Mind Blind AU: The Hallmark Edition

                When customers first walked into La Petite Paquerette, it took them several seconds to realize that they were no longer outside. The small shop’s interior resembled not so much a store as it did a secret garden, with only the occasional glimpse of walls peeking through the hanging plants and shelves filled with vibrant bouquets. Many customers never noticed these glimpses of red brick, however, given that their eyes often fluttered closed upon entry into the shop, so as better to experience the heady, honey-rich aroma of flowers (the store owner kept a pot of deep purple heliotrope by the front door, to greet those entering with its sweet, almost cherry pie, scent).

                The proprietor was a man whose rigid posture and stern disposition was more suited to a military general than an owner of a general store, which La Petite Paquerette had once been half a century ago before its previous owner had converted it into a flower shop. No one in town knew the current owner’s first name: he was only called “Mr. Kim,” or simply “Kim” by those without proper manners. It wasn’t just his name that was a mystery. No one knew anything about Mr. Kim beyond the fact that he was a florist and possessed an almost mystical insight into his customers’ needs and desires. He asked questions like a detective: what colors their partner wore, their favorite season. For each answer, he’d select a different flower, the end result a bouquet uniquely and perfectly suited to its ultimate recipient. Rather than duration or exclusivity, everyone in town agreed that a relationship could only be considered to be truly serious after one partner paid a visit to La Petite Paquerette.

                You’d long ago given up on receiving a bouquet from La Petite Paquerette. At this point in your life, your primary fantasy involved burning La Petite Paquerette to the ground. Each time one of your friends received a wrapped bouquet from their partner, you grieved the loss of another Friday Night Trivia Team member, until eventually only one member remained who was regularly available to answer pop culture questions over at Nick’s Pizza Parlor. (To clarify: it was you. The only person not busy with date nights or children was you. You and your friends still hung out occasionally, of course, but they no longer had time in their busy schedules for impromptu road trips to Wisconsin in search of farm-fresh cheese curds.)

                “That’s what happens when people grow up, Button,” Nick said sympathetically as you collected your weekly free pizza voucher from him at a trivia night where you’d been a team of one. “They get busy.”

                Your only salvation was Sally. Although your shared friend group had once banned her from trivia group on grounds that she got too competitive, you unanimously voted (by yourself) to allow her back on the team after everyone else cancelled at the last minute for the third time in a row. Sally made her triumphant return to jeopardy night . . . which ended with her and Nick shouting at each other due to Sally’s insistence that Mauna Kea, not Mount Everest, was the tallest mountain on earth since Nick hadn’t specified that height began at sea level.

                When Nick apologized, he did so with a bouquet from La Petite Paquerette. Ten months and one ceremony later, Sally could no longer join your trivia team on grounds that she helped your brother come up with the questions.

                As far as you were concerned, any plant originating from that cursed flower shop was a harbinger of doom. This was confirmed the night that Nick and Sally invited you and your parents over to celebrate their one-year anniversary. In the middle of the dining room table sat a glorious bouquet of sunflowers and blue irises. The arrangement was cheery yet elegant, and you knew the instant that you laid eyes on it that something terrible was about to happen.

                “Nick picked it up for me from La Petite Paquerette,” Sally said, noticing the way that you were side-eying the centerpiece.

                After dinner, Nick and Sally announced that they were temporarily relocating to Denver in order to expand the Nick’s Pizza Parlor franchise.

                “How long is ‘temporarily’?” you asked.

                “Two years at most,” Nick replied. “We found a three bedroom for rent, so you’re welcome to visit anytime!”

                You forced a smile, congratulated them, and internally wailed as the final nail on your social life’s coffin was driven home. It’s not as if you lived in Chicago, after all. This was a small town with limited options—maybe you should relocate somewhere yourself. Somewhere fun and sunny, like Italy or Thailand.

                Finland, you decided later at home after your third glass of wine. Or Iceland. You didn’t know much about either country, but you wanted someplace that you could wear your cute sweater collection.

                One hours and two more glasses of wine later, you’d settled on either Switzerland or Japan. Possibly Brazil.

                After researching the visa process for relocating to any of those countries (and having another half glass of wine), you decided that it would probably be too difficult to move abroad and that you were instead trapped forever and ever and ever in your too-small, suffocating hometown where everyone was married and settled and no one ever wanted to have fun anymore. Furthermore, you deduced that your predicament was all La Petite Paquerette’s fault.

                “It’s those curshed flowers,” you slurred, glaring out the window of your living room. To add insult to injury, the floral shop was right across the street, its fairy-light encircled windows and adorable polka dot pots taunting you and your eternal solitude.

                Hold up. You pressed your nose against the windowpane, squinting. Beyond floral shop’s interior lights were off. The owner must’ve gone home.

                And you had half a carton of eggs in the refrigerator.

