Story #1 - Pressed Flowers

Hello, all! I bring my very first short story!!! I looked it over, but if you spot any typos in it, please tell me. I'd really appreciate constructive critcism on this, especially because it's my first story. Even if it's not constructive, I'd love it if you could leave a comment and let me know what you think. :) I wouldn't say it's my best work, but I'm pretty pleased with it. Oh, and coming up with titles is not my strong suit, so if anyone has a better title, please let me know. Summaries are not my strong suit either, I apologize for that!

Title: Pressed Flowers
Warnings: Very slight bad language
Summary: Sophie hasn't seen Brian for twelve years. But that will soon change when they randomly meet in San Francisco.
Length: ~ 4,200 words
Notes: First person point of view, present tense. Genre is drama.

Click on the link below this to read the story. Happy reading!

Pressed Flowers

“That’s the third time you’ve picked at that thread in the past minute, Sophie. What’s wrong?”

             I sit up straight and put my hands underneath my legs, barely stifling a sigh. I can’t hide anything from Luisa. But that doesn’t mean I can’t try.

            “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just restless, that’s all.”

            Luisa crosses my apartment in a few quick strides, leaving the apple she was washing on my kitchen counter. That’s probably for the best – Luisa can’t even boil water, much less make an apple turnover. She sits down next to me on my threadbare couch. I look down at my bare toes as the couch dips underneath her weight. I can’t meet her gaze.

            “You can tell me,” she says. “I won’t blab or anything.”

            I risk a quick glance and a smile. “I know you won’t.” She’s a good friend.

            “There!” Luisa exclaims, jabbing her finger into the air enthusiastically. I grimace as she moves the entire couch. “You just admitted there’s something wrong!”

            I realize that I’ve started pulling the thread again and re-tuck my hands under my legs. “How did I admit something was wrong?”

            Luisa grins smugly. “You said you know I won’t blab.”

            I’m really not understanding the significance here. “That’s because there’s nothing to blab about.”

            Luisa groans. “Sophie! I’m being serious here! Please, I want to help.”

            “I know you do.” That’s all I say. That’s all I’m going to say. This isn’t her problem. This isn’t her cross to bear.

            Unfortunately, as I said before, I can’t hide anything from Luisa. She knows exactly how to wear me down – persistence, persistence, and persistence. Use my own medicine against me.

            “C’mon, Soph. C’mon. C’mon, Soph, c’mon.”

            She could make a song out of this.

            “C’mon, Soph, c’mon, c’mon, Soph come oooon, la di da di da…”

            She is making a song out of this.

            “Oh, tell me Sophie, oh, tell me Sophie, don’t keep it all to yourself…ie…”

            “Fine!” I shout. Luisa falls silent (thank God). “I’ll tell.”

            This whole thing has become so overblown that I feel kind of silly finally admitting why I’m anxious. Talk about making mountains out of molehills. “Brian and I agreed to meet at three pm.”

            I can see Luisa glancing at the clock out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t bother to look. I know what time it is. I’ve been watching the clock ever since we – well, I – decided to meet.

            It’s six pm now. He’s three hours late, if he’s coming at all. (He’s not going to come.)

            “Oh,” Luisa says.

            “Yeah, oh,” I echo.

            We sit there for a little while, Luisa staring at the clock, me pulling at the thread.

            At 6:03, Luisa says, “I’m sorry.”

            I look at my friend. Her earnest, tan face, her wide brown eyes framed by too-old glasses. I stand.

            “I don’t know why I deluded myself into thinking he’d come in the first place,” I say.

“Let’s see,” I say, quickly typing in the prices into the cash register. The tapping noise is soothing and I already feel a little better, more in my element. “That’ll be $8.67.”

            The customer – a small, balding man maybe in his mid-40s – hands me a ten dollar bill. As I work out the change, I ask him, “Is this for any special occasion?”

            It can be awkward if you make assumptions about customers. I learned that early on as a florist. It’s best to just ask a broad question instead of prattling on about how the “lady friend” will surely enjoy the flowers or something. But customers like it when you show an interest in them.

            Sure enough, the man smiles. “It’s for my little sister,” he explains. “It’s her birthday today.”

            “Oh,” I manage through a suddenly dry mouth. I could really use the water in that watering can next to me right now. “Well, I’m sure she’ll love these flowers. Roses are wonderful for every occasion. Right… here’s your change. $1.33.”

