9. Bud

I was standingagainst the jukebox after Monsieur Dupont's unannounced visit, holding onto it as though I would surely collapse if I let go, when Maggie came barreling in through the back door, ready for her second day at work.

"Well, boss. I'm pumped and ready for another huge day of selling flowers and catching a few petty thieves. Or should I say, petal thieves. Get it?"

Maggie cracked up as she came up and slapped me on the back, but her laughter stopped when she saw my sweaty face.

"Boss? Bud? Are you okay? You're shaking."

I couldn't exactly tell her I'd been left rattled by the hottest man I'd ever met and his sexy, sinister, spellbinding ways. So instead, I said, "I'm fine. I was just cleaning the jukebox."

"You're not fine at all. Look at you, your eyes are all dilated. You're dripping like a mop." She grabbed my wrist between her thumb and forefinger. "And your pulse is going faster than a rollercoaster. Oh my God, are you having a heart attack?"

"No, I'm fine."

"No, you're having a heart attack. Oh my God, it's all the stress of opening the new shop. Was it me? Was I too harsh on the customers? I'll ease up, I promise, just please don't die on me."

"I'm not going to die on you."

"You bet you're not. Because I'm gonna save your damn life. Quick, get on the floor."

"The floor?"

"You heard me."

"What for?"

"I'm gonna give you CPR. I know exactly what I'm doing."

"You do?"

"Of course I do. They do it on all the crime shows all the time. Now get down."

"Maggie-Pie, I don't need CPR."

"Do you know who says that? The people who die, that's who. They think it's just a little indigestion or sunburn."

"You mean heartburn."

"My point is, they ignore the signs and before they know it, boom, they're dead. Now get down and let me help you."

"Maggie, I—"

But Maggie wasn't taking no for an answer. Instead, she swiftly kicked my feet out from under me and I landed on my back with a thud and a blow to the head that made my vision spin.

Maggie must have seen my bleary eyes trying to pull focus. "Oh shit, we're losing him!" she exclaimed, despite the fact that there was nobody else in the shop. "He needs CPR stat. Someone get me ten cc's of adrenaline. And start prepping for a tracheotomy."

Dropping beside me to her knees, Maggie began compressions on my chest, at the same time singing loudly, "Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin' alive! Stayin' alive!"

"Maggie… what… are… you… singing… for…?" I rasped between compressions.

"It's the song you sing when you're doing CPR. You're supposed to pump the chest to the beat of the song. God, if only we had a defibrillator! Jesus, I've always wanted to use one of those things."

"Maggie… stop… stop… STOP!"

Puffing and panting, Maggie pulled away and sat back on her haunches. "You feel better now? Oh, thank God. Another minute of that workout and you were about to wear the puppy chow I had for breakfast. Jesus my arms are aching now. Sorry boss, I don't think I'll be able to punch any buttons on the register today."

"That's probably a good thing," I wheezed, sitting up and clutching my chest, already feeling the bruising. "Would you mind helping me up?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

Together, Maggie and I heaved and hauled and dragged each other to our feet before I decided to come clean. "Maggie, there's something I need to tell you."

"Sure boss, what's up?"

"It's just that, well, it's kinda personal."

"Bud, you can tell me anything, you know that. You need to spill the cat, let the beans out of the bag, I'm all ears."

"Well, it's about the guy next door."

"What about him? He hasn't decided to open a flower shop, has he? If that son of a bitch wants to compete with us, there's a drum of gasoline and a Zippo in my garage with his name on it… if you catch my drift."

"Maggie, we don't need to burn his shop down. He's opening a patisserie."

"Oh good," said Maggie, flexing her shoulders. "After giving you CPR I sure could do with a good massage. When's he taking appointments."

"You don't go to a patisserie for a massage. You go for cupcakes."

"Well, that's even better."

"Anyway, getting back on track, the guy next door… Monsieur Dupont… well, what I'm trying to say is… I find him kinda…"

"Annoying? That's understandable. He's your next-door neighbor, after all."

"Yes, he's that. But also…"

"Irritating?"

"Yes, he's that too. But also…"

"In your face?"

"He's come close enough to be that, yes. What I'm trying to say is… I find him quite, well, attractive."

"You? Find the guy next door attractive? Bud, are you telling me what I think you're telling me?"

"I think I might be."

