There was a time when being in the flower shop used to calm me. Something about the strong floral scent, the closeness I always felt to my mom, the distraction of a flower arrangement. But being here now, feeling my heart torn in half, feels a lot like nothing will put it together.

When I left Cam's that night, I didn't immediately return home. I needed to break. To feel the weight of everything I walked away from. So I drove to the beach. I let myself fall into the cold grains of sand and cried until I had nothing left, until every shattered piece of me was left raw.

I think I'm still in that sand. It's been a week since I ended it with Cam. A week of finding every excuse not to eat lunch in the cafeteria, of avoiding the warmth of his gaze. He hasn't been in chemistry, either.

My fingers graze the cool keys of the piano. It's been a welcomed escape from reality to play. There's a broken piece of my heart that aches a bit deeper every time I play. A fractured corner privy to loss, to everything this very piano represents. It was my mom's. Her place of joy. Something she left behind to bring me the warmth of her embrace even in her absence. But my need to run from everything that made me feel her void had me turning away from the one thing I needed the most.

Until him. Until Cam allowed me to play again.

And now this piano leaves a swirl of emotion in its wake. The distant connection to my mom, the emptiness of her loss, and the utter sadness of playing alone, without either of them. Despite the pain, there's still joy tucked behind every note. A memory folded into each sound, zapped to life with every key I strike.

So I play.

I press my fingers along the keys, letting the sound swallow every radiating pulse of hurt. Each and every note capturing a piece of my shattered soul.

I miss him. I miss his smile and his warmth. I miss the way he made me feel at ease, like it was okay to be me. And I miss her. I miss my mom's sweet laughter, her encouraging words, her wisdom.

A single tear falls along my cheek as I release a heavy sigh, letting my shoulders drop and my hands to lie still. The sound falls silent, my breaths the only beat.

"That was beautiful," a deep but quiet voice echoes from behind me, and I jump at the unexpected sound.

I turn to see Apollo standing in the doorway to the flower shop. His usual goofy gaze coated in something sweet and tender.

"I didn't know anyone was here," I reply.

"Please, don't stop on my account."

I glance back at the keys in front of me, reaching for my damp cheek and sliding away the evidence with the corner of my sweatshirt. When I turn back to him, I add a forced smile. "I was done for today anyway. Did you need some flowers?" I ask, standing from the small stool and making my way to the counter.

"Oh," he answers, his shuffled steps falling leisurely behind me. "I guess that would make sense, wouldn't it?"

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I turn to face him. "I guess so."

"Then yes," he states, nodding confidently. "Flowers. Do you have anything for..." He pauses to look around, scanning all the premade arrangements then shifting his perusing to the various buckets of bulk flowers.

"Apollo," I interrupt him. His gaze snaps back to mine.

"A date," he quickly answers. "I have a hot date later and I think flowers are kind of one of those impress her type gestures. I just don't know what would be considered too much and what would land in that perfect space of romantic."

"Wow. Apollo being a romantic," I tease. "Never knew you had such a soft side."

"Yeah, well, don't go telling the guys."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I smile. "Let me grab a few things and I can make a small arrangement for you. Something simple yet elegant. Not too flashy but more sweet in nature."

He smiles. "Awesome."

I go to work, letting my hands do the thinking as I reach for various pops of white and pinks, adding in subtle accents of soft yellows and sparse appearances of blue. I don't grab much, keeping the arrangement small and delicate. The whimsical appearance of freshly picked on the walk over while still elegantly pieced together.

"You're really good at this," Apollo acknowledges.

I smile, picking a few stems to shuffle within the bundle and evening out the display of color. "My mom taught me how to find the balance in it all. To let the flowers do the choosing."

"That's pretty cool. You're kind of full of surprises, Mini Coop."

I look up from the colors in front of me to find Apollo's gaze on mine. There's friendship there, a kind smile behind gentle eyes.

"Any idea what your date's favorite color is?" I ask. "I can add a small ribbon to keep it sweet and casual."

"Oh. Uh, no. We haven't talked much. It's all kind of new."

I nod, holding the flowers up against the array of ribbons. I reach for a blush pink, pulling out just enough before cutting it. Once it's set, I hold up the display, twirling it a bit for Apollo to inspect.

"That's perfect," he nods, reaching for his wallet.

"Please," I shrug him off. "This one's on the house. We're friends."

"You don't have to do that."

"Really, it's okay. Save your money for your date."

He nods, slowly reaching for the small bouquet. When he has it in his grasp, he hesitates. "I have a confession to make," he blurts out. "I didn't actually come here for flowers, and I don't actually have a date."

"What?"

He shuffles nervously on his feet. "I kind of pulled the short straw."

"I'm sorry. I'm confused."

He lets out a heavy breath, laying the flowers on the counter between us. "You and Camden have been MIA at lunch all week. And he's looked like shit at practice. Season is right around the corner and the team is worried. Not just about his ability to kick ass on the mound, but about him. He hasn't been himself. And since he won't talk to any of us..."

"The guys sent you here to talk to me," I finish for him, placing the puzzle pieces in their spot.

He offers a small smile. "Yeah. I'm sorry. I realize how shitty this all is."

I nod slowly. "Yeah. That's one way to put it."

"So...did something happen?" he asks. I pause, opening my mouth to answer when he jumps back in. "Shit. Don't answer that. I mean, you don't have to answer it. The truth is, you're cool, Mini Coop. And we miss having you around at lunch. I don't know what happened, but you should know you're always welcome with us."

