“I don’t know,” I say while exhaling and pushing my hand through my hair. “Probably because it feels weird. Okay? This whole dating thing feels weird. And I don’t know how to handle it.”
“Well, not talking to me doesn’t help. We tell each other everything.”
“I know.” I dip my head back and look at the sky for a moment. “Fuck, Lia, I kissed her last night because I really wanted to.” I look her in the eyes now. “All night, she made me laugh, and she’s beautiful, and at one point, she sucked on her finger, and it made me fucking sweat.” Lia smirks. “So when it came to saying good night, I wanted to kiss her, and I did.” I tug on my hair. “And it was good. Sweet. Not too intense, just perfect. But I . . . I felt nothing.”
“Nothing?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No, there was no spark, no desire to push her up against the SUV and further the kiss. It was just sweet.” I shake my head again. “I think there’s something wrong with me. This is why I don’t date because I never feel anything for anyone. Never. It’s always just . . . average. And Birdy is not the type of girl I take home for the night and not see again. She’s the dating type.”
“Are you two done conversing over there?” The Beave calls out while snapping her fingers. “I have important things to discuss.”
Lia turns toward me and says, “This conversation isn’t over. You hear me?”
“Yeah, didn’t think it would be,” I say as we head on over to the florist.
“Ophelia, please don’t drag your feet. It’s unbecoming.” Lia clamps her lips together, probably to keep her from snapping back. The Beave’s mood has carried over from yesterday, and it has been fucking unpleasant. “Now, I just spoke with the florist and she said she can accommodate our order of red roses, but we need to act quickly.”
“Red roses?” Lia sneers. “Those are so formal.” She hates red roses. Thinks they’re so cliché. Can’t say I disagree.
“Exactly, this is a formal wedding, Ophelia. What do you expect to have at the wedding? Daisies?” The Beave snorts as if that’s the most preposterous thing she’s ever heard.
“As a matter of fact,” Lia says, “I was thinking daisies would be perfect. They were my mom’s favorite flower.”
The Beave pauses and then clasps her hands together. “Ophelia, I appreciate your dedication to your mother’s favorite flower. Very admirable, but this is a wedding, not a memorial. This is a celebration.”
Oh fuck.
Lia gasps. It’s under her breath—subtle—that you almost don’t hear it, but it’s just enough for me to notice.
Just enough for me to know what’s going to happen next if I don’t interject.
“Mrs. Beaver,” I say, stepping in before Lia loses it. “I don’t want to step on any toes here, but I believe it would be a kind and serving thing to honor Lia’s late mother by including daisies. It would be a way to include her mother since she can’t be here.”
“But roses and daisies don’t go well together.”
“I can include daisies in the bride’s bouquet,” the florist says.
“I don’t need a bouquet,” Lia says, causing The Beave to snap her head in her direction.
“What do you mean you don’t need a bouquet? What on earth would you possibly walk down the aisle with?”
“I made a bunch of knitted flowers with my mom and grandma. I’ve saved them so I could make a bouquet out of them one day.”
The Beave is silent, and then slowly, she starts to chuckle.
The chuckle grows.
And grows.
It’s probably the most offensive thing I’ve seen. This woman thinks she has class, but she actually has none.
“Knitted flowers? For a wedding? You can’t be serious.” The Beave waves her hand in front of her, dismissing the whole notion.
“I’m pretty sure she’s serious, or else she wouldn’t bring it up,” I say, losing my cool.
Lia gently places her hand on my arm, letting me know she has this. “Mrs. Beaver, I appreciate your need to make this a beautiful wedding, but you need to remember that you’re around to see your son get married, and my parents aren’t, so incorporating them into the ceremony and reception is important to me.”
“And it should be important to you as well,” I say, backing her up.
Sensing the tone, The Beave straightens. Her expression morphs into one of understanding, and she quickly slips back into the prim and proper woman she attempts to portray herself as. She turns to the florist and says, “Well, if we could find a suitable way to incorporate daisies without looking tacky, we would appreciate it.”