Unless it’s Mother’s Day weekend, Bruce has yet to fully grasp the sad and incredibly slow pace that is kept on the weekends.
Well, either that or he simply doesn’t care.
He is obstinate in keeping a full staff scheduled, even though he knows we’ll mostly be twiddling our thumbs. Hell, one of our regular delivery drivers, Stan, is here with nothing to do. He finished all of his deliveries before eleven this morning, and now he’s just sitting outside on our back patio—where all the staff takes breaks in the spring and summer months—and talking to his girlfriend while chain-smoking cigarettes.
Martha and Rosaline, two of our back room staff members, have cut more bouquets than we need, and I went ahead and told them to take a long lunch. What Bruce doesn’t know won’t kill him.
For most of the morning, I focused on cleaning up the shop. Dusting, sweeping, wiping down everything with a surface. But once I smelled like bleach and even the walls were fucking shining, I gave up the good fight on trying to stay busy and plopped myself down behind the counter to suffer through the monotony by browsing social media and looking at YouTube videos of jumping goats and mischievous puppies.
The things we do for boredom.
YouTube no longer a suitable distraction, I pull up my Kindle app and dive back into my current read—The Other Side by Kim Holden. I’ve been a fan of hers since I read Bright Side, and only a few chapters in, I’m certain this book is going to be the beautiful, emotional, addictive ride I’ve come to expect with any of her books. She is just one of those authors who holds the power to tear you to shreds, and yet, by the time you reach “The End,” she’s put you back together again in the most awe-inspiring, life-changing way.
Seriously. It took me three years to not think about Kate from Bright Side on a daily basis.
Ten more pages in and I’m hooked. Riveted.
Until my phone dings with a sound that I’ve come to learn is TapNext.
I pick it up to find a message from Jess—my date from last night.
Showcasing blondish-colored hair, dark brown eyes, and a one-dimple smile, his profile picture stares back at me as I read his message.
@NotYourUncleJess-E: Just wanted to say I had fun last night and hope we can meet up again soon.
Have. Mercy.
Fun last night? Were we even on the same date?
By the time I located my correct date, the night didn’t exactly go swimmingly.
When it comes down to it, Uncle Jesse and I didn’t jive.
When I zigged, he zagged.
When I laughed at our server’s silly joke about meatballs, he stared at me like I’d lost my mind.
And when he cracked himself up over a vulgar story about his friend losing his credit card while trying to swipe a stripper’s breasts, it was my turn to question his mental stability.
And it wasn’t that hearing about him and his buddies being at a strip club bothered me, it was more the way he commented about the woman’s appearance. And I’m not talking nice compliments here. By the end of his stupid story, I knew the exact locations of Lacey Lou’s cellulite and stretch marks.
You’d think Jess was some kind of perfect specimen without any flaws, but obviously, that’s not the case. No one is perfect. Jess is a bit of an egotistical prick. And I guarantee Lacey Lou is damn beautiful in all of her stripper glory, cellulite and stretch marks and all.
The rest of the evening stayed smack-dab in the middle of awkward. I spilled marinara sauce on my white blouse. And when he asked me if I wanted to head to a bar to continue the night, I made up some lame excuse about having to be at work in the morning.
Technically, I wasn’t lying. I mean, I am at work today, but it wasn’t even nine o’clock by that point in the evening. Unless I was a seventy-year-old woman who calls it a night before the evening news, I was one hundred percent exaggerating my usual bedtime.
Needless to say, it was a sad, sad dating experience, and I’d rather strip with Lacey Lou than repeat a date with Uncle Jesse.
Instead of messaging him back, I click out of the app and call the one person who needs to hear what went down.
Lena answers on the second ring.
“I was literally just about to call you.”
I grin. “Is that so?”
“Of course, girl,” she responds. “I need to hear about your date last night.”
“There is nothing to hear.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jess is literally not worth talking about,” I comment.
“That bad?”
“I was home by nine.”
A laugh fills my ear. “That’s never good.”
“Tell me about it,” I mutter and pick at a few pieces of lint on my jean shorts. “I don’t care what you say, I refuse to go on another date with that man.”