A true smile hits me, a warmth at knowing that I've made true friends. Despite the lie Cam and I started off this year with, the friendships were real. "Thanks, Apollo. That means a lot."

"You're welcome. So, um..."

"We broke up," I admit, letting the icy edges of the words scratch my throat on their way out. "Can that be enough?"

He lets out a breath with an understanding nod. "Yeah. That's enough."

I return the small gesture, offering a nod. "Give these to someone deserving," I add, pointing to the flowers.

"Yeah," he acknowledges. "For what it's worth," he adds, picking up the flowers and turning to leave. "He came alive when you were around. I think he's always been better when you're in his hemisphere."

My heart breaks, each fragile fracture splintered deeper as I inhale.

He turns away, slowly walking toward the front of the store. As he passes the piano, he pauses. With one small movement, he drops the flowers on top and continues out of the shop.

——

As I pull into my driveway, I'm surprised to see my dad's car parked in his usual spot. I check the clock, confirming the fact that it's not even dinner time yet. I do the extra due diligence in looking back outside to take note in the fact the sun is still clinging to the painted sky.

Slowly turning off the engine and gathering my things, I head to the front door. There's a heavy weight that falls along my shoulders, a realization that I should be feeling joy in a moment like this. I should be excited my dad is here and not wondering what possible reason he might be waiting inside.

Pushing through the door, I place my bag down and pull out the small arrangement of flowers peeking from the top. I pause for a moment, bringing them to my nose and inhaling their calming scent. Keeping them close, I make my way to the kitchen. I'm not surprised to see my dad at the table, his laptop in front of him with various stacks of paper surrounding the open space around him. He's home, but he isn't truly here.

He doesn't always choose the table to work, more often than not, he's not even here. When he is, he's locked away in his office. But every so often, he moves his space here. It's oddly comforting.

"Hey, Dad," I say, walking toward the cabinet to grab a vase for the flowers.

"Hey, Bug," he answers, not pausing to look up from his screen.

Glancing at the array of vases, I land on a small one tucked in the back. Its delicately thin glass is etched in a small design, the words Life is better with flowers carved into it. My mom bought it on our roadtrip to the lake up north. It was a random gas station souvenir that she thought was fate. I remember my dad playfully rolling his eyes and telling her we didn't need yet another vase, but my mom insisted you can never have enough.

"The more vases we have, the more beauty to fill them with." She had said, her smile so convincingly charming that my dad caved.

She looked at me with victory in her eyes as she pulled me into her side and whispered, "May you find a man who loves you enough to buy you an endless supply of vases, even when you most certainly don't need them." She winked, hugging me to her side before stepping up to the register.

Since that trip, she always put this vase on the dining room table. I think my dad thought she was trying to prove a point that she did, in fact, need the vase. But I think it was something more. It was her love. Her appreciation for my dad's love. A token of what it meant to her that he cherished her quirky habit. A spotlight to showcase the beauty of their love in the very place we gathered as a family.

I pull the vase from the cupboard, taking my time to feel the cool glass along my fingers. Cautiously, I turn to the sink, letting the water wash away the remnants of dust clinging to the sides. Once it's back to its translucent glory, I dry the sides and proceed to fill it with water.

Removing the ribbon from the flowers, I place them into the vase, rearranging a few to fit perfectly in sync with their new home. Next, I wrap the ribbon around the small neck of the glass, bringing in the added pop of color. I step back, admiring the small and simple display.

For the first time since last week, I smile. It's small, its joy wrapped within the reminiscent warmth of a memory. It's not the same sense of glee I've felt these last few months. It's not the sparkly chest kind of happy I've felt in Cam's arms or the weightlessness I feel when he looks at me.

But it is happy. Something I never allowed myself to feel before Cam. He showed me that it's okay to remember my mom, to feel the pain in her absence and the joy in her memory.

I let my smile cling to more than just the memory of my mom but to the moments I got to have with Cam. He made me better. He brought back the person I tried to bury. I'm thankful for that, for him. If even for a small blip in time I got to feel like myself again, I'm thankful.

I take a breath, letting the distant hum of that warmth surround me as I bring the flowers to the table. Still encased in my bubble of a memory, I don't notice the fact that my dad has stopped typing, or that his eyes are glued to the flowers I placed on the table. I don't notice the silence swallowing the room or the way his jaw has tensed. I don't notice any of it. Not at first.

It's not until three cold words leave his mouth that I'm jolted back to the moment, to everything I've worked so hard to hold together for my family.

"What is that?" he asks, his eyes still glued to the vase.

My first instinct is to apologize, to quickly get rid of it. But Cam's eyes come across my mind, the strength of his hand in mine a distant yet warm rush across my palm.

"I thought we should have flowers in here again. It always brightened up the place. And mom would have loved them," I add.

It's at those last set of words that his eyes fly to mine. I expect to see a trace of anger, of disbelief. But there is none. There's only sadness, a veil of mist coating them. He runs a hand down his face, tugging at his chin as he takes a heavy gulp.

I don't expect the calm in his next question, or the smile that hides at the corner of his mouth when he says, "She would have, wouldn't she?"

I smile back, feeling my chest rise with hope. "Yeah. She would have."

He looks back at the arrangement, his own memory playing across his eyes. Slowly, he reaches for his laptop, gently closes it, and stands from his spot at the table. In two strides his arms are wrapped around me, pulling me into his chest.

"Thank you, Bug," he whispers.

And it's at this moment I realize that maybe we never needed to hide from the memory of my mom. Maybe we never needed to cover our pain. Maybe we needed to feel it. Maybe we need to live it.