and daffodils, the old love of pansies and hydrangeas, the passionate love of roses. I've seen the desperation of men on their last leg with their wives, the sparkling newness of brides-to-be obsessing over colors and scents, and the depression of lonely hearts seeking to liven up their studio apartments. Something pretty to stare at as they tuck into their microwave dinner for one. You can be in love with your loneliness, too.
Weddings are by far my favorite thing in which perform my duties. I don't get requests to do them often, maybe twice a year, but I enjoy the pomp and circumstance of a well put together wedding. The cheesy stuff is kind of lost on me but I don't mind watching others enjoy it.
The Mellark-Everdeen wedding began a little strange. I didn't meet the bride, oddly enough. The groom, an affable man around my age named Peeta Mellark, came into my shop looking for a small plant for his desk at work. One thing led to another, and I was booked to do his wedding to a woman named Katniss Everdeen. Usually I'd ask for the bride's input as well - I've been on the receiving end of a few too many bridezillas before - but he seemed to be particularly knowledgeable about the colors and shapes of flowers, so I disregarded it.
As usual, I arrive very early to decorate the church and the reception area. Churches kind of bum me out but I like placing the arrangements on the pews. Leaving my mark on the holy place that, if they knew what I did on Saturday nights, would have me incinerated on the spot. I'm always surprised I don't burn upon entry each time. Peeta chose earth tones, not the usual pink and purple and yellow. He likes orange and she likes green, so it is a subdued wedding of white, green, crimson red, and sunset orange.
My last duty before I excuse myself for the ceremony is to present the bride with her bouquet. In lieu of some grand gesture I usually just leave it on a table in the bride's dressing area and take off. Sometimes I hang around the reception and drink; a few times I've snagged myself a drunk bridesmaid on the way out. Today, however, when I let myself into the dressing area, the bride is still in here. Alone.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry," I apologize, my normally pale skin flushing an embarrassing shade of beet red. The bride is in a state of half-dress; the long zipper on the back of her dress is down to the top of her butt, exposing the muscled flesh of her back.
The brunette turns and gazes at me surprisingly with expressive gray eyes. I'm sure I've never seen that color before - like a pale blue storm cloud. "Oh it's okay." The ease of politeness gives way to uncertainty. "Wait, who are you?"
"I, uh, I'm your florist, Johanna Mason," I explain, uncharacteristically stumbling over my words. I have never been unable to talk to women, but those storm cloud eyes have rendered me completely useless. "I was here to give you your bouquet." I thrust my hands toward her, practically shoving the bouquet into her torso. She removes her hands from the back of her dress and takes the flowers from me.
"Thank you, Johanna Mason. They're lovely."
I smile. "Thanks. Your husband has good taste." In women and in flowers. I clear my throat. "Do you, um, want some help?"
"Yes," she practically groans out. If only the church could hear the dirty thoughts that are stampeding through my mind at the sexy husk of her voice. She faces her back to me. "I can't get this fucking zipper up for the life of me. My mother and my sister are off getting their make-up retouched and I'm in here trying to fit into this godforsaken dress."
An usually high-pitched giggle escapes my lips as I take the zipper in my hand. I brace my other hand on the small of her back and out of my peripheral vision I see her sneak a glance over her shoulder at me. Without thought I lick my lips and drag the zipper up agonizingly slow. I allow my wide brown eyes to drink in every subtle curve of her back muscles as they tense beneath my touch.
Don't judge me. She is the one getting married, not me.
Once I finish, she turns around and faces me. I swear, for a few moments the Earth ceases to move. She is breathtakingly beautiful. Our eyes meet shyly, as if she could read the horribly offensive thoughts I'm having about her. It's in my genes to be impulsive, to react impulsively. My parents married within days of meeting each other; they loved each other instantly. This is what love should look like, I think. As if she's pulled back on a bow and arrow and shot me in the heart like Cupid. And for a few moments, it feels like she did.
The loud opening of the door behind me startles me physically and I jump several inches backward until my ass hits a nearby table. "Oh I'm sorry, I didn't know you'd have company, Katniss." An older woman, blonde hair and pale blue eyes, walks in behind me with a smaller girl almost identical to her in appearance. Just maybe forty years younger.
"Katniss," I murmur quietly, but my voice is picked up by her. Katniss looks at me with narrowed eyes. A smirk finds its way on to my face. "Like the root." Her eyes roll. With a peculiar name like Katniss, I imagine she's had a lifetime of being picked on and teased. I want to scoop her up and protect her from the bullies from her past. "You know what they say about katniss root, right? It's the sturdiest of all the roots. The world could get wiped out by plague, war, asteroids, but there will always be katniss. It's a fighter." Her cheeks dimple slightly as she smiles. She's getting to be too much for me so I turn around to leave.