            “Thank you,” the man says with another smile. He drops his change into the tip jar and walks out the door.

That was sweet of him. To tip me, I mean.

            I hope he and his sister have a wonderful time.

            “Sophie,” Christian, another employee, calls, waving me over. I signal to Maria to take over the register and walk toward him.

            “What’s up?” I ask when I reach him. My throat still feels a little dry.

            “Are you alright?” Christian’s dark eyes peer at me from beneath his heavy brows.

            I sigh. “Am I really that transparent?” I grin weakly.

Before he can inquire further (and this situation gets to Luisa-like proportions once again), I say, “Don’t worry. It’s nothing. I just – I saw Brian yesterday, and it kind of shook me up.”

Christian’s caterpillar-like eyebrows crawl closer to his eyes, and I can spot the beginnings of a frown forming on his face. He looks more confused than anything else. I don’t think he remembers who Brian is. I don’t blame him – it’s not like I talk about Brian much. Or at all.

“My brother,” I explain. It’s kind of embarrassing how my voice cracks when I say those two words.

Christian’s eyes light up with that universal “I remember” spark. But then he seems to also remember the situation and his eyes darken again.

“I’m sorry, Sophie,” he says gently.

I just nod. There’s no use in telling him the whole truth (that we were going to meet yesterday), because nothing came out of the meeting anyway. If Brian had come, then that would’ve been noteworthy. But he didn’t. That’s nothing new, nothing worth talking about, nothing worth stressing or crying over. I didn’t expect him to come, anyway, hell, maybe I didn’t even want him to come.

Yeah, keep tellin’ yourself that, Sophie, I think as Christian walks away.

I’m trying to figure out my Algebra homework (“Evaluate: b + x², where b = -2 and x = p + 1”) when my parents call us into the living room. I wonder what’s going on. I’ve noticed that something’s been… off around the house lately, but no one has bothered to tell me what’s wrong. I set down my pencil and head toward my parents. Brian’s heading in the same direction, coming in from his room. I glance at him as we walk over, trying to gauge how much I should be worrying (or if I should worry at all). Brian always knows what to do and what’s happening. But he doesn’t look at me.

We sit down in separate chairs, facing our parents. Mom and Dad are both on the loveseat, but they’re sitting on opposite ends like the other stinks something awful.

Mom leans forward and looks at each of us in turn. Did we do something wrong? I open my mouth to ask, but then she starts speaking. And what she says is enough to leave me speechless.

“Sophie, Brian… your dad and I are getting a divorce.”

What?

“What?” Brian says what I can’t.

“We’re sorry. We tried to work out our differences for the two of you but…”

My hearing is overtaken by a roaring white noise. Mom and Dad are getting a divorce? I knew something was up, but I would never have imagined that. Yes, they’ve been arguing a lot lately, but I thought that was just what couples did. This can’t be happening.

“What’s going to happen to us?” I ask faintly. The room seems to be spinning and I’m glad I’m already sitting down. I don’t think my legs could support me right now.

Dad jumps in this time. “You two are going to live with me now. Your mother thought  – you’ll get to see your mother once a month. I know this seems hard and sudden and unfair,, but you’ll get used to it and before you know it –”

Brian stands up from his chair. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something but stops. There’s a frozen moment where we all hold our breaths. I feel like we’re at the edge or something, or maybe at the top, and there’s only one way to go – down.

Brian runs out of the room and time unfreezes. Mom and Dad exchange glances (do divorced couples do that? Surely they can work things out). I don’t know whether to follow Brian or stay here.

But what does that matter? My parents are getting divorced. I’m not going to see my mom except once a month.

And to think just a few minutes ago I was worrying about an Algebra problem.

It’s been a long day at Roses and More and it’s almost the evening now. The jingle of my keys as I let myself into the apartment causes my head to pound. I love being a florist, but sometimes being around all those flowers, no matter how good they smell, overstimulates my sense and gives me a headache.

I close the door behind me and toss the keys on the counter. Thankfully, I have some Advil nearby. I take some and then sit down on my couch, closing my eyes.

I don’t know what to do with myself tonight. I’d call Luisa, just for someone to pass the time with, but she’s out with Marc. Besides, I don’t want to bother her with my problems.

