Chapter Text
“Petunia flowers are a symbol of anger and resentment.”
How apt, she thought bitterly. Of course, her parents would name her for a spiteful flower. Petunias weren’t even pretty. Fat purple and pink buds. Gaudy, loud, the choice of a five-year-old.
Her mother claimed that at her birth, she had been given a pot of petunias, and they were the most beautiful flowers she had ever seen.
She must have changed her mind by the time she had her second daughter. Or perhaps she had simply remembered to look up flower meanings before naming her daughters after them. Lily. A simple, delicate white flower that meant purity and innocence. Elegant. Timeless. Lovely.
Her hand clenched around the packet of petunia seeds. Gardening, her mother had said. Gardening brought a sense of solace, of being found and feeling needed by someone, even if just a plant. Of course, her mother would have thought gardening would fix the sudden bouts of anger, the moodiness, perhaps maybe make her take another bite of dinner please?
Her mother was the whole reason she was standing in this greenhouse now. A note for ten pounds, a tentative peck on the forehead, and a request to just walk inside the place and see if something took her fancy. She shouldn’t have come. Normally she would have ignored her mother’s words, but she had been in too much of a rush to leave the house that morning to disagree. Against her better judgment, she was here.
The greenhouse was stifling, the air thick with the scent of dirt and moisture, sickly sweet fumes from the flowers and damp mulch. She felt stupid, standing there with the packet of seeds in her hand, staring at the little picture of the pink flowers, the small yellow script blurring the harder she stared.
Tears pricked the corner of her eyes, angry, frustrated tears. She’d had enough. Today had been hard enough. She didn’t need more reminders of insults. Of how people really felt about her. Her stomach curdled. She didn’t want to admit it, but what hurt most was that she had hoped her mother might be right. She had hoped that she might take a petunia flower back, nurse it, grow it. But when she looked at it, all she could see was disgust. And contempt.
An ugly flower. An ugly meaning. An ugly name.
No wonder the container of petunia seeds was still full.
She barely registered the sounds of footsteps as they approached.
“Petunias, huh? You have a good eye.”
She whirled and blinked up at the boy behind her. He stood several inches taller than her, dark eyes, ruffled brown hair, an upturned, puggish nose.
“I was just about to put them back.”
She felt her chest shuddering as she tried to compose herself and pull herself upright. She felt ruffled at being talked to suddenly. She would have thought that most of the employees here would have the sense to leave her well enough alone. And he must have been an employee, with the dark green apron tied around his waist, gardening gloves sticking out from one the pockets, smudged with dirt.
“Shame,” he said. “Not a lot of people choose petunias nowadays. Not as popular as roses, I suppose.”
“Yes, well,” Petunia waved a hand towards the packaging. “It says they mean resentment, and whatnot. So I suppose it would send a bad message to the neighbors if you had them in your flowerbed.”
The boy looked surprised and then laughed. “Those stupid meanings? Did they really put that?”
He reached over and plucked the packet from her hand. “We’re supposed to be selling these.” he shook his head. “Dunno what sort of gardener this is supposed to attract.”
He looked to be her age. Perhaps a year or two older. The more she looked at him, the more she felt that he not supposed to be in a greenhouse. Not that he wasn’t employed or that it was illegal, but merely that he was not meant to be. Perhaps it was his stocky frame, or the rough callouses on his fingers that brushed over the seed packet. Or perhaps it was the sort of carelessness with which he regarded the seed packet and leaned on the table behind him.
“Well,” the boy said, “My mum’s had petunias in her front yard for as long as I can remember. Neighbor’s don’t seem to have a problem with them. I suppose I’ve never asked.”
He had a jovial sort of manner about him, an easiness as though talking to strangers came naturally. “They’re alright, petunias,” he said.
“You think so?” she asked. She couldn’t help the question.
“Well, yeah,” he said. “At least, I like them. They remind me of home. And I always know when it’s spring, because there’ll be petunias in the front garden.”
“My name’s Petunia.” She wasn’t sure why she said that.
The boy paused for a moment. “You’re lucky, then. It’s a beautiful flower. And a beautiful name.”
“Just a minute ago, you said that they were just alright.”
“Did I? I changed my mind,” he tilted his head to the side. “Must not have been seeing them properly.”
Her heart skipped a beat. He was looking at her. Not the way a store employee sees a customer. She could see faint freckles dotting his cheeks and the tip of his nose.
Her hands tightened into fists. She swallowed.
“I’d best be going. Thank you.”
She strode past the boy, out of the greenhouse. The boy didn’t call after her or protest.
She got into her car, her fingers fumbling over the keys as she struggled to turn it on. The radio began to play as the engine revved up, and she let it, allowing the sound distract her brain from dwelling too long on the delicious possibility before her. The tantalizing, impossibility. She had never... no. She had been imagining it. But she could feel in her bones, in the way her heart was thudding hard against her chest. This had been different.
Petunia sat at the dinner table as her parents talked, chatting about preparations for when Lily would arrive home in a week, the dinners they wanted her to have, how they would arrange their work schedules to go pick her up.
She nodded numbly when her mother asked if she would be alright to drive herself to dance practice tomorrow morning, and did she enjoy the greenhouse she had recommended?
“You didn’t buy anything?” Hugo Evans frowned at his daughter, looking up over his glasses, his gaze piercingly discerning.
Petunia shrugged, poking at a piece of pot roast with a fork. “There was nothing worth buying.”
“That’s alright, dear,” Cynthia said, as though to both her daughter and husband. “We can try another store. I’m sure there are better plants and more variety in London. Do stop picking at your food, please.”
She smiled, but it was forced and fluttery. Petunia stood abruptly. “I’m not hungry.”
She went to her room. Neither of her parents called her back. Before, when she and Lily had lived together, they might have demanded the sisters finish everything on their plate. Now they hardly enforced any rules. As though scared that a reprimand might push her away. Scared to lose her like they lost Lily.
She hated them for that. Hated them for the backbone they didn’t seem to show or care. She was grateful that they seldom forced anything on her. But it was as though all their energy and parenting were focused on Lily. As though they had given up on Petunia.
She flopped down on her bed. It was comforting, this room. The bunkbed on the top had become storage space for all of Petunia’s things while Lily was gone. Her guitar, her worn out dance shoes, random papers from classes that she had forgotten to throw away, birthday invitations. She would have to clean that out soon. She would miss the solace of an empty room.
Her stomach grumbled and she scowled, grabbing her pillow and squeezing it tight against her chest, willing it to take away the gnawing feelings inside.
A beautiful flower. And a beautiful name.
She squeezed her eyes shut so hard spots danced in her vision as she replayed the moment over and over again.