The little blonde bounds past me to be near Katniss, who looks down at her with a fond smile. "What do they say about primrose?" Katniss asks to my turned back. I whirl my attention to what I assume is her little sister. I grin at the tiny blonde and she smiles back. Her two plaited braids fall over her shoulders, framing her oval, freckled face. For sisters they don't look a damn thing alike. She reminds me more of Peeta, actually. Like a dandelion in the spring. Maybe she is his little sister.
"Is that your name? Primrose?" The girl nods eagerly. "That's a beautiful name." She smiles a toothy grin with one wide gap near the front. Is she still young enough to be losing teeth? Must be a change of life baby, because Katniss looks to be around my age. "Well, every flower has a message. The primrose means 'I can't live without you.'" With a mind of their own, my eyes meet Katniss's instead of little Prim's. We both blush.
Her sparkling blue eyes light up excitedly. "Do penguins have knees?"
My confused look makes Katniss laugh, a beautiful laugh that rings in my ears. The eldest Everdeen looks down at her and smiles patiently. These out of the blue questions must be typical. "Um, well yeah. It helps them to swim. You just can't see them because they always have so much fat and fur and the waddle like this." I imitate as best I can the waddle of a penguin, short of pulling my pants to my thighs like Dick Van Dyke in "Mary Poppins."
Despite being an only child, I'm crazy good with kids. Primrose is no exception. "Can you sit with me at the wedding?"
The three of us share awkward glances before I bring my attention back to Primrose. "I'm not coming to the wedding, kiddo. But I'll be at the reception, so if you want to find me, you can, okay?" I look back toward Katniss who is staring at me something fierce. Something about the way her eyes study me is making me feel both intimidated and exhilarated. Like I'm back in high school, staring longingly at my first crush down the hallway.
"What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?" I blink away from Katniss to look back to Primrose.
"Oh for Heaven's sake Prim, please stop with all the questions," Mrs. Everdeen replies tiredly, crossing the room away from her daughter to examine the forgotten bouquet on the table.
I kneel down toward Prim, tucking the tail of her shirt into her skirt as I speak. "It can't happen. You see, if there's an unstoppable force then there can't possibly be something that can't move. They can't both exist. It never happens. The answer is that it's a trick question. A paradox." Prim seems satisfied with my answer so I give the other two Everdeen women a nod and go toward the door.
"Congratulations," I sat as I walk backward. "You look beautiful." I walk out and close the door behind me.
I lean against the door and let out a long exhale. Am I really about to lust after a woman who is minutes away from being married? Am I actually that foolish? And do I really think that this woman, about to be wed to a guy even I like, is possibly looking at me the same way? The answer to all those questions is a resounding, embarrassingly loud yes. I'm foolish and impulsive when it comes to love.
But very rarely am I wrong.
The reception is wonderful. The place is filled with beautiful decorations that include my flowers, attractive bridesmaids, and a killer band. As essentially one of the "help" I wander around the outdoor dance area, trying to be useful but also trying my best to keep an eye on Katniss. Primrose has not found me yet; she is busy being danced to death by Peeta's best man, a devastatingly handsome man named Finnick Odair.
I find Katniss alone near the punch bowl, swirling the ladle around but not catching any liquid inside. I stride over to her, trying my best not to feel silly in my casual black slacks and white button-up blouse. Her wedding dress is stunning, the feathery fabric just barely scraping the ground as she walks. The corset bodice is hugging her sides and accentuating what I imagine to be a phenomenal figure underneath, if the preview of her back I had gotten earlier is any indication.
"Whatcha doin'?" I ask in a playful tone. The look of outright horror and guilt on her face takes me by surprise. I feign seriousness and lean in toward her. "Did you spike the punch?"
"I dropped my ring." I glance at her quizzically and she grunts in frustration. "I dropped my ring in the punch bowl."
I can't help the stream of snickers that erupt from my mouth. "Well, I'm here to help, right? Cover me." I stand behind her, partially shrouded by her dress, and roll up my sleeve. I stick my hand into the cold punch and feel around the crimson liquid for the small band of gold.
"You can't just stick your hand in - oh and okay you already did." Katniss sounds panicked and I grin to myself as she tries to shield me from the rest of the wedding guests.
"Katniss Everdeen, I thought white was the color of virgins," a sultry voice says from over my back. "I think that you and I know Peeta a little better than that." I roll my eyes at the voice. What a rude, gross thing to say to a woman on her wedding day.
"Oh Finnick. The old jokes really are the best, aren't they?" Katniss snarks back.
"I just wanted to get some punch. I'm talking to a sweet redhead over there and I need to grease the wheels, so to speak." He talks with his mouth full as I dip my hand in the bowl again. "Have you tried the chocolate dipped strawberries? They're so sweet. I had to grab them."
Finally I fish the ring from what seems like a never-ending punch bowl. I take Katniss's hand in mine and slowly slide the ring on her finger. I wipe my hand on my black pants and emerge from behind her. I watch the handsome man's sea-green eyes widen as he sees me.
