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“What? Then whose is it?”

“I don’t know.”

Hannah frowns. “Where did it come from?”

“Well, it was sent to me.”

“From whom?”

“I don’t know.”

For a split second, it looks like she wants to shake me. She places the bag on the couch and then digs into the green box, pulling out a small white card from amid the tissue paper.

“You didn’t think to check if it was a gift, genius?”

“Who would gift me something that expensive?” My tone is thick with exasperation as I point to the bag.

Hannah walks over and presses the envelope against my sternum, forcing me to grab it before it plonks onto the floor.

“Who do you think, babe? I’m going to get ready for my date.”

She winks as she slinks off, leaving me to stew over her cryptic words.

I rub the envelope between my fingers, feeling the woven texture. The apartment buzzer goes off, and I trek over to accept what is probably my nightly flower delivery.

My feet stop in their tracks.

I drop the envelope like it’s hot coal.

No. There’s no way. He wouldn’t. Would he?

Why?

The buzzer goes off again, and I quickly accept it before padding back to where the terrifying envelope sits on the floor. I stare at it like it’s a weed growing from the ground.

There’s a knock at the door, and one of the same three rotating delivery men stands there with another bouquet of flowers. I would’ve thought I’d be sick of them by this point, but oddly enough, I’m not.

I still refuse to keep them for many reasons, but they make me feel special. Flowers are a common item with a high price point, not the sort of thing you typically purchase for yourself on the regular because why spend your grocery bill on plants that will die in a few days? Far better to use that money on something practical. Which is why it’s nice when someone else buys them for you. It’s a modern luxury.

I place the new bouquet on the dining table and pluck out the mini envelope. Since receiving the first bouquet, I haven’t bothered to read the messages inside. They sit in my bedside drawer, piling up.

I glance back at the envelope still on the floor and then pick it up, holding it next to the one from the bouquet for comparison.

They are different. The one that came with the handbag is slightly squarer, and the paper seems more expensive and eggshell colored.

Maybe I’m wrong then. Maybe the bag isn’t from him.

I take a seat at the dining table, thumbing open the envelope from the handbag. It takes some wiggling to free the little card inside, one that seems to be handwritten as opposed to the flower ones, which come typed. Yet another difference that settles my overly invested heart.

The calm is short lived.

The color reminded me of your eyes.

C xx

My brain screams, but my chest oozes into a puddle of sappiness.

What the hell is this man up to?