                Without thinking (thought isn’t something that occurs after drinking an entire bottle of wine by yourself), you rushed to the kitchen.

                “This one ish for Talia’s baby ruining our Vegas trip!”

                Your first throw fell short of La Petite Paquerette’s entrance; the second, you threw too far left and it landed in the hedge. The third egg, however, exploded against the wall with a satisfying splat, bits of white eggshell sticking to the red brick. You only had three more eggs—you needed to make them count.

                The second hit the window, egg white dripping down the previously spotless glass.

                “That’s for Caleb and Stephanie leaving the trivia team!”

                The third egg knocked over an empty pot.

                “For Kent’s kids constantly cancelling book club!”

                One last egg, cold and smooth in the palm of your hand. You wound up your arm, infusing all the accumulated resentment that had gathered over the years due to everyone else changing while your life remained stagnant.

                “And this is for Nick and Sally!” you hollered at the cloudy night sky, no longer caring if you woke the neighbors (Or about the possibility of getting arrested. Liquor is magical like that.).

                The last egg soared through the dark like a shooting star empowered by your drunken, belligerent rage. It hit the broad chest of La Petite Paquerette’s owner, who had opened the front door at just the wrong time. Golden yolk stained his white t-shirt like blood blossoming from a wound.

                “Wiseman?”

                You froze, the empty egg carton in your hand testifying to your guilt even if Kim hadn’t just witnessed you chuck an egg at his chest.

                “What’re you doing here?” you demanded.

                You couldn’t make out Kim’s expression in the darkness, but he did actually deign to answer your question. “Sometimes I sleep on the couch if I end up working late.” He took a step closer to you. “Why are you vandalizing my store, pray tell?”

                “I’m not vandalizing anything!” you refuted, offended. “I’m egging it.”

                “My mistake,” Kim said sarcastically. “Why are you egging my shop?”

                “Because your flowers are ruining my life!”

                Kim heaved an exasperated sigh. “Wiseman, are you drunk?”

                “Yesh.”

                Kim sighed again. “You can clean this up in the morning. For now, let’s get you back home.” He came closer to you, hand outstretched as if to offer assistance.

                You scowled at him. You might be a little bit tipsy, but your balance was fine, and you were more than capable of—

                You woke to an unfamiliar ceiling and a stiff back. You struggled upright, only for your pounding headache to immediately chastise you for the movement.

                “You’re finally awake,” said a deep, irritated voice. “Drink.”

                A warm mug was thrust into your hands, and you gazed suspiciously at the pale green liquid. Where those bean sprouts floating within? You sniffed the steam. It smelled like seaweed.

                “What is it?” you asked.

                “Hangover cure,” Kim replied, his hands remaining clasped over yours until he was certain that you wouldn’t spill. He had nice hands, you couldn’t help but notice. Strong, calloused, and almost as warm as the . . . tea? Soup? Whatever was in the mug.

                “Drink,” he ordered.

                You took a tentative sip and instantly spat the liquid back into the mug. Whatever Kim had given you, it tasted like death by anchovy.

                Kim tsked. “Drink,” he insisted for a third time. “You’re dehydrated.”

                “Maybe just a glass of water?”

                At Kim’s disapproving frown, you took another sip of the concoction. The second swallow tasted better and went down easier. There was a subtle spiciness to the brew that helped clear your head. You took the opportunity to examine your surroundings; given the quaint brickwork and decorative plants all around, you seemed to be on the top floor of La Petite Paquerette. Your bed was actually a worn leather couch, your legs still covered by a knitted throw blanket which you assumed that Kim had laid atop you.

                “About last night . . .” you began.

                “It’s six am,” Kim interrupted. “Store opens at seven.”

                Was that his unsubtle way of telling you to get lost already? You attempted to stand, only for the floor to wobble beneath your feet and cause you to sit abruptly back down on the sofa.

                “You have an hour to clean the exterior.” Kim pointed to the corner, where a bucket and stack of towels lay waiting.

                You winced. Your recollection of last night might be vague and fuzzy, but you remembered eggs being involved. “That . . . sounds fair.”

                “You also owe me an explanation,” Kim stated in such an imperiously condescending way that you took another swallow of soup to keep from retorting. The last thing that you wanted to do was goad him into calling the cops (in a small town like this one, everyone knew of your misdeed by lunchbreak—especially when your father was the town’s police chief and your mother the public prosecutor).

                “An explanation?” you echoed weakly.

                “As to why you vandalized my storefront.”

                “It’s complicated,” you grumbled.

                Kim crossed his arms, no words required to communicate that you were trying his patience. Clearly, you weren’t getting out of this.

                You sighed. Not because you were embarrassed by your (extremely juvenile) logic (this was a Hallmark satire story after all, where protagonists know no shame), but because you doubted that Kim would understand the rationale.

