Chapter 18: You Don't Want To Talk To Me
The satin ribbon was deceptively slippery, and he struggled to grip it long enough to glue the other end in place onto the ceramic pot. His index finger and thumb were already cramping painfully, and Sun dropped the evasive material in defeat, grunting with frustration as he pressed the hilts of his hands against his closed eyes. His temples ached, and he couldn't be sure if it was because he'd been stooped over a desk staring at the same arrangement for thirty minutes straight, or due to the thoughts stampeding through his head. So many, he felt like it would burst. It was the same reason why Sun had felt himself tearing up when he had forced himself to go back into the storeroom to get more of the tiger lilies for a bouquet.
He hated it. He couldn't believe just walking into the back room was enough to make him cry, and it disgusted him. What was wrong with him? It wasn't as if she had hit him, broken something, told him he would never be able to keep the business going, that his father would be so disappointed in him. Blake hadn't done anything. And yet Sun felt something, multiple somethings. Because all he had to do was glance over his shoulder and recall that he'd left one of the rolls of floral tape in the storeroom and had to go retrieve it, and remember how Blake's hand had felt on his neck, and picture the distant, pale look of his father's body at the wake, and he felt hurt. Sun felt hurt, and he didn't know why. And telling himself, over and over, how stupid it was that he felt this way for no reason, only made it hurt more.
His hand had been ready to stay itself, hesitating, delaying opening the glass door, but Sun grabbed at the handle before it could. The black metal was cool and just a little slick in contrast to the muggy afternoon air and thin coat of sweat on his palm. The soothing air conditioning of the shop hit his forehead as Sun entered, just his head and shoulders inside the door, at first. He hadn't planned to enter the shop entirely, but quickly deduced that his message required a bit more time than merely popping his head in and then spinning around and running back to the flower shop and burying his face in his arms. Clearly, the latter scenario was what Sun would have preferred, but the rest of his body filed into the building, too.
He let the door close behind him, cutting off the outdoor heat. Worn leather sandals shuffled toward the counter behind which Blake stood, having already noticed him with the cue of the bell above the door frame.
"Hey."
The woman didn't respond, just continued to stare at him expectantly. But not at his eyes. Sun coughed.
"Look, I know you don't want to talk to me. You, uh, never want to talk to me." The blond forced a nervous laugh, hesitating. "Um, Neptune wanted me to tell you that dinner is going to be at his and Weiss' apartment. Tomorrow, seven o'clock. He said you can bring something, a side dish, if you want."
Sun paused, practically gasping for breath, though he was standing stock still. Blake still didn't acknowledge him.
"I would've texted you, but I, uh, I don't have your number." Still no reply. She didn't even look him in the eye. Sun's stomach turned in a horrible sensation. Coming here had been a mistake. "Sorry. I'll leave," he muttered, all but running back to the door. "Sorry."
He barely realized he was back in his own shop until his knee hit the edge of his desk painfully, and he tripped into his chair. Sun gripped his leg, rubbing the sore spot just at the hem of his cargo shorts. It would probably bruise before the day was out. He sighed, placing his foot on the ground and turning back to the potted strawberry plant, reluctantly retrieving the two ends of satin ribbon and the hot glue gun. Might as well throw the rest of the roll out, he thought to himself. He certainly wasn't going to make the mistake of using the fickle fabric again.