He extends his hand toward me. "The name's Finnick. I'm Peeta's best man. But you can call me whatever you'd like." His dimples go even deeper than Katniss's, but that seems to be about it as far as depth is concerned for the man.
Inwardly, I groan. But I enjoy a good flirt so I wink back and shake his hand. "And I'm sure I will."
"This is Johanna Mason," Katniss interrupts. "She did the flowers."
"Did you? Well they're very nice. But if you don't mind." He squeezes in between us and pours himself a small glass of punch. "I have an A Little Mermaid fantasy that little redhead over there and I need to act out tonight." Finnick sways his hips as he walks away, singing. "Under the sheets, under the sheets. Everything's better, down where's wetter, take it from me."
"Thank you so much," she gushes, looking down at her ring on her finger. "How embarrassing."
"It was my pleasure, Katniss." The look she levels at me - somewhere in the space between gratefulness and mystery - shakes me. If I wasn't made of bones and skin I would melt on the spot. Those gorgeous eyes and that dimpled grin, well, I'm done for. "It's, um, time for the speeches soon, yeah?"
I can see the trepidation in her eyes; the collecting of cumulus clouds in an otherwise peaceful sky of hazy gray-blue. "Yes. I'm not good with speeches. Peeta's great. He's got a way with words, but I'm awful at it."
I laugh, leaning my weight on the punch table behind us. Katniss does the same, albeit uncomfortably in her large dress. "Trust me, I've seen worse. I've seen brides literally vomit up there." Katniss stares at me hard then lets out a loud laugh. "I'm serious! A real conservative wedding, too. She is all dolled up in this Princess Diana get-up that was just atrocious. White roses, everywhere," I add with disgust. "She goes to speak and just blech! All over her fine china. All over Mr. King of England. It was a riot."
"You're horrible! That must have been excruciating for her!" Katniss slaps me on the arm in jest and I smirk.
"She was dreadful, don't feel bad for her. Women use weddings as an excuse to act like animals. Feel bad for the poor waiter who had to clean that up." A knife clatters against a crystal chalice at the front of the room, and the band begins to die down.
Katniss pulls in a loud breath. "Any last advice, wedding expert?"
I adjust the pearl necklace on her breastplate, letting my fingers linger a little bit longer than absolutely necessary. "Speak from your heart." She gives me a droll look. "Okay, don't throw up, how's that?"
"Better." We share another smile that I feel deep within my aorta and she walks off to the front of the room. I maneuver myself to the back row, standing near the exit. Normally I'd have left by now, especially since I am lusting after a very newly wed bride, but I want to hear her speak.
Finnick stands up first to toast to the new couple. "When I met Peeta, he was already head-up-his-ass in love with Katniss, but she had no idea. They didn't even know each other yet, just saw each other in passing at school. There were a lot of nights of whoring and drug-using, enjoyed only by me. Peeta was somewhere painting or baking or doing something else he saw on Martha Stewart Living." He pauses for laughs, of which there are many. "And finally he managed to convince Katniss that she wasn't going to do any better. They've been insufferably boring every day since. So here's to Peeta and Katniss! May they spend the rest of their lives as they've spent the last four years - together and as boring as an old maid's lampshade!"
The guests raise a toast and drink to the new couple. Finnick hands the microphone to Peeta, who stands nervously. "Thank you, Finnick. Tonight's one of the many nights I will spend wondering how and why we are friends." He smiles affectionately at the man and turns to the crowd. "But he's not wrong. I've spent the better part of the last fifteen years in love with Katniss. Fortunately for me, she's spent the last four years in love with me, too. I consider myself the luckiest guy in the room tonight, no matter how many women Finnick manages to sleep with. And I'll continue being the luckiest man alive for as long as she keeps waking up beside me."
Katniss stands next, kissing Peeta on the cheek and taking the microphone from him. "Thank you all for coming. I, um, I'm going to make this short because I really, really want to eat some cake." Laughs spread throughout the room and I can't help but smile. She has no idea the way she can command a room. The way her easy smile and piercing eyes is putting everyone under her spell. Or maybe just me. "I feel like I've known Peeta my whole life. We've been best friends since they day we met. People say that fairy tales always have a rough passage at some point, but with Peeta and I, it's always been smooth sailing. Maybe that's a better kind of fairy tale."
Everyone raised their glasses and toasts the couple once more, and I make my way out from underneath the outdoor patio and toward my car. What am I thinking, flirting with this girl? She is married to her 'best friend.' They are going to spend their lives together in some quaint little house, pop out their 2.5 kids, and forget all about the lesbian florist they hired to do their flowers.
At best I'll be something they'll press between two pages of a book. A memento of the day they truly began their lives together.
But sometimes, life works out a little differently than you expect.