                “Every time that your flowers appear in my life, I lose someone,” you say. “Last night, I found out that I’m losing both my best friend and my brother. The news got to me.”

                “Your brother bought a bouquet yesterday,” Kim recalled. “He said it was to celebrate a business opportunity.” The crinkle of confusion between his dark brows smoothed. “Ah. I take it they’re moving?”

                You nodded.

                “Let me ensure that I’m comprehending correctly,” Kim said slowly. “You’re upset that your brother and sister-in-law are moving, and you have thus decided to blame their move on . . . my flower shop.” His flat look made it quite clear what Kim thought about your conclusion.

                You scowled at him. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”

                “Is it?” Kim challenged.

                Well, no, it wasn’t. Your train of thought was pretty simplistic (overly, many might say). But you weren’t about to admit faulty logic to the man responsible for your misery.

                “Talia, Stephanie, Caleb, and Kent,” you said. “Three weddings, five children. Everyone is always busy now because of your damn flowers. And now you’ve taken away Nick and Sally, too.”

                Kim blinked, his surly composure slipping for the first time and being replaced by sheer confusion. “I shouldn’t even have to state this, but people buy flowers to celebrate things after they’ve already been decided,” he said. “No matter how frustrated you may be by your friends’ changes in lifestyle, blaming my shop is ridiculous.”

                “You’re ridiculous.”

                “Maybe so,” Kim replied evenly. “But you still need to wash the egg off my front door.”

                While you were cleaning La Petite Paquerette’s front, several neighbors passed by on their morning walks. You answered their queries with vague responses like “Weather is great today, so I wanted to spend some time outside!” and “Oh, you know, just helping a neighbor tidy up!” without disclosing what had actually happened. Still, Clarence had seen you. Rumors would all over town by noon.

                You groaned, dreading your parents’ inevitable interrogation, just as the front door swung open.

                After examining the cleaned wall, Kim nodded. “Acceptable,” he declared, as if you hadn’t just spent the last half hour rubbing your hands raw in effort to get dried egg out of the brick.

                Kim retreated back into the store only to reappear a short moment later with a terracotta pot held in his hands.

                Inside the pot was a cactus.

                It was a cute cactus, to be fair, with prickles that looked like soft fuzz (although you weren’t about to touch it to verify the texture).

                He handed you the cactus.

                “Why are you handing me a cactus?” you asked, warily accepting the pot. Maybe he wanted you to decorate the exterior as well?

                “It’s a gift.”

                “And why are you giving me a gift?”

                Kim’s lips curved a slight smirk, but for once the expression felt more genuinely amused than mocking. “Maybe you’ll be less inclined to blame my flowers for your misfortune if you have one of your own.”

                “This isn’t a flower,” you countered. “It’s a cactus.”

                “It’ll bloom eventually.”

                “Uh-huh.” Now that the hangover was fading, you had enough acumen to be suspicious of his motives. “What’s the real reason? Does gifting a cactus mean ‘stay away from me’ or something?”

                “No,” Kim replied with an exhale that was almost a laugh. “I simply thought it suited you.”

                At your dubious eyebrow raise, he elaborated: “In western culture, the cactus represents strength and resilience. Traits that might be helpful in your life, given the level of frustration which you unleashed upon my shop’s outer wall.”

“That’s it?”

He shrugged. “Feng shui claims that putting a cactus in the window offers protection. Japanese hanakotoba has an alternative meaning.” He shrugged again, seemingly casual, but his eyes remained glued to your face, observing your reaction. “Pick whatever symbology you’d like. It’s the plant that most reminded me of you.”

                You weren’t certain whether to be appreciative or offended. On the one hand, Kim had given you a gift. On the other hand, he’d also compared you to the one plant known to wound anyone who dared to touch it. What was he implying about your personality? Kim didn’t give you time to decide on your feelings, however, as his next announcement made you reconsider everything that you thought you knew about the shop owner.

                “I’ll pick you up tonight at seven,” he said. “I realize that trivia night doesn’t start until eight, but arriving early will guarantee we get the seats closest to the microphone.” He rolled his eyes. “Your brother mumbles. It’s a miracle that anyone ever hears the questions correctly.”

                “What?”

                “I’d prefer there be no more midnight assaults on my property,” Kim explained. “You’re unhappy due to your lack of a social life. This solves both problems.”

                His words were too true for you to argue, unfortunately, so you blurted out the first question that came to mind: “Is this a date?”

                Kim raised a single brow. “Is that how you’ve decided to interpret it?” he asked, but you noticed that he didn’t refute the conclusion.

                “I—” You resisted the urge to pinch yourself to verify that this was really happening.

                “Put the cactus in direct sunlight, and water once a week,” Kim instructed. “Make sure that the soil is completely dry between waterings, overwise the roots will rot.”

                “You—"

                “Eighteen hundred tonight,” Kim said. “Be ready.”