Walk of Shame (Love Unexpectedly 4)

Heaving the arrangement onto the counter, I smile even wider as I take in the sheer impressiveness of the arrangement. It’s mostly pink roses and lilies, but some flower genius has mixed in white tulips and mums to keep it feeling fresh and unexpected.

The best part, though, is little sprigs of silver sparkle and rhinestones. The whole bouquet is very, well…Georgie.

I begin digging around for a card, wondering which of the florists I called and spoke with today has the rather impressive marketing approach of sending a sample product to the woman who’ll be making the decisions on flowers for a big fundraiser, a job that will be worth thousands of dollars.

I finally find the envelope, but the discreet lavender logo of the card isn’t one that I recognize. Odd.

I fish out the small ivory card and read what’s written there.

Then I read it again.

Perfectly ridiculous.

There’s just those two words. No name, but then, I don’t need one. The ridiculous is a calling card of sorts.

Although it’s not the ridiculous that has me smiling a little bit. It’s the perfectly.

Perfectly ridiculous.

There are two ways to read that. Perfectly ridiculous as in the most perfect example of ridiculous. Could not be more ridiculous.

Knowing Andrew Mulroney, that’s a possible interpretation. Probable, even.

But there’s another interpretation that I like far better: perfectly ridiculous as in perfect in its ridiculousness.

Because the flowers are exactly that. The arrangement is wonderfully frivolous.

Just like me?

I mean, I like to think so. But does he?

Hmm.

Which is it?

I’m so busy overanalyzing the two words that I belatedly notice that there’s a phone number at the bottom. I skipped it at first, assuming it was the florist’s number, but it’s handwritten, and different from the phone number that’s beneath the florist’s logo and address on the back of the card.

I tap the card against my bottom lip as I study the sparkling, ostentatious bouquet, my smile growing wider all the time.

As far as apologies go…

Well, is it one?

There’s no sorry. There’s certainly not nearly enough groveling, considering he callously insulted my intellect.

And yet this gesture feels sort of perfectly…us.

I retrieve my phone and consider texting him (no, I’m not going to call him; this isn’t the nineties), but…

What to say?

Thank you is too obvious to a man who can’t say sorry.

And I can’t say, All good! Because I’m not sure it is all good. Not quite yet.

In the end, I decide not to text him at all.

I’ve got something better in mind.