Lavender Haze

Chapter 1 - Now

"Can I see again the bouquet Renee chose?" Rafael asks. We're at his flower shop, the cool October sun streaming in through the window. I'm leisurely lounging on the desk while Rafael assertively chops and dethorns rose stalks. Rafael Ortega-Clarke has been my best friend since I have memory. Actually, the very first clear memory I have of my childhood is Raf and I playing with those old disposable cameras my father used to leave scattered around the house. We couldn't be older than three, swimsuits-clad in the scorching heat of the relentless New York summer, chasing each other in the public pool under our parents' watchful eyes and snapping random pics that mostly involved blurry knees, thumbs over the camera lens, unidentifiable, water droplets-coated body parts and, in only one instance, a still of my brother examining the gunk he found between his toes. True art, I know.

I open my chat with my latest client, Renee Morris, and scroll through the million photos she sent me of bouquets that she liked. In every version, the main composition is formed by white peonies, pink roses, lilac carnations and red tulips. I hand my phone to Rafael when I've found the bouquet Renee said was her favourite.

My best friend sighs. "Why does it always have to be peonies and roses?"

"Everyone is a basic bitch," I say. "When I marry Kat, you can make my bouquet with, like, daisies and lavender stalks, okay?"

"I am not making you a bouquet to marry your cat," Rafael deadpans. "And you're not marrying you cat," he goes on. "I won't allow it. Even if the only way to prevent it is to murder Katherine Meowgle." I snicker to myself at the name my mom picked for what now is my Norwegian Forest cat.

"Hey," I protest. "Don't even joke about it."

"Don't even joke about what?" Daniel asks, coming to stand behind the counter. It never ceases to amaze me how my brother and I look nothing alike. He's short and a natural ginger (like our dad was) and has vibrant green eyes and reminds me of a cuter version of Ed Sheeran, if he was, like, American and couldn't hold a tune to save his life. He sports a beard that would put Tormund Giantsbane's to shame to hide a scar over his neck he got himself when he was six and fell into an iron fence neck-first, nearly decapitating himself. I was only one when that happened, and have no recollection of the events, but the way my brother tells the story, it involves lots of gory blood, desperate tears, and loud curses at the sky. He rehashes this near-death experience every time he has too many Jägerbombs, and I live for it, even if it gets my legs jelly to think about tiny, ginger Daniel covered in blood and rushed to the emergency room to get twelve stitches on his tender, gushing neck.

My brother drops on the counter a box brimming with Baby's Breath that has seen better days. "Hello, mi amor," he says to Rafael before kissing his forehead, even if he has to climb to his tiptoes to do so. They are so cute I usually swing between two major moods when I see them together: jealousy or contentment. I want to bottle up what they have and snort it on the nights I feel so alone even Katherine Meowgle avoids me. This is usually the extent of their PDA, thankfully. I don't think I could stomach it if they were one of those couples always pinning each other's with lustful looks and groping each other in public. I think my jealousy would corrode my heart if I had to witness that every day.

"You sound like a douche when you say that," I tell my brother, because antagonizing him is my favourite hobby after picking impossibly cute outfit that I force on my cat to produce high-quality photoshoot to show my mother. "Raf, tell him he sounds like a douche."

"I think it's cute," Rafael says, leaning to kiss my brother's cheek.

"Jealousy is a bad colour on you," Daniel says.

I flip him off and take my phone back from Rafael when it lights up with a text. "I don't like it when you gang up on me."

Daniel snorts. "He's my husband."