"Holy shit, you're batting on Mitch's team."

"Yeah, I think I am."

"Oh my God, is there something in the water? What the heck's going on in Mulligan's Mill? I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm happy for you, I really am. And looking at it now, switching transmission fluid for flowerpots was a fairly decent-sized clue. But when did you switch teams, dude?"

"That's the thing. I'm not sure I was ever really on one team or the other. I guess I've just been watching from the bleachers all these years. That is, until I saw him."

Maggie gave me doe eyes and sighed. "Oh Bud, that's so romantic. I had no idea you were such a softie. Next thing you know you'll be buying him flowers." She looked around. "Oh wait, I guess that's a no-brainer now."

"The thing is, I'm not even sure he'd want flowers."

"Why? Everyone loves flowers."

"I thought everyone loved balloons too, but I tried to give him one of those and he popped it."

"Monster!"

"That's just the thing. He's kinda… mean. And rude. And acts like he doesn't give a fuck about anything."

"Isn't that just a French thing."

"No, I think it's more than that. I think he thrives on it. He's good at it. Not only that… it's kind of a turn-on."

Maggie's eyes widened like she was about to solve a mystery. "It's his love language."

"His what?"

"I saw a show about it once. Everyone's got a love language. His is to be a rude French bastard… even more rude than a normal French bastard. I bet he trips up little kids and sticks his gum in parking meters too. The thing about people like that is, they want you to challenge them back."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that every time he's mean to you, he wants you to be mean right back."

"Really?"

"Take my word for it. If you don't beat him to the punch and treat him like a piece of dog shit on the pavements of Paris, he'll do it to you first. And when he does, he'll squish you right into the concrete and smear you all over the place if you let him."

"Ew."

"You need lessons."

"Lessons? In what?"

"In how to be mean. Look at you Bud, you're one of the nicest guys on the fucking planet."

"Thanks. You're amazing too, Maggie."

"See how nice you are? It's pathetic. If you really wanna impress Pepé Le Pew next door, I'm gonna need some help teaching you how to be a total asshole."

"Help? Help from who?"

"Don't you worry, my friend." Maggie winked. "All you need to do is say goodbye to Mr. Nice Guy… because you're about to get whipped into shape by the sassiest, snarkiest bitches in town."

I sat in a chair in the flower shop, slightly terrified, as ‘the sassiest, snarkiest bitches in town' sat opposite me like a panel of judges.

My second day of trading had been even busier than the first and I had planned to spend the evening doing inventory and upping my orders for the following few days, but as the last of the customers left, Maggie positioned three chairs in a row then plonked me down in a single chair that faced the other three.

"Maggie? What's going on?"

"I told you this morning that I was going to whip you into shape with some snarky lessons."

"Oh geez, I kinda thought you were half joking."

"No sir. I'm as serious as a bad case of gout."

With that, Maggie held the door open for her three experts in snark to enter:

Deadpan, dark-witted Brooks Beresford from the bookstore who freely admitted he much preferred fictional characters over real people;

Sarcastic, smarty-pants Ginny Channing who could mow you down with her wisecracks then back over you with her wheelchair;

And of course Aunt Bea, who wielded her razor-sharp humor like Zeus wielding a bolt of lightning.

As the three of them entered, I swallowed nervously then heard Maggie lock the door.

"Welcome everyone and thank you for coming. I've gathered you all here tonight to teach Bud a lesson in tough love. As we all know, Bud is suffering from a rare condition I like to call ‘Mr. Nice Guy-itis', something that the rest of us have managed to overcome. But Bud now finds himself in a situation where his ‘Mr. Nice Guy-itis' may well prevent him from finally falling in love."

Everyone on the panel gasped in unison.

"Wait," said Brooks. "Bud's in love? With who?"

"If I said it was someone in town, that might be considered giving away too little," Maggie replied. "If I said he was French and new in town and has moved into the bakery next door, that might be considered giving away too much."

"Maggie!" I scolded.

"I knew it," Bea beamed. "Nobody can say no to a man from Paris. That's what I call the French Irrestistance."

"Wait a minute," said Ginny excitedly. "You mean to tell me Bud's gay too?" She gave a loud squee and added, "Oh Guncle Bud, I'm so happy for you!"

"Thanks," I grumbled. "But I think that was the most unceremonious coming-out in history."