It’s times like these when I wish I had a pet. Or a boyfriend. Just someone else in this apartment so it’s not just me alone with my thoughts and my headache and my disappointment.

I think what really frustrates me about this whole… situation (why do I keep calling it that?) is that I thought I had buried this years ago. I honestly haven’t thought about Brian much in the past years. Why would I? I’m happy here and he’s just a bad memory.

But then he had to show up in my shop, buying flowers. I didn’t even get to ask him who they were for before he made a run for it… again.

He has no right to come back into my life. I’ll bet he knew that was my shop. He probably wanted to see me and then chickened out when he actually got the chance. He should have steered clear of me so I that could’ve kept on being happy. Now the “what ifs” are just going to haunt me like I’m twelve again.

He doesn’t even know anything about my life, about me. He doesn’t care that I idolized him when I was a kid. He never cared. He doesn’t know that Dad died or that Mom got sick or that I had to drop out of college to take care of her.

I exhale loudly and open my eyes. I’ve gotten myself all worked up now and I can’t stay still. I’ve started biting my nails and I stop with a massive effort of will, tapping my fingers on my thighs instead.

I feel a little better now, headache-wise. I definitely feel well enough to cook something. Cooking always calms me down.

What should I eat for dinner? I could have pasta, but I feel like I eat that every day. Maybe I’ll make a Danish pastry just for the hell of it. Mom used to make those all the time; they were Brian’s favorite –

Ugh! Pasta it is, then. Now, should I have spaghetti or –

Oh! The phone’s ringing. I quickly cross the kitchen to pick it up.

“Hello?” I answer.

There’s a pause, and then – “Sophie?”

My throat’s gone dry again, and suddenly my legs feel weak. Sitting down in the middle of my kitchen floor, I reply, “Brian?”

It’s midnight on the same day that our parents told us they were getting a divorce, and I can’t sleep. After a few hours of tossing and turning, I push back the covers and sit up. I need to talk to Brian. He’s going through the same thing I am right now, and he’ll know what to do.

I know he said not to visit him unless he allows it, but this is a special occasion.

I carefully pad out of my room and head left toward Brian’s. I never realized before how big our house is. It’s hard to tiptoe quietly all the way to Brian’s room.

I guess we’re going to have to move when we go live with Dad. Or maybe Mom will have to move out, but that seems strange. Who am I kidding? This whole situation is strange.

Quietly, I knock on the door. To my surprise, Brian opens it within a few seconds.

“What is it?” he whispers. He doesn’t look mad at me for breaking his rule. I almost smile.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Okay.”

A bit later we’re sitting cross-legged on Brian’s floor facing each other. He hasn’t let me into his room for ages. This is almost more noteworthy than our parents getting divorced. Oh, about that…

“What are we going to do?” I ask my brother.

Brian’s brown eyes look black in the semi-darkness. He shakes his head slowly, biting his lip. “I don’t know,” he says. “But I do know one thing – there’s no way I can live with our father. Not now, not ever.”

“Why not?”

“C’mon, Soph!” Brian says exasperatedly. “He hates me!”

“He does not! Why do you think that?”

“I don’t think it, I know it. It’s just, the way he looks at me, the things he says – you wouldn’t understand. You’re only twelve.”

I glare at my brother. “You’re only sixteen!”

“Yeah, but I know what I can’t do. And I can’t live with someone who hates me.”

I bite my fingernail. I can tell that I can’t convince Brian that Dad doesn’t hate him. Once Brian’s got his mind on something it’s impossible to change it. “Then what are you going to do?” I ask.

Brian shrugs, but then he looks away, a hard, jerky movement that screams I’m hiding something. I blink away tears I didn’t even realize I had and repeat loudly, “What are you going to DO?”

What I mean is, what am I going to do. But I can’t say that.

“Whatever I’m going to do is none of your business. You can’t come. You’d just slow me down.”

“I can’t come WHERE?” I wail.

“Shh,” Brian hisses, and is it just my imagination, or are his eyes brighter than normal? “You have to go back to bed, Sophie. I’ll see you in the morning.”

I nod and sniff, wiping my nose. I slowly trudge out of Brian’s room, glancing back at his familiar face. I look back just in time to see him shut the door.

In the morning, Brian’s gone.

