Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“Just a person,” Truman repeated.
When he got out of the shower, there was a soft knock on the door.
“I have some clothes for you.”
“Okay.”
The door opened just far enough for Ash’s arm to come through. Truman took the clothes, heart beating quickly.
“Thanks. You can…um…go down to the shop if you need to. I can meet you down there.”
Ash made a sound that could have been assent or thanks and closed the door.
The sweatpants were gray and the long-sleeved T-shirt was a faded blue. No, not faded. Ash’s things weren’t faded, they were softened. Every color, every fabric, soft and worn in. It reminded Truman of Ash himself.
He tried to towel his hair into some semblance of order. The shirt was far more casual than what he generally wore, but he liked it. It said that Ash cared about comfort more than what people thought of him. It wasn’t a true thought for Truman, but he wished it were.
Outside the bathroom, it was cold. Not wanting to rifle through Ash’s possessions looking for a sweater, he plucked a cream-colored blanket off the couch and wrapped it around himself. Then he padded down the stairs in Ash’s too-big but very warm wool socks.
Ash was standing at the counter, fiddling with a white rose, a frown etching the line between his brows deeper. He looked up and his eyes widened slightly.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Ash said.
“Huh?” Ash plucked at the blanket wrapped around him and Truman said, “Oh, ha.”
Ash stripped off his own sweater and handed it to Truman. It was still warm from his body, and Truman let himself relax into the warmth of the garment’s hug.
“Listen,” Ash said just as Truman said, “Sorry I…”
Truman closed his mouth and gestured for Ash to go ahead.
“I freaked out yesterday.” Ash flushed. “You started talking about to-do lists, and I just…”
“I got totally overenthusiastic. I knew it. I told them.”
“No, you didn’t. Wait, told who?”
“No one,” Truman said quickly and clamped his mouth shut.
“It wasn’t you, that’s what I’m trying to say. I’m…”
Ash put his forearms down on the counter and dropped his head between them. His voice, when the words came, sounded echoey, like it was coming from underwater.
“I’m kind of barely keeping it together right now. The shop is fucked. My mom is… Anyway.” He lifted his head. “When you started getting to the part where I’d have to do more work to make these ideas happen, I just panicked. Because I feel like I’m already drowning.”
Bruce came and nuzzled Ash’s leg in comfort, and Ash scratched between his ears.
“I’m sorry I ran out last night. I had to get to my mom’s and I just… Yeah. Anyway, all during dinner with her last night, I was thinking about what we discussed. The ideas are great. I just need to work myself up to taking on new things.”
Relief flooded Truman. Not only had he not scared Ash away, but here was a problem he could actually solve!
“Okay, I know I’m just jumping right back in, but I have lots of ideas of how you can make these changes without doing much more work.”
Ash’s eyes lit up for a moment. “Yeah?”
“Well, can I be totally honest?”
Ash nodded.
“Okay, you don’t really have many customers. So during work hours, it would be a better use of your time to implement these new projects rather than stocking the store with stuff no one buys. And you could save some money by not buying as many flowers for a little while, since people aren’t coming in, and put that money toward these new projects.”
Ash looked around at the empty shop. “Yeah, it’s pretty grim, huh? I swear half the people who come in do it out of pity.”
Truman held his tongue.
Ash nodded slowly—a working-through-things kind of nod. Finally, he said, “Okay. Let’s do it.”
“Yeah? Great! Oh hell, I don’t have your notebook. I can go home and get it, though!”
“We can just use regular paper,” Ash said and pointed to a pile of scrap paper.
It made Truman’s brain itch, but this wasn’t about him making things pretty, it was about Ash. Besides, he could always copy it all into Ash’s bullet journal later.
Satisfied with the promise of future notebookification, Truman assented.
He cursed himself for not having his usual Pigma Micron in his pocket. One more strike against running. But he grabbed a stack of scrap paper and got ready to make an action plan.
***
Three hours later, sprawled on the shop floor, Bruce lolling happily between them, they had a plan. It was a good plan, Truman knew. But he also knew that even the most perfect plan wasn’t worth anything if it failed to be executed. And Ash was struggling. Even when he could see the appeal of things, he didn’t trust that people would buy them. Even when he recognized their utility, he doubted his ability to carry them out.