"Oh, my sugar-plum fairy, you're among friends, this is hardly McCarthyism," said Bea. "You should be glad. The secret's out and so are you, and everyone is thrilled for you. The question now is, what can we do to help?"

"We need to fill Bud with the confidence to give as good as he gets," answered Maggie. "It would appear that our new love interest is full of attitude. We need to teach Bud to take that Frenchman by the balls and show him who's boss."

Bea fanned herself with both hands. "Oh child, keep putting those images in my head and I'm going to have to excuse myself for the rest of the night."

"Me too," said Brooks. "I've had a crush on Frenchmen ever since I read The Three Musketeers as a kid. I can still picture Athos, Porthos and Aramis in the middle of a sword fight, only in my version there's not a single weapon in sight."

"Please don't leave," I begged. "I think I need your help. All of you. Pascal is making me weak at the knees and he knows it. He enjoys it."

Ginny raised her hand. "Excuse me, but is this lesson going to get kinky. Need I remind you all I'm only eleven? I may be an aeronautics genius who contracts to a renowned national institution now, but I am still a minor."

Maggie held up a bunch of cards, the kind quizmaster's use on TV game shows. "Don't you worry, Ginny, I've kept everything very family friendly. On these cards I've written some hypothetical conversation starters. As I read each one, I'm going to pretend to be Monsieur Dupont next door. I'm going to ask Bud to respond to each conversation starter, then throw to our panel for a score out of ten. Judges, you'll find your score cards under your seats. After that, we'll hear any suggestions the judges may have to improve on Bud's answer. Does anyone have any questions?"

Brooks raised a finger. "Are there any sports questions? Because if there are I'm really not interested in playing."

"There are no sports questions."

Ginny gave Maggie a wave. "If there's a dispute with one of the answers, who will act as adjudicator?"

"I don't even know what that means."

Bea put up her hand. "How do I buy a vowel?"

"Okey-dokey, I think that's enough stupid questions. Contestant, judges, are we ready to play?"

The other three gave an emphatic nod.

I gave a nervous whimper.

"Conversation starter number one," Maggie read off the first card. "The setting is a romantic picnic-for-two in the park. Trying his best to impress, Bud has pulled out an impressive spread of snacks, including cheese balls, popcorn, Twinkies and Maggie's finest puppy chow. But when Pascal looks at the cheese, he screws up his nose and exclaims, ‘Ew, what is zat ungodly chunk of earwax? You call zat cheese? You Americans have no taste at all. You disgust me.' To which Bud replies…"

Maggie pointed at me, indicating my cue to respond.

I shrugged awkwardly and shook my head. "I don't know. I guess I'd say, ‘Sorry, I know our cheese isn't a patch on French cheese. I'll throw it in the trash.'"

The judges all gasped or tut-tutted in disapproval.

Maggie shook her head in disappointment. "You see, ladies and gentlemen, this is why we've called on you to help. First of all, may we see your scores?"

The judges shuffled through their score cards.

Brooks held up a two.

Ginny held up a one.

Bea held up a zero.

"Oh dear," Maggie said like a teacher about to secretly enjoy crucifying a kid in class. "That's not good at all. Judges, would anyone like to suggest what Bud should have said in that situation."

"Hell yes," said Brooks. Turning to me as though I was now playing the part of Pascal and he was playing the part of me, Brooks launched straight into—"You don't like my cheese? Then don't eat it. In fact, don't eat anything, because if you can't appreciate the trouble I've gone to, then you don't deserve a single mouthful of the effort and love that I've poured into this picnic. Which, if you must know, is now officially a picnic-for-one. Now if you wouldn't mind leaving me alone, I have a perfectly good book in my basket in which the hero knows exactly how to win the heart of his beloved, instead of stomping all over it like a cigarette that's been sucked all the way down to the butt. And here I was thinking you hail from the city of lovers… Perhaps they should consider calling it the city of losers."

Maggie, Ginny and Bea all clapped with approval.

"Oh that was classy," said Maggie.

"So full of drama," said Ginny. "You had me on the edge of my seat."

"Respect, sister," said Bea. "Respect."

"Wow," was all I could say. "That was smooth… yet crunchy. But do you think that's the kind of thing I should say to Pascal? You really think that's gonna win him over?"