He left a note. All it says is:

Sorry. Couldn’t do it. Don’t follow me. – Brian

“Brian?” I repeat, clutching the phone with white fingers. I can’t believe this.

“Hey.”

“How’d – how’d you get this number?”

“It was in the phonebook. It wasn’t very smart of you to use your personal number for your business.”

That snaps me out of my shocked state. “Oh, so now you’re going to –”

“No, listen!” Brian sounds… frantic. Desperate. Or maybe that’s just the phone static. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to – listen, can we meet up?”

“What? Now?”

“Yeah.”

“You have got to be kidding me. Where were you yesterday? We were supposed to meet at –”

“Yeah, I know we were. I’m sorry. I was just a little freaked and – I need to talk to you.”

If he interrupts me one more time I might just go ballistic.

“Fine. When?”

“Is tonight okay?”

“What, like right now?”

“Yeah.”

This is all happening way too fast. But what can I do? “Okay,” I say.

“Okay,” my brother echoes.

I hang up. Sit, stare.

Is this really happening?

“Those are beautiful flowers, ma’am,” I say with a smile as the elderly lady brings them to the counter. “What’s the occasion?”

“They’re for Papa,” a little girl who I didn’t see at first pipes up in a high, clear voice. “He’s getting married tomorrow.”

“Oh, well congratulations to your papa!” I say while I type in the price on the cash register. “That’ll be $5.50.”

As the lady hands me the money, I spot another customer just standing there in the aisle. He’s tall, with pale skin but dark brown hair. He’s wearing a leather jacket and looks out of place among the roses and tulips and lilies. He also looks really familiar. Do I know him? I have a bad feeling about this… like I’m missing something or forgetting something. But what?

“Excuse me,” the little girl says. I drag my gaze away from the other customer and re-focus on the customers in front of me. “Can we have the flowers now, please?” asks the girl.

“Sorry,” I mutter, handing the flowers over. I glance again at the customer. I meet his eyes for a brief moment before he looks away. Those eyes – could it be? “Have a nice day,” I mumble.

The lady and the girl walk away, crossing in front of me and blocking the stranger from view. When they pass through, the man is gone. He must have gone outside.

“Maria,” I call. “Staff the register for me for a while, okay?”

I wait for her nod of consent and then quickly walk out the back door of Roses and More. I can see the familiar stranger hurrying down the street like the devil’s chasing him. For a moment, I dismiss my strange feeling as intuition that he stole something, but who steals flowers? No, I feel funny about this for another reason entirely.

I know this guy.

“Excuse me!” I call, racing to catch up with him, probably ridiculous in my boots. But this is San Francisco, and no one pays any mind to me. “Excuse me, sir, you forgot something!”

The man stops and turns around. I skid to a stop and stand, panting. We’re close enough to touch and I’m sure of it now – a sharp nose, a scar on his cheek from when our cat scratched him – “Brian?” I say.

He starts backing away from me, shaking his head, and I think for a moment that he’s going to try to deny it. But instead he says, “Sophie.”

His voice hasn’t changed at all in twelve years.

“Brian!” I gasp. “What are you – I can’t believe – Mom and Dad thought that you’d died! We need to talk!”

Brian nods a few times in quick succession, but he’s still backing away. He’s going to run, again. I can tell. “I can’t – not right now. I have to go to a conference.”

“Are you free at three pm today?” I call, taking a few steps forward for his every step back. I can’t believe I’m finally seeing my brother again. The only thing I feel now is cold. Complete shock is freezing.

“Yeah,” Brian replies, still walking backward, ignoring the people behind him jumping out of his way. “I gotta go – it was – I thought –” He turns around, then, and literally runs away.

I sink down to my haunches right there in the middle of the sidewalk, breathing harshly. “Oh my God,” I whisper, bringing shaking hands to my mouth. “Oh my God.”

Golden Gate Park is nearly pitch black when I arrive. I’d forgotten how fast it gets dark in the winter. I wander over to a bench lit by a lamppost, wondering how Brian’s going to find me. It’s not like we have anything like “the bench where we used to feed the ducks” or anything here because  a) we didn’t grow up in San Francisco b) we haven’t really talked for twelve years and c) we never fed ducks.

The plant life here is just beautiful. I can smell roses, tulips, and daffodils, along with many other flowers that I can’t place. The breeze ruffles my hair playfully, and I start to think that maybe this is all right. Then I see Brian walking up.

