And—think of the devil—I have a few texts from Warren.
–Warren: Sorry about the publicity. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.
More like he didn’t mean to embarrass himself. Wonder what his people think about the picture. Nothing good, I imagine.
–Warren: I didn’t realize there was a photographer around. But don’t worry. If anyone tries to slander you, I’ll take care of it.
How? By blocking everyone from the Internet?
–Warren: By the way, don’t you think it’s time we think more seriously about our future? We’re older and more mature now.
I shake my head. He hasn’t changed. There’s no “our” future. Just his future. I still haven’t forgotten the way he spent an hour talking about his vision on our first date. It was worse than a pop quiz in algebra. At least those are short.
The door to David’s office opens, and he walks out with a gold and silver box in his hand. “By the way, Erin. This is for you.”
I take the box. It’s chocolate from a fancy chocolatier whose commercials I’ve seen a few times on TV. Surprised, I flip through my mental calendar, wondering if it’s some special date I forgot about, but nope. Today’s just an ordinary Monday.
“What’s this for?” I ask.
David hesitates for a second. “For helping out on Saturday.”
He’s so sweet. I smile. “Thank you, but you didn’t have to. It was my pleasure.”
He nods and starts to turn.
Then he pauses, turning his head. I crane my neck in the direction he’s looking. A uniformed man is carrying a truly gigantic bouquet of red roses in a vase. It’s so big that half the people in the office are staring with speculation and envy.
“Somebody’s going to
be happy today,” I say neutrally. The sender could’ve done better than red roses, though. They’re just so clichéd, the first thing people think of when they buy flowers for someone. Dad used to get them for Mom when he needed to portray himself as a caring, loving husband without involving much thought or effort.
“Yeah, I guess…”
David trails off as the delivery guy stops in front of us and looks down at the small plaque on my desk.
“So you’re Erin Clare?” the man says.
Uh-oh. “Yes.”
“For you.” He places the vase on my desk.
“Me?”
David’s eyebrows go up.
“Can you sign?” The delivery guy hands me a mini tablet. I scribble my name with the tip of my index finger without making a face. It isn’t his fault that I don’t like red roses.
He rushes out. Probably has other flowers to dispense around the city.
I stare at the crystal vase. There have to be at least a hundred blossoms, spreading out like a deep red oak tree. They’re talking up more than half my workspace, and everyone around me is staring. Some are even half up from their seats to get a better look. Who could ignore a floral arrangement this large and obnoxious?
Damn Warren. He’s the only one who could’ve sent these—red roses are his signature. He likes things classic and inoffensive, but seemingly thoughtful at the same time. He seems to have forgotten that flowers are a thoughtless and wasteful gift to send to someone who can’t appreciate their fragrance. Plus, I hate red roses with a passion because they remind me of how Dad treated Mom.
Besides, the size of the bouquet says so much. This isn’t an overflowing cornucopia of contrite friendliness. It’s Warren whipping his dick out to show everyone how impressive it is. Given that he could’ve easily gotten my address from Dad, I’m certain he sent the flowers to me here at work on purpose. To taunt David.
Bastard. Again, all about what he wants, nothing about what I want. I would’ve preferred cash so I could treat myself to a nice pedicure.
“You aren’t going to read the card?” David asks.