"My sweet honey-pot, a speech like that will absolutely make him stand up and pay attention," said Bea. "After which he will drop to his knees and grovel for your forgiveness."

"Seriously?"

All four of them nodded and said, "Seriously."

Maggie pulled out her second card. "Conversation card number two. The setting is the Old Mill Bridge where Bud and the object of his affection have just taken a lovely stroll through the forest. Suddenly, Bud seizes the moment to go down on one knee and pull out a ring."

"Wait, I'm proposing?" I asked in a high-pitched panic. "I just met the guy!"

"Relax, it's all hypothetical. Now may I continue?"

I nodded a little reluctantly.

Maggie resumed reading from the card. "As soon as Pascal sees the ring, he bursts out laughing and says, ‘Are you serious? Look at zat puny little diamond. Is it even real? Where did you get it from, a Cracker Jack box? Besides, why would I marry you? You're not even French.' To which Bud replies…"

She threw the spotlight onto me once again, and once again I kinda froze. "I don't know. I guess I'd say, ‘Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't think the size of a ring would matter that much, not if we truly love each other.'"

All four of them gave a defeated sigh.

"Oh that was pitiful. I've seen more fight in week-old roadkill." Maggie turned to the judges. "Scores, please."

Brooks held up a one.

Ginny held up a zero.

Bea asked, "Does anyone have a Sharpie so I can add a minus sign? I'm heading into the negatives."

"Does anyone have any suggestions on a more appropriate response?" Maggie asked.

Ginny raised her hand then said, "The appropriate response would be to get up off his knee straight away, then say, ‘I may not be French, but the crème de la crème of men is standing right here in front of you and is about to kiss your ass goodbye. And FYI, the rock on this ring may be small, but it's not the size that counts. I would think that's a motto you of all people should live by."

"Oh, slam dunk!" exclaimed Maggie.

"Nice comeback," said Brooks.

"Girlfriend, that's some serious sass you're putting out there," grinned Bea.

"Wait a minute," I said. "I thought this was supposed to be family friendly."

"It's just innuendo," Ginny defended with a confident smirk. "Besides, nobody puts my Guncle Bud in a corner, right?"

I eyed her with both admiration and suspicion. "You really are older than you pretend to be, aren't you."

Ginny winked. "Don't you worry, Guncle Bud. I got ya back."

Maggie pulled out her third card. "Conversation card number three. The setting is a romantic candlelit dinner in a cozy little restaurant in Paris. After opening a bottle of champagne, Bud suddenly produces a bouquet of red roses from behind his back, at which point Pascal simply laughs and says, ‘Flowers? How cliché. What moron gives someone a gift zat is destined to wither and die in a matter of days? Romantic? I call zat idiotic.' To which Bud replies…"

"Oh I really feel like I'm gonna fuck this one up too."

"Well at least try."

I raised my shoulders, a little clueless, before guessing my answer. "Okay, I'd probably say, ‘I get it. So, you don't like flowers. Next time I'll bring chocolates.'"

"Next time?" asked Bea in exasperation, wiggling a stern finger back and forth that matched the shake of her head. "Oh honeybunch, there is no ‘next time' following a response like that. Aunt Bea's not even going to score that one, she's just gonna cut straight to the chase and tell you exactly the response that deserves, so listen up my lost little cherub. The first thing you do is calmly look him in the eye. Then, without so much as a single blink, you say to him, ‘Newsflash, asshole. These flowers aren't the only things that are destined to wither and die. That's a path we're all on. But unlike you, this bouquet will spend its final moments shining bright, bringing joy and happiness to whomever I choose to give them to, which is clearly now not you. Oh, and if you think flowers are cliché, you clearly haven't paused for longer than three seconds in front of a mirror lately. Take a look at yourself. You're nothing but another arrogant, entitled, cis white man who thinks he can do and say whatever he likes and everyone else will fall in line. Well, let me tell you something… things might have worked in your favor in the past, being male and pale… but your attitude is stale, and your ego is frail. Your undoing is coming. I wish I could stay and watch, but fortunately I have better things to do, like put these flowers in some water. They could use a drink, and so could I. Enjoy your dinner alone, you might want to get used to it. Oh, and try not to choke on your champagne, because that's what I'd call idiotic.'"