He looks the way he looked when I saw him yesterday. Tall, with gelled brown hair, brown eyes, and a ridiculous leather jacket. I’ve had the image of my brother as he looked when he was sixteen in my head for so long that it’s weird to see him suddenly grown up.

He sits down next to me on the wooden bench. I scoot over a little and turn to face him. He smiles.

“Hey, Sophie.”

“Brian.” I shake my head. “What are you doing here? What are we doing here?”

“Well, it’s been a while since we’ve talked, and –”

“A while? It’s been twelve years! You ran away and you didn’t contact anyone, you could’ve been dead for all we knew, Mom and Dad thought you were dead, they were devastated, both of them, and you were selfish and stupid and WHY DIDN’T YOU TAKE ME WITH YOU?!?”

I’m screaming by the end of it, nearly sobbing, and my dignity has flown out the window, but I don’t care. I finally had the chance to say what I’ve needed to say since Brian ran away. Still, I turn away, wiping my eyes, grateful for the darkness.

When I look back at Brian, he’s just sitting there, ramrod straight with his hands on his knees. Eventually, he says, “I’m a doctor now. A surgeon. I live in New York.”

I stay quiet and wait for him to get to the point. I remember that sometimes with Brian it was as if you were approaching a wild animal – tread carefully, be quiet, don’t make any sudden movements. Wait for him to come to you.

Sure enough, Brian turns to me, his face twisted in anguish. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and says, “I thought you were dead.”

            I shake my head, stand up, and start pacing in front of the bench. This is too much to take in. “You thought I was – how’d you get that idea?”

            Brian shrugs helplessly and stands up too. “I think – I heard it from someone, I don’t know who, they said they knew you…”

            “And you didn’t bother to try to contact Mom or Dad or me to see if it was true?”

            “How could I?” Brian runs a hand through his hair, leaving his perfectly gelled spikes in disarray. “I ran away from home. I wasn’t about to contact them again. Besides, I didn’t have their numbers.”

            “Yeah, but you found my number.”

            “That was… that was different.”

            “How? Please tell me, Brian, because I’d really like to know.”

            Brian sighs. “Can you imagine how surprised I was when I saw you in that shop? Put yourself in my shoes for a moment. It was like you’d come back to life. I’m sorry that I didn’t meet you at three like you agreed, but I was… I don’t know, in shock or something.”

            “No, Brian,” I say quietly, finally stopping my pacing and sitting back down. Brian joins me. “You were scared. And you ran away, because that’s what you do when you’re afraid.”

            Brian looks down at the ground. His silhouette is outlined by the lamplight, a lone and defeated figure. I look down too.

            “I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have said that. But maybe you should try to put yourself in my shoes. My brother runs away without telling me, leaves me all alone, and then pops up twelve years later. I was shocked too. But I shouldn’t have said that.”

            “No, it’s okay,” Brian replies. He’s staring forward now, at the dark, glistening lake. In the lake, it’s hard to tell which rippling circle is the reflection of the moon and which is the reflection of the lamplight. “I deserved that. I should’ve talked to you sooner. Hell, I shouldn’t have believed whoever it was that told me you were dead. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

            I smile and reach over, putting my hand on his knee. He inhales sharply and looks at me with big eyes. “I think we’ve both made plenty of mistakes.”

            “Yeah,” Brian whispers. “And listen, I didn’t take you with me because – well, because you were twelve and it was dangerous, because I didn’t want you to get hurt, because you would be fine with Dad, because I always knew you’d turn out better than me… There were a lot of reasons. I was afraid that if I told you why, if I told you that I was running away, you would have tried to stop me.”

            “I would have,” I reply cooly, but I’m losing my façade of distance. This is my brother, and he’s back, and he’s answering my questions. He wants to fix this, fix us, and be a family again. How can I say no to that?  

            I pull him into a hug. He’s warm and there and real, and he’s hugging me back. For the first time in a while, I feel truly safe.

            When we pull apart, we just sit there and grin at each other for a while. The night smells of forgiveness and new beginnings.

            “How long have you been in San Francisco?” I ask him.

            “Not long,” Brian responds. “I just got here yesterday morning, and I’m staying ‘till the end of the week.”

            “Come on,” I say, standing up, taking him by the hand, and dragging him off his feet. “I want to show you everything.”

THE END