Flower of May | Flor de Mayo
"A florist and her delivery driver discover that some flowers bloom better when cultivated together"
Flower of May
Flor de Mayo
She delivered my flowers wrong three times before I noticed her.
"The orchids go to Martinez, not Morales," I said.
"Similar names."
"Very different addresses."
"I'm new."
"Try to improve."
Her name was Camila, and she was the best driver I'd ever had—fast, careful, charming enough that customers forgave minor errors.
"Why flowers?" she asked one day, watching me arrange a centerpiece.
"Why driving?"
"I asked first."
"Because flowers say what words can't. Joy, grief, love, apology." I trimmed a rose. "What about you?"
"Because I like being in motion. Standing still feels like dying."
She started staying after deliveries. Helping me close, watching me work, asking questions about meanings and arrangements.
"What does this one mean?" She held up a white lily.
"Purity. Sympathy. Death, depending on context."
"And this?" A red rose.
"You know what that means."
"Tell me anyway."
I told her. About red roses and passion, about yellow for friendship, about orchids for luxury and daisies for innocence.
"What would you send me?" she asked.
"That's complicated."
"Try."
The next day, I sent her an arrangement. Camellias for longing, gardenias for secret love, heliotrope for devotion.
"This is a message," she said when she saw it.
"I'm a florist. All my messages are flowers."
"What's the answer?"
"Depends on the question."
She answered with her own delivery—flowers she'd picked from somewhere, probably illegally.
"Wildflowers," I said.
"They mean what I feel. Untamed. Unexpected. Growing without permission."
"That's very romantic for a delivery driver."
"I'm a romantic at heart."
We kissed in my shop after closing, surrounded by every flower I'd ever sold.
"This is where you belong," she said, looking around.
"Here?"
"Surrounded by beauty. Creating more."
"You think I'm beautiful?"
"I think you're everything."
She quit driving. Started working with me instead—learning arrangements, handling customers, building something that was ours.
"We're partners," I said.
"In what sense?"
"Every sense." I handed her a ring nestled in a gardenia. "Will you make it official?"
"Is that a proposal?"
"It's a flower arrangement. What does it say to you?"
"Yes," she read. "It says yes."
Our shop is called Flor de Mayo now. We sell flowers that speak what words can't.
"What would you send me today?" she still asks.
"Everything," I answer. "All of them. Every flower that means love."
Flower of May—where petals speak truth, and love blooms in arrangements.