Suddenly Maggie, Brooks and Ginny burst out in rapturous applause. Hell, Maggie even started whistling like she was at a rock concert.

"Bravo!" Brooks exclaimed.

"What a sucker punch!" said Ginny.

"Oh, you nailed that whiny little bitch!" cheered Maggie.

Bea beamed, soaking in the adulation. "What can I say… cutting bullies down to size is my favorite pastime."

Maggie pointed from Bea to me and back and forth and back and forth again. "See that, Bud? Now that's how you out-snark a snarky-pants like that snail slurper next door. I hope you've learned a thing or two, because your final score is terrible. If we tally up the points from all three rounds, Bud, you come in at a truly woeful total of minus seventy-three."

"I don't think I scored that low, did I?"

"It doesn't matter. The bottom line is, you need to take this Frenchman by the frogs legs. Otherwise, he's just gonna walk all over you and break your heart. Do you hear me?"

I took a deep breath. Maggie was right. "Yep, I hear you. I hear all of you. You're right, I need to step up and take back some power here. I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna show him who's boss."

My four friends cheered my newfound determination to turn things around and I grinned.

"That a boy!"

"Good for you!"

"You show him, Guncle Bud!"

"Let him have it, sugar-pie!"

They gathered around me for a group hug, and I hugged them all back.

And yet, somewhere on the inside, a sense of doubt lingered.

Somewhere deep down I couldn't deny the fact that I kinda liked Pascal asserting himself over me.

I paced the floor of the shop like a pirate walking the decks of his ship, pondering his next plan of attack.

Everyone had left and darkness had fallen outside.

I was trying to embrace my snark, doing my best to push down the urge to be the nice guy everyone expected me to be.

"Take him by surprise," I told myself. "That's what I need to do. Be the boss. Be the tough guy. Be the one in charge. You can do it, Bud."

But how the hell was I going to prove to him that I was no longer the pushover he thought I was?

Suddenly an idea popped into my head.

I grabbed a bunch of red roses and tied a ribbon around them. Then with all the determination I could muster, I pushed open the door and stormed up to the patisserie next door.

I hid one hand behind my back, clutching the roses, while my other fist pounded on the door like cannon fire.

A moment later, he answered.

A smirk instantly spread across his face. "Bonjour, neighbor. May I get you a paper towel? Or perhaps a pair of reading glasses."

I was instantly confused. "Glasses? What for?"

"To read the sign next to the door."

I glanced to my left and only then saw the handwritten sign taped to the wall that read Wet Paint.

I realized the door was now red.

So were my knuckles.

And from the burning sensation in my cheeks, so was my face.

"Fuck!"

Pascal chuckled. "I do believe that's what's called ‘caught red-handed'. Now, would you like a towel to wipe off the paint?"

"No," I snapped defensively. "And I don't appreciate you laughing at me like that."

"Me? Laughing at you? I'm not laughing at you."

"Yes, you are."

"Well, maybe just a little."

"Well, maybe I want you to stop. Maybe I'm the one who should be laughing at you."

"What on earth for? I'm not the one who just got wet paint all over his hand."

I pulled the roses out from behind my back. "You're also not the one who's about to get these flowers."

Pascal looked surprised. "You brought me flowers? They're beautiful."

"Well, bad luck, because they're not for you."

"Then why did you bring them?"

"To teach you a lesson."

"What lesson?"

"That I can be just as mean as you." My mind was a blur, trying desperately to recall Bea's kick-ass speech. "That's right, I've got a newsflash for you, asshole. You think these flowers are cliché?"

"Not at all. I just told you, I think they're beautiful."

I ignored him. My rant was on a roll. "Well tough shit, because you need to look at yourself in the mirror. You think you're in charge? You're wrong, pal. You're male, you're stale and… and… and you fucking slurp snails. Shit, I got that wrong."

"Bud, what are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about giving these flowers a drink, because they're thirsty, and so am I. And I hope I don't choke on my champagne, because that would be idiotic."

"Have you been hit on the head with a curtain rod again?'

"No! I'm perfectly lucid. I'm absolutely in control. And if you'll excuse me, I'm leaving."

With that I turned and stormed away as abruptly as I arrived, taking my flowers with me.

After stepping inside my shop, I slammed the door shut, then leaned against the back of it, panting anxiously and whispering to myself—

"What the fuck was that?"