After You (Because of You 2)

The line goes so silent for a moment, I think I dropped the call. Before I can pull it back to check, he clears his throat. “Flowers?”

My smile droops. “The… roses?”

“Roses.”

Looking down at the bouquet, I swallow. Fuck. If they’re not from him… “You know what, maybe they’re from Bethany,” I suggest, searching the roses more thoroughly for a card. “I assumed they were from you, but maybe they’re a ‘thanks for being in my wedding’ sort of gesture. I can see Bethany doing that.”

“Or maybe they’re from him,” he states. “Does he have your address?”

My stomach twists and falls. I shake my head in denial, not able to even consider that. “He’s not the kind of guy who would send me roses, Henry.”

Louise spins around in her chair so fast, I feel a light breeze. Her eyes are wide as she stares at me and I grimace. Shit, she doesn’t know anything about this weekend.

“Which is exactly why he did,” Henry states. “He’s fucking with us.”

Well, this took an unpleasant turn. “He is not fucking with us,” I murmur, but now I’m aware of Louise, so I don’t want to talk about this. “I’m sure they’re from Bethany. I can’t find the card. I’ll text her and ask. I was just about to text her anyway, actually.”

“They’re from him,” Henry states, no doubt in his tone. “You said you refused to give him your number. Do you have his?”

“Nope.”

“What’s his last name? Where does he live? I want to have a little chat with him. Give me his full name and location; I can get his phone number.”

“Henry, no. If it is him, this is just a fluke. You’re probably right; he probably did send them to fuck with us. He’s an asshole. It doesn’t matter. I’ll throw them out if they’re not from Bethany. If he wanted to get a rise out of you, then you calling him in a fit of rage is exactly what he wants. If we ignore him, he’ll go away.”

“Sends you fucking flowers without a card,” he mutters. “He knew you’d assume they were from me. This is exactly what he wanted. To make me look like an asshole.”

“You do not look like an asshole.”

“The dickhead who fucked my girlfriend over the weekend just sent her flowers. Yes, I look like an asshole.”

“If anything, I look like an asshole,” I inform him. “It’s my fault this is even an issue, not yours. Look, let’s just forget about it, okay? I’m sure they are from Bethany.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, unconvinced.

“I’m going to text her as soon as we hang up.”

“And then lie to me to try to make me feel better. No thanks.”

Sighing, I walk into the kitchen and drop the flowers into my trash can. “They’re in the garbage, all right? I don’t have a vase to put them in anyway.”

“This guy needs to be punched in the fucking face,” Henry states.

“With a hammer,” I agree.

My easy agreement seems to mollify him, and after a few more heavy sighs and death wishes for Derek, he tells me he has to go. I feel bad, but I don’t even know what to do about it. Even if the flowers are from Bethany, he won’t believe me now without proof. Hoping to get some, I text Bethany and ask if she sent me the pretty roses. I have my fingers poised to take a screenshot, but instead of giving me the proof I’m seeking, she sends back, “What pretty roses?”

So, yeah. I guess they’re from Derek.

Louise waits ever so patiently, but when I sigh and lean back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling, she says, “I think you’ve been holding out on me, boss lady.”

“Alcohol turns me into a whore,” I tell her simply. “I cheat, I lie, I ruin lives—mostly my own. It’s a long story, believe me.”

“I want to hear it. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Trust me, I did nothing admirable,” I assure her. “Anyone can be an inconsiderate, selfish asshole. It’s nothing to be impressed by.”

“And yet, you have the boyfriend sticking by you and the other man sending you flowers,” Louise states.