Six months earlier...

"She's angry that I left the wet clothes in the washing machine and now they all smell like mildew," Mr. Benson tells me, "I swear that woman is getting crazier by the day. Menopause will do that to you."

I laugh, "have a nice day." I hand Mr. Benson a dozen orange roses. He is in here at least three times a week buying different colored roses every time him and his wife have a fight.

I think it's sweet that he is always trying to make up for something but I wonder how two people can live together, fight constantly, and still be in love.

I'm not anti-love or anything but I think it might not be as great as everyone says.

It's all fights and hate and love mixed together to create this weird bouquet.

Thanks, but no thanks, I'm not interested.

"Can you get the stink face off? You have a wedding consultation waiting," my best friend and business partner, Carley says.

"I do not have a stink face on," I say attempting to get the scowl off my face.

Carley smirks and shakes her head, "Mr and Mrs Benson are not great examples of how great a relationship can be. You know, maybe if you actually tried to date you'd feel differently."

"Tried it. It didn't work, remember?" I ask grabbing my notebook out of the drawer and heading over to our consultation desk.

"I don't actually because that was five years ago and I didn't even know you then!" Carley shouts over the tall flower arrangements.

I laugh quietly to myself thinking how strange it is that Carley has only been in town for three years, when she took a chance on me and this shop. We went to college together but never became friendly until she saw my desperate pleas on Facebook.

I guess Facebook is good for things besides stalking exes. Who knew?

We worked long and hard to create the perfect look for Marilyn Thomas'. I had a specific vision in my head and Carley was able to figure out what would work and what wouldn't.

It's now an incredible shop. Light gray walls, white floors, and not overly packed. The flower arrangements sit on light wood shelves, the checkout desk is the same lightwood with white accents, and the consultation desk is located under an archway with large bouquets on each side of the entrance.

We wanted to create a classy and vintage environment and I think we did that well.

My mother would have been so proud to see this place come to life. I put her favorite sayings in frames on the walls and always make sure to keep her favorite flowers in stock.

This was both of our dreams and I'm glad I was able to see it through.

I walk towards the consultation desk and stop dead in my tracks, "what the fuck." I cover my mouth with my hand as both of my clients turn towards me.

It is insane that I'd recognize Graham anywhere and just seeing his back and brown curly hair was enough to give him away. He is sitting with his fiancé Leah, I know this because I am a professional stalker.

Graham stands up and I can see the deep lines on his forehead. He has had forehead wrinkles since he was a toddler. It made everyone laugh at how serious he could look at such a young age.

"I didn't think you'd be in," he says and takes a slow step towards me.

"It's my shop. Of course I'd be in," I say trying to control my tone. I can tell Leah is uncomfortable with the way she fidgets.

"Why the hell are you here?" I ask desperation apparent in my voice, "I don't have time for this shit." I start walking away.

"Wait," Leah says and I turn around. Her voice is so sweet and timid and they fit so freaking well together. Way better than we ever did. He was always too serious and I was always too obnoxious.

She is beautiful, long blonde hair that has a natural curl to it, I don't even think she's wearing makeup.

"I have researched and researched flower shops and florists and everyone says you're the best. I know how uncomfortable this is but I have my heart set on you creating our arrangements. Please," she begs.

I bite my lip, Graham looks away from me, "Sure, of course."

Graham says nothing as Leah talks and talks about every single detail she wants included. I'm glad she came six months early because these floral arrangements are not going to be easy. We will have to test and retest to make sure everything is perfect.

Perfection is something I struggle with. I want everything to be perfect, especially when it comes to weddings, but that usually creates time issues.

My time management sucks. That's why I have Carley.

"Okay, sounds good. I'll be in touch since your wedding," I try not to throw up at the words, "is so far away. I have it covered though."

"Thank you so much, Addison!" Leah stands up and hugs me tight. I want to hate her.

"Thank you," Graham says in his deep voice that I used to hear before going to sleep and right as I was waking up.

"Fuck love," I scream once they have left the shop. A few older men look at me like I might have lost it, and I probably have.

"What is wrong with you?" Carley asks walking up from behind the register.

"My ex. Fucking Graham and his fucking wedding and his perfect fucking wife." Now I'm cursing just to make Carley uncomfortable. I think it's working.

"Fiance not wife," Carley says, "and watch your mouth before these old people have heart attacks and we lose our business."

"Fuck," I say quietly this time.

I get home and grab the mail from the box and start flipping through it as I open the door. Boomer my yellow lab runs up and jumps on me, trying to grab the mail from my hand.

"Down, Boomer, down," I scold rubbing his silky ears.

"no, no, no," I scream and tear open the off white envelope with all too familiar names on the envelope.

Together with their families Leah Rose Wright and Graham Alexander Fields request your presence at the ceremony and celebration of their marriage.

Blah, blah, blah.

The phone rings, "hello?"

"Hey, Addy," my dad says, "did you get the invitation?"

"I'm reading it now," I mutter.

"You're going right?" he asks.

"Do I have to?" I whine.

"I can't force you to do anything, but I'll be there."

Which in Dad talk means I better show up. The Fields have been family to us since they moved in next-door years and years ago.

"Fuck," I say.

"Watch your mouth. Sometimes I don't know where you came from," he chuckles at his oldest joke.

"Yeah, yeah," I say.

"You're coming over for dinner Friday night right?" he asks.

"Wouldn't miss it. Love you," I say before hanging up and staring at the stupid invitation with it's stupid lace detail and stupid cheesy saying.

Love is home